The Light of a Home

As I'm working on my next novel, my hope is that this is going to be a series based on the women of the family. The home where they live, or have lived in the past, is one that was built by the main character’s (Maggie) great great grandfather in 1858. I wanted to describe the house and how it changes over the years, but also how important it is to Maggie that the house stay in the family.

I had to think a little bit on how I wanted the house to look. It’s always said that you should write what you know, although if you love to research, more than likely you can write about anything, right? In any event, it came to me to combine my mom and dad’s childhood homes. I spent a lot of time in both, although a lot more time in my maternal grandparents’ house. Maybe that’s why I do remember every nook and cranny of that house and not a lot of details of my dad’s place.

As I was jotting down some notes for each of the houses, it dawned on me there was a major difference between the two, and for me it reflected on the sense or feel of both and the people who lived in them. If you have read my books, then you know about what happened within each family. I won't go into a lot of that detail here.

My mom’s place was small, although it seemed like a mansion to me when I was growing up.  My grandma would be baking something on a Saturday because, of course, that was baking day. My grandpa and I would walk up to the fire house where he would trade paperbacks with the firemen and they would let me sit in the truck while the guys would talk. My aunt would play board games with me at the dining room table, or I would climb the apple tree in the backyard. The house was so full of light. Large windows in every room, light colors on the walls. Grandma Mae had spring/summer and fall/winter curtains—light and airy in the warm months to let in the summer air, and darker, heavier curtains in the winter to keep out the cold. We would often sit on the front porch after supper and watch the cars go by and Grandpa and I would sing Let Me Call You Sweetheart or Ka-Ka-Katie over and over again while cuddled up on his lap.

Now my father’s house was quite the opposite. It was very dark. The first thing you would see when walking in the front door was a huge black velvet painting of Adam and Eve fleeing the Garden of Eden. The furniture, the walls, the flooring were all dark. There was a sunroom off the living room, but I don’t recall anyone ever using it when I was there. I also don’t ever remember baking going on in the kitchen or singing with my paternal grandpa. The house did not have a front porch, just a small stoop.

Again, if you have read my family stories, then you know my dad’s family was not one with a lot of love, or at the least, you would have to look hard to find it in that dark house. Mom’s house was definitely an “out loud” kind of love. Not that we went around saying “I love you” all the time. But there were always hugs, kisses, singing, and baking in that house.

I find it fascinating that the house full of light also had love so easy to find. Yet the dark house was quiet with perhaps love hiding in the corners, but you didn’t see it much.

Now I'm not saying that every single house that’s dark is a house without love, but that was simply the experience in my life. There have been 6 homes that were a major part of my life—my grandparents’ homes, the house I grew up in, and the 3 homes I have shared with my husband in Ohio, Idaho, and Nevada. Five were open and light, one was closed and dark.  We will be moving again once Joe retires to a new town and probably a new state. I don’t know where that will be, but what I do know is that the house will be light and full of that out loud kind of love.

Thanks for stopping by. Keep reading, keep writing, and always enjoy your day.