Gone are the days

From where I’m standing,  there are two schools of thought on what to do with a place, a home, when one of the people who loved it and lived within its walls perishes. It’s inevitable, I suppose, that part of what you once loved about the home would leave along with the departed, causing the remaining inhabitant(s) to become prisoners of their own surroundings.  But it’s also true that you might love the place all the more for the memories it stirs, deriving comfort and familiarity.  Such is the paradox of a home in mourning. It remains partly a tribute to the person who loved it and partly haunted by their absence. How much of one or the other tugs at the subconscious is what inevitably drives us to either stay submerged in the memory or move forward its shadow.

To summarize my metaphorical ramblings, I’m grieving the loss of my grandparents’ house. Since my grandmother, Oma,  died in 2009, my grandfather, Papa, has been diligently keeping the house they shared together in working order. I wouldn’t say he’s been struggling with the upkeep, but it’s not been without it’s challenges. A few days ago, he finally moved out—putting the only house I’ve known he and Oma to call home, on the market for the highest bidder.

It’s a beauty of a house, a grand old thing they built together in the Texas hill country before I was born. Allegedly they traveled the country in an RV for some undetermined but lengthy amount of time before deciding there was no better place on this planet to retire than the outskirts of New Braunfels, Texas. They bought two adjacent lots and planted their house in the middle of a grove of native trees. As a kid, it was an epic destination, as every proper grandparent house ought to be. To begin with, the house served as the setting in which I was permitted to inhale more homemade cookies than I was ever allowed at home. Then there was the hearth, which instead of a traditional fireplace, was actually an elevated stone platform that played host to a shiny blue franklin stove. But this unconventional setup turned out to be the ideal location for after dinner “talent” shows where I forced my doting family to sit through dramatic readings of my favorite children’s books or bizarre musical numbers I had written 15 minutes prior to showtime. Bro’s and my original performance of Mexican Date, I’m told was a big hit.  But cookies and attention-seeking behavior aside, the house is where I did my bonding with Oma. That’s where we cooked together and picked peaches. We rocked back and forth on the porch together, admiring the rolling grass like you’d admire waves from the deck of a ship. She told me stories and in turn I’m sure I provided an endless supply of laughter and general adorableness. It’s where I had the privilege to truly know my only living biological grandparent. After Oma died, the house is where I took Heath to engage in philosophical debates with Papa that would start around 5, cocktail hour, and carry on well into the night. The routine was fairly standard—cocktails at 5, dinner around 6:30, mind-spinning conversation until 9 and then sherry on the porch; but while predictable, dinners at Papa’s house were nonetheless looked forward to with monumental anticipation. Two weeks ago, Heath and I had our last-ever cocktail hour in the most consistent house of my childhood, and it’s not an easy experience to swallow.

The reasons for Papa relinquishing control of the house are fairly practical. It’s a lot of upkeep for one person, and while New Braunfels has grown exponentially from the time he and Oma first settled in, it’s a bit of a drive from  the town center. And he’s lonely, I would be too. And living that far, that isolated from human interaction was wearing on him. He traded drinking sherry alone for the opportunity to dine with friends in a growing retirement community. I’m glad he knows what he wants, and that at 88 he doesn’t think he’s too old to go after it. I admire that. And if I chose that path for myself, I would want my grandkids, hell, everyone, to be happy for me.

But I’m still a little heartbroken. Damn those childhood houses and their emotional hooks.

S35C-413101214431stage S35C-413101214460 S35C-413101214491 S35C-413101214470


The philosophical debates on exestentialism and excessive wine drinking will continue, however; even if the venue has changed. And that is something I can cheers to.

21 Comments on “Gone are the days”

  1. kmom says:

    Change is tough. Hard to accept that era is over, the house empty and poised for a new family. Guess we need to look forward like Papa is doing. I wish him happiness.

    • What an sweet, and eloquent, and heart warming post. I have an older father (86) who lives a few house from me, but he is on his own…..plus I live on a street where several older neighbors, all over 80, also live alone. “The pros and cons of staying or going” is a regular conversation topic on our street and I see their challenges firsthand. Hopefully your granddad finds a great community and he is happy! But I do understand your sadness over the end of an era. I drive past my childhood home often and feel nostalgic and a little sad.

      • And when I said he is “on his own”, I just meant that he lives alone. In fact, he isn’t “own his own” at all, although he would probably prefer that all of his kids give him a little more space!

      • Thank you. It’s comforting to know that this is a common issue for folks his age. I too hope he made the right choice. Thanks for sharing your story.

    • I guess we will have to work doubly hard to make memories in his new pad.

  2. Cindi says:

    I understand this feeling so well.
    When my Father passed and the house that I grew up in was sold, I felt so depressed. The new owners had no idea of the memories that were formed inside those walls. Slowly all the original owners of the homes in that entire neighborhood passed on and their houses sold to strangers.
    Recently i drove down the quiet street and I noticed new landscaping, and paint jobs and children running across the lawns and I smiled. I suddenly realized that all the houses, but most importantly my fathers house, had new life breathed back into them and new stories being written. I agree that it’s hard to let go but good things can be ahead for that house.

  3. Melissa says:

    Kelsey, this is so beautifully expressed and written. I related to it on so many levels. Love you!

  4. Marlene says:

    It looks like a magical house indeed, light and airy with many loved pieces and in the middle of the woods. Your story made me feel a little nostalgic. Thanks for sharing your beautiful memories 🙂

  5. Oh, your Oma looks like such a wonderful grandma! And what a sweet Papa 🙂 I LOVE that stove and hearth area–a perfect stage! I’m sorry you have to see it go, but how wonderful to imagine a new beginning for someone else!

    • She was quite a woman, and he’s got more stories than a person ought to be allowed to have in a lifetime. I’m lucky to know them both. I am going to follow your advice and be optimistic that the house will go to someone as loving and spirited as the people who created it.

  6. Cindy says:

    Thank you for sharing. My family has experienced this too, but my father stayed in his house until he passed away. I am forwarding this to my daughter who will surely identify with your memories. ..sweet, cherished memories. We had to sell their home, but really it was not the same without the loving presence of the two people who built it.

  7. Joy says:

    What a lovely tribute!! I’ve missed reading your posts. Love you:)

  8. Trina says:

    I loved reading this. It reminds me so much of all the trouble my siblings and I used to get into at my grandmother’s house and how sometimes I wish I could go back there and lie in bed and listen to her watching Grand Ole Opry or get a glass of her fresh mint tea. Gone are the days indeed, but never forgotten.

  9. miiu says:

    “The philosophical debates on exestentialism and excessive wine drinking will continue, however; even if the venue has changed. And that is something I can cheers to.” is what I call “well put”. I love your writing and who doesn’t like sentimental throwback-photos? Keep up the good work!


  10. […] and transition: Heath conquered a mountain when he hiked 26 miles through the Weminuche Wilderness, we bid farewell to a beloved home from my childhood, my always bro/sometime roommate joined the navy, and I left my communications job with the school […]

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