It's the little things that I love about being in my childhood home. I love the way that it smells when you walk through the door and the way that the wood floor feels on your bare feet. I love all of the little noises, the soft humm of the refrigerator and the air conditioning. I love the cool dry air that blows in through the windows in the morning and the way that the light comes in through the entry window. I love that it is cold in the basement and the way that the light looks when there is only one lamp left on in the family room after everyone has gone to bed. Every morning I can hear my Mom throughout the house opening the blinds, starting the wash, cooking breakfast, etc. Dad is usually sitting at the breakfast table reading the newspaper while eating some concoction of various cereals. He looks up from his reading glasses from time to time when a piece of our conversation captures his interest. Then there is the slam of the door from the kitchen to the garage and the very loud buzzing of the garage door opening to signal that someone has left the house. There is always something good to eat in the refrigerator and the cupboards. Mom always has something yummy planned, especially for Sunday dinner and dessert. In the late evening the house gets quiet and the lights get low. Everyone settles in to watch their favorite show or to carry on light conversation. Dad is always up and down the basement stairs, in and out of working and taking small breaks. This continues throughout all hours of the night. Amidst the unpredictability that resides at this house due to my Dad's schedule and deadlines, there is always a calm and an order. It's creative and unpredictable because of my Dad, and it's comfortable and consistant because of my Mother. The perfect marriage for me.
