Memory Vessel

Musical suggestion for this post:
Upward Over the Mountain by Iron and Wine
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Kh09MuIfIU


When I was a little girl I lived in a wonderful house.
It was a heritage house that had survived trial and fire. Many years ago, two huge fires destroyed nearly the entire town but our house survived. My grandparents moved from a lumber camp in a tiny community into this heritage house in the mid 50s. They already had 6 children and three more were yet to be born and raised in the new house. There were four bedrooms and only one bathroom between 8 people but somehow they made it work. (I love how back then you just worked with what you had...nowadays you just buy a bigger house and live with the debt. We shouldn't forget the simplicity of the old days, in my opinion.)
When my parents got married in 1983, my grandparents sold the heritage house to them. My oldest sister was born and 2.5 years later, I followed. One of my first clear memories was the gorgeous purple-loveliness of the lilac hedge that graced the front of the house. In the Spring we would open our kitchen window and let the scent from the bushes perfume the entire house. To this day, lilac is one of my favourite smells in the world.
Three huge pine trees graced the backyard. They were so old, 80 years old back then...nearly 100 now. I used to play beneath them with my sister. We had miniature hoes and shovels and we would till the earth around them to make pretend gardens, or we would claim one each for our 'house' and gather sticks and pinecones for food.
We buried our fish Flounder, who had died from overfeeding, beneath the tallest one. It was a somber moment in our lives. We marked the spot with a little plastic cross that mysteriously disappeared the next day.
Having only one bathroom was always an issue for a family of 5 (by this time my brother had been born). The bathroom was downstairs by the kitchen while the bedrooms were all upstairs. My sister and I shared a bedroom and a double bed for years. I remember many a night, starting at age three, when I would feel my OLDER sister shake me from sleep and plead with me to take her to the bathroom. I would half-stumble down the dark stairs, through the dining room, and living room to the tiny bathroom. I would sit on the edge of the blue claw-foot tub with my eyes shut as she used the facilities and then we would literally sprint back up the stairs into bed, always sure that something in the dark was chasing us.
I lived 7 years of my life in that old house. The best years. We moved in 1996 with the birth of my youngest sister who is physically disabled...the stairs and structure of the house just didn't meet her needs so, sadly, very very very sadly, we moved to my parent's current house just outside of town. I still feel an extremely strong connection with the old house, even to this day. In the past ten years it has switched owners a few times and has been completely renovated and restored but it's still the same house...the lilac hedge is still there and so are the old trees. I think I would tie myself lay down in front of the workmen and refuse to move if they ever dared to disturb those old man trees.
It's funny how something like a house can hold so much meaning. When I look at it now as an adult, I don't just see a house. I see it as the place in which my grandparents raised their last 3 children, my father included, and the place in which my parents raised their first 3 children.
I see it as this vessel of complete memory.
I promised myself years ago that one day I would buy it back and it would never be sold again. It would stay in the family for generations and generations to enjoy. Perhaps I'm just being romantic or wishful, but honestly readers, I cannot remember a time when I wasn't.

Be well.