Welcome home, Paula

So this is it… my first official post from the farmhouse.

My brother sent me a post a few days ago that said “Welcome home.”  It’s weird to think of this place as home and not some vacation spot. I found out a few days ago that it actually has been a retreat destination.  It has certainly been that for me this far.

I love old houses. The way they sound (creak, crack) and smell (dust and age). Houses this old seem wise. Let me share some of my favorite bits of this old house:

Stained glass windows… Aren’t they perfect? Stained glass reminds me of my paternal grandmother’s house. My Grandma Emke was (and is) this generally stoic German woman whose house was always immaculately kept. She also baked up a storm. Stained glass windows remind me of the Easters I spent at her house eating delicately frosted sugar cookie bunnies (her famous recipe) with little red hots for eyes. Delicious. It also reminds me about the way she used to stand at the door and watch us drive away. She would wave her hand and one tear would slip down her cheek. There is something so powerful about when those who hold their cards so close to the chest show emotion visibly. It’s so tangible and real. Something that makes you feel really deeply but simultaneously respect them.

Patterned Wall paper…. Along the halls and some of the ceilings is this white wallpaper that looks like punched tin (one of my favorites). It’s peeling back in places. My anal retentive side wants to get out the wallpaper paste and fix it, but my heart likes the age and imperfection. It’s beautiful and it’s old. I think there is something really comforting about that for me.

 This old vanity/hutch in the upstairs bath…. I just love all the drawers. Makes me feel like I am five years old wondering what could be nestled inside. (BTW – Right now there is nothing nestled inside, but one day…)

I also love the deck and the river and the porch and the garden and the sticky weather and the huge windows that let in light everywhere. I love the trees and the hammocks, the flowers and the bug bites and the smell of rain in the air. The hardwood floors, the ever playing sound track of music, the stream of welcoming visitors. The doggie boys dancing their dance whenever I come or go.

But the bits I love the absolute most are the hardest to share. A spontaneous bear hug from behind – “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.” People who are interested in listening to you tell the same old stories over again; smiling, laughing or crying at all the appropriate spots. Hearing new and old stories. Sharing a bottle of wine. Trying a new type of beer (Lingen-something er other). Watching as ones I love so much, giggle and experiment with our forehead thermometer for Sydney – “I wonder how different my temperature is from my head to my arm” or lift her up so she can “climb her first tree.”

I’ve had all of my fear of rejection brokenness surfacing here. It’s seems so out of place in this context, but I see what this is. These circles of friends have always meant rejection for me. Look at how close “we are.” But here, in some way that is undeniable to me, it isn’t “we” but “us.” It isn’t theirs but ours.  

I guess that is what my brother probably meant when he said welcome home. 

Welcome home, Paula.