Before us, there were five owners of this house we now live in.
Each of us has left a little mark.
Each of us has lived life to the fullest within these walls.
And each of us has loved this house to distraction.
If you’ve owned the house before, you just can’t help it. You can feel it when you walk through the doors. This is a happy house. A house full of sunshine. A house where laughter rings through the halls and wise men show up with dishtowels and mirrors have re-written endings and sweet tea tastes even sweeter.
It’s the house where all the stories go to live.
A couple of months after we bought the house, I got a call from one of the previous owners. She heard we were back in town and that we had bought the house and she wanted to know if there was any way she could bring some of her family back to the house to see it one more time.
Without hesitating, I immediately said yes.
I get it.
I totally get wanting to say hello again to a house well lived.
And so it was that a couple of weeks later there was a knock at the door.
Several members of one of the families that used to live here stood waiting at the front door with smiles on their faces.
We were instantly friends.
They told me stories about what colors the rooms used to be and friends they used to have over and what the kitchen used to look like how their mother had decorated it and where the living room furniture used to be. I listened with joy. And then I told them my stories about growing up here and how my mother had decorated it and where my bedroom used to be and the friends that I had over and how I had taken down the wall to the butler’s pantry and the plans I had for the house.
And how I wanted to continue the legacy of the house for my children.
It was a surreal afternoon.
It was amazing.
It was incredible to sit in this living room and share our hearts and our dreams and our hopes contained in all the stories of the house.
Just when the stories were brimming over and my heart was full and I wanted to write the house a thank you note…
…one of the daughters of the previous owners gave me this.
A blue and white mortar and pestle.
It was her father’s.
He was a pharmacist here in town and this blue and white mortar and pestle sat in his office.
She understood, too.
She knew how much I would treasure a piece of the house’s history.
But here’s the thing.
The amazing, wonderful, incredible thing about this mortar and pestle?
It means even more to me.
Because I’m married to a pharmacist.
Another living room.
Another chapter in the story of the house.
If only blue and white dishes could talk.
And this mortar and pestle?
It’s happy to be home.
Just. Like. Me. 🙂