Yesterday we had the annual power washing festival.
Where you lug out the power washer and the water hoses and start spraying off the winter coat of green and gray and cobwebs and bugs the house has collected since November….
….and somewhere along the way you get wetter than the house.
This is what it looked like when we were done.
The rugs and furniture and porch are soaked and sparkling clean.
The trees are just starting to leaf out and the daffodils are poking up their heads through the bits of grass and the sun is setting over the meadow and sending sunbeams to dance across the painted deck.
Spring is here.
So in honor of spring and the festival and sunshine, I’m sharing my newly power washed view and a little story again about going home.
I couldn’t help it.
Joy made me do it. 🙂
Sometimes in life there comes that awful, agonizing moment when you realize you can’t go home anymore.
I’m not talking about this home.
I’m talking about the home where you grew up. Where you played hopscotch and taught school to your dolls and climbed trees and decorated your room with Laura Ashley wallpaper and watched your mother make pancakes every Saturday morning.
And where you first kissed your boyfriend.
And years later walked arm in arm with him up the back steps after you said “I do.”
The home I grew up in was full of life and laughter and joy.
It was a hub of bustling activity with a project in every room. My mother tiled the kitchen herself. My father kept his giant rock collection in the library. My sister had everyone sign the wood floor in her room. My brother built a giant marble machine that covered the entire family room.
here were speeches and performances and dancing and debates and stories.
And oh…..the stories we would tell.
The halls of the house rang with them.
Life moved on.
We all started our own families and the house was left a little sad and forlorn. It became too much for my mother after my father passed away and so she made the very difficult decision to sell it. So we packed up our stories and our memories…..
….and started a new chapter in our lives.
And as we were cleaning up the house and getting ready to move my mother to her new home.
I discovered this.
Dirty and broken and barely salvageable.
This birdhouse once perched on a stand in the middle of the backyard at that wonderful home where I grew up.
It was there when I ran out the door to meet my friends after school.
It was there the day I chased the chickens around the yard.
It was there when I graduated from high school.
It was there the day I got married.
It was there the day I brought those precious twins home from the hospital.
It’s refinished and refurbished and recreated and rebuilt.
It’s been given another chapter in its journey.
Now it lives with me.
My husband surprised me and rebuilt the new and improved birdhouse for our back porch.
He spliced the pieces together.
And rebuilt the inside and painted it white and used leftover shingles from our roof for the top so it would match the house.
A little bit of old with a little bit of new.
Now it sits on our back porch.
Just like my home growing up. Just like before.
Because sometimes when you realize you can’t go home anymore….
….you discover something even more important.
Wherever you go.
Wherever you land.
Wherever the journey takes you.
You can always bring a little bit of home with you along the way. 🙂
PS If you are coming to Paducah for Quilt Week, I’m having an event at Hancock’s tomorrow!
I’d love to meet you!
There’s free fabric and giveaways and door prizes.
Just follow the red lipstick. 🙂