The Soul of a Home....

I'm pretty sure my house has a soul.

Not in a creepy, scary, Amityville horror sort of way. But in a sweet, warm, we've lived here a long time sort of way. It is a comfortable, cheerful, maybe a little garishly decorated house. The only thing really creepy about it is the carpet. That has gotten a little terrifying.

We've lived in our small house in a modest neighborhood for over 22-years now, and it has served us well. Within these walls we've raised three kids, sheltered numerous cats, shared our space with a couple of additional young men in temporary need of a roof and family, and hosted countless parties, holiday celebrations and guests, including several from a variety of countries. It has been a busy, crowded, loud, house and it has certainly heard its share of laughter, fights, tears, and prayers.

But lately the carpet has been suffering. A lot.

Gradually, as time and money have allowed, we've been putting it out of its misery. A few years ago we yanked the carpet out of the main level and replaced it with wood flooring. In the middle of the process, after the old, nasty carpet was out and the absurd amount of dirt and God-knows-what was swept away, I took a Sharpie to the plywood and wrote the story of our family. I listed our names, birthdates, year we bought the house, cats, and other tidbits. As the flooring went down, it covered my historical account of our family, hiding it from view but preserving it in a way that, someday, someone may find interesting.

Eventually we will leave this house, either to an eternal destination or to wherever our next life chapter takes us. Someday this will be somebody else's home and another family will grow up and make memories within these walls. Walls upon which I've painted a bright, cheerful yellow and meticulously hand stenciled quotations, aptly describing who we are as a family. Walls upon which I've hung Steve's beautiful and evocative watercolor paintings. Walls which carefully protect us.

Sometimes I worry that one day a beige family will live here. I fear they will come in and cover my colorful surroundings with tan and taupe and off-white. The only color will be boring sky-blue accent pillows. They will hang benign, mass produced, lobotomized artwork and my home's soul will cry for lack of passion. But then I remind myself I'm being a teeny bit melodramatic. Besides, it won't be mine then. They can paint whatever color they want.

Regardless, there was something special about secretly preserving our family history in the floor. So much so that last summer when Parker moved out of the house and I pulled the carpet out of his room, I took my Sharpie to the plywood flooring again. I wrote about how the room had been used over the years, first as an office, then a nursery, the boy's shared bedroom, Parker's solo bedroom, and finally, coming full circle back to an office.

And later in the summer, when we removed the carpet in Anna's bedroom, I wrote the story of how we used that room over the years, adding the bittersweet reality that her time in the room is limited as her life story has her leaving for college soon. They each take a little bit of our home's soul with them when they go. Or maybe it is just my soul. I'm not sure.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago we removed the carpet from the master bedroom.

Well, okay. We didn't do anything. We were lying on the couch barely moving and contemplating what death from flu would feel like. Steve removed the carpet.

I did, however, manage to stagger my way up the stairs with matted hair and Sharpie in hand, to write a brief history on the raw, spattered plywood floor. Fortunately that room has only been used as a master bedroom so I didn't need to write a lot. Nevertheless, with each room, I add another piece to the jigsaw puzzle of our story, forever embedded in our individual and collective memories but now, secretly hidden in the floors of our house creating an amalgamation of love, heartbreak, joy, pain, anger, and hope.

A family.

Who will find our story someday? I have no idea. I only hope they handle our family history carefully and nurture the soul of this house made of so much more than wood, concrete, and nails.