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By Kathi Hill

I was just reading an article today where folks were asked: What makes a place feel like home?

Boy, did that get me thinking.

I was suddenly flooded with all sorts of memories and feelings. I still dream about being “home” in the house I grew up in. Even my great-grandparents lived in that house before my grandmother was born in 1900.

I loved that old house and grieved when it caught fire. If I had been in charge (and I wasn’t), I would have restored and rebuilt it. But that isn’t what happened. It only exists in my heart and dreams now.

I do know the house I call home now has been greatly influenced by that first home – high ceilings, hardwood floors, and big windows – to name a few things.

But you know as well as I, that a house is not a home until it is lived and loved in.

I have been in houses that actually gave me an uneasy feeling, though there was nothing obvious to make me feel that way.

And I’ve been in houses that made me smile before I even got inside because I could feel love surrounding it.
Yes, maybe I’m a little nuts. I’ve never denied it.

My house is a house I designed, and I love it – as much as you can love a thing. The Victorians called any house less than 2,000 square feet a cottage, and since mine is just under that, I have a cottage.

We decided before the first thing was done to begin building that we could choose quality or quantity, and we chose quality. We chose decorative moldings, higher ceilings, hardwood floors and antique style plumbing instead of four bedrooms. But loving the style was just the first step of making it home.

These are some of the things that make my house home:

1. My great-great-great Grandmother Pence’s rosebush in our yard by the porch. Husband’s grandmother’s bridal veil by the fence. Several hydrangeas and other blooming plants from our mothers’ yards. A giant rosebush given to Husband by my grandmother’s brother.
2. The bird’s nest Husband drew free hand that rests over the door frame going into our bedroom.
3. The tiles of Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox and Tar Baby that he also drew free hand that are behind the cook stove in the kitchen.
4. All the marks right inside the pantry door of Daughter’s growth, starting at age 3 and ending when she finally reached adulthood and became the very same height as myself.
5. Memories of remodeling my kitchen and the fine Christian man who was overseeing the work who died before it was finished. Sometimes I can feel his presence or hear those heartfelt conversations we had at the end of the day.
   And then there are other things that aren’t peculiar to this house, but certainly make it home:
   1.Curling up in front of the fireplace on a cold snowy day.
6. Serving homemade vegetable soup and cornbread at the old oak kitchen table on antique Blue Willow dishes.
7. Flannel sheets and old quilts on my bed.
8. Flinging open windows and front and back screen doors when spring comes.
9. Getting my porches “purdy” for the summer and then sitting on them, ceiling fans lazily turning while I read or pray or sing or mull something over, and where Husband and I have our morning coffee and chat.
10. Going up and down the staircase and seeing the worn middle where we’ve gone up and down them for 33 years.
11. Telling stories about the small dresser in the kitchen that was originally used for my grandmother’s old-maid aunt when they had to close in part of the back porch so she’d have a place to sleep. It was such a tiny room, regular sized furniture wouldn’t fit. I guess this is really a washstand. We call it “Mama Harper’s dresser.”
12. This goes for other things too – stuff I tell my daughter -“This Blue Willow platter was Papa Hill’s (my great-grandfather) sister-in law’s. She had three pieces when she died, and I was offered them. Or: “This was Granny Kate’s (my grandmother) ring.” Or: “This wooden bowl was Granny Sawyer’s (my great-grandmother). She made biscuits in it every morning.” Or: “This hat belonged to Henrietta, my great-grandmother. She died when my grandmother was a 6-month-old baby. She was only 19 years old.” Or: “This is a copy of a letter written to Aunt Mindy by Henrietta when she was pregnant with my grandmother.” Or: “These are the marbles that my Papa Hill made with red clay as a child. They rolled them and baked them in the wood cook stove till they hardened. He gave them to me because I loved marbles as a child.” And on and on.
13. The many photos I have of family, both mine and Husband’s. Folks long gone. Who they were, and stories linked to them to share with Daughter.
    My daughter has never lived anywhere else. She said the other day she couldn’t imagine selling this house to a stranger after we are gone. Then she said, “I can’t sell it at all. Ever!” So, look out future husband…
    There is a pleasure at the end of the day, when you walk through your semi-darkened home to know where everything is, to enjoy the quiet and then crawl into bed with a giant house cat and a reading Husband, hearing music faintly coming from Daughter’s room.
    This house – this home – isn’t perfect. But it’ll do till I have my homecoming over cross Jordan way.
    One of the reading at the elementary school and one of “Willie B. Jr” (that’s what they call him, but that’s not his official name. I can’t remember it!