(aka: My first house)
My father must be so annoyed with me, but he’s never let on. He (and my grandfather, pop) built my first house for me and I’ve never mentioned it in all my words about our house. Before I even entered kindergarten, I was the proud owner of a detached custom home in Jarrettsville, Maryland. My first home.
I still remember the day we moved and I had to leave the little house behind. We couldn’t take it with us, I was told. I had to leave it for the next little girl to enjoy. And, even though I never met her, I know she loved it too. In fact, when that family eventually had to move, they cut it in half and took it with them to their new home. (What? How could they?)
By building that house for me and sharing in my childhood, my dad taught me that home is in the memories you cherish and not in a building (not even a really cute one with flower boxes and real asphalt shingles), home is in the people you share it with.
Thank you, dad, for making a home for us no matter where we are. Happy Father’s Day!