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.
It’s where I played hopscotch and taught school to my dolls and climbed trees and decorated my room with Laura Ashley wallpaper and watched my mother make pancakes every Saturday morning.
There 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.
But eventually, we all grew up and left home.
There were new chapters yet to be written.
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. With overwhelming sadness, we packed up our stories and our memories….
…..and moved on.
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.
It was the remains of a birdhouse.
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.
We brought those pieces back to the farmhouse in Kentucky where my husband carefully restored it.
Piece by piece.
Shingle by shingle.
Board by board he refinished it and refurbished it and recreated it and rebuilt it. He spliced those old broken pieces together and rebuilt the inside and painted it white.
Until it was as good as new.
Maybe even better.
That house I grew up in?
We found it again.
Those people that my mother sold it to?
That house of stories?
The one with the curb where I first kissed my husband?
The back porch where I waited for our first date?
It became ours once again.
And the birdhouse that we rescued?
It came home again.
And just like that birdhouse of my youth?
It has a stand.
It’s holding court in the center of the flower garden.
Just like before.
It’s still standing.
And all these years later, it’s renewed and refreshed and restored and rejuvenated and ready to take on all the chapters yet to come…
…because it’s finally home.
Just like me. 🙂
PS I found some of the CUTEST birdhouses online in case you wanted to start your own birdhouse tradition.