Goodbye Oma’s House
26 Aug 2009 Leave a Comment
in Family, Thoughts Tags: childhood, memories
Yesterday my husband and I took a detour that took us past my childhood home. It’s on a residential street that isn’t usually a route for us, so we haven’t passed it often (I don’t actually remember if he’d seen it prior to this and we’ve known each other for three years). Personally, I’ve kind of avoided that old street over the years. I’m a sap when it comes to things like childhood memories and wanted to avoid it.
I’m happy to say that my house (it will always be “my house” in heart) is fine. It’s still sitting there in all it’s light-blue glory. It had a few too many vehicles sitting outside of it and the garage looked like it was over-flowing with a barely-closed door.. but otherwise looked like it was in proper shape.
What disturbed me is what we saw next. The house next door is gone. The one on the left, if you’re facing my house. That was Oma’s house. She wasn’t MY oma (German for grandma), per se, but she was a very lovely old lady who babysat me sometimes and whom I visited as often as I could. At one point I met her actual granddaughter and we became friends, even though she was much younger than me. She lived with Oma for a while and we spent a lot of time playing together.
Oma’s house was a very beautiful home. It was unique – unlike so many houses nowadays that are all cookie-cutter. Actually, all the houses on my street were different. It was nice. Oma’s house had a basement with a large play room that we played in a lot. It had a piano we pretended we knew how to play and a bunch of toys (nothing too fancy but there were always plenty of puzzles, dolls, home-made play dough, and such. Nothing that took batteries and no TV). Upstairs her sitting room was very grandma-like, but that was nice. You knew not to play up there. She had a spare room that was her sewing room and a nice-sized kitchen that we often had lunch or goodies in. Her house smelled nice. It wasn’t like fresh baked goodies or fresh cleaners, it was just nice. Outside there was a huge backyard with a strange tree that had hanging vine-like branches with fuzzy stuff on it. If you pulled on the fuzzy stuff it would come off in your hand, then blow away. There was a beautiful wooden swing – the kind that sits four people, two facing the other two. It had a lovely creak to it and that sound always reminded me of summer. There was also a sand box under the patio, built right into the ground. It was fun to play in, though you had to watch out for the presents the neighborhood cats would leave in it. In the front yard there was a spiny tree that looked exotic. The drive way ran at a slant downwards towards the garage and there was a large circular drain that if you lifted the lid off of you may find a gigantic spider living inside. There was a stone wall separating Oma’s house from the one on the other side. There wasn’t anything but trees and flowers between my house and hers.
But that’s all gone now. What is there now is the shell of a new house being built. A huge, gigantic house that looked like it was two floors plus a basement, yet taller than Oma’s ever was (even though it was one of those houses that when you enter, you either go downstairs or upstairs right away). The front yard has been halved. I don’t want to think about what happened to the beautiful backyard, with it’s fuzzy tree and flower gardens and wooden creaky swing.
It’s just gone.
Further down the street it looked like two other houses were gone, replaced by one huge one. I didn’t know the people in those houses, but I knew the houses. They were part of my street, my home.
I’m happy that my house is there, as is the house to the right and the house directly across the street, which is another wonderful home (that one comes complete with a forest-like side-yard).
It’s probably silly to feel sad about them tearing down Oma’s home. But I do feel sad. I realize that even if the house still stood, it wouldn’t matter much. My memories are my memories. Going back to the house, although nice to see, wouldn’t have been anything like what it was when I was a kid.
But I know if they tear down my house I’ll be very sad and angry. Sometimes I think about what it would be like to buy that house and move my family there. But then I think about the more practical things.. it’s an old house – who knows if the owners over the years have kept it up. It’s in a “bad” part of town now. Maybe the area would improve, but in general there’s a lot of unsavory types of people who hang out at the nearby shopping plazas who didn’t hang out there when I was a kid. It’s got a large backyard and front yard. That is actually both a plus and a minus. I can’t see either Ryan or I being very good at maintaining it. Then again, maybe we would. I don’t know.
I wonder how Ryan would feel about it. It’s not HIS childhood home. Maybe he wouldn’t even like it. Sure, it’s got a lovely wood fireplace in the living room. It also has (last time I knew) wooden panel walls in the dining room and living room (ugh). And ugly carpet in the main living area. But his own family home is still in the family. It’s also a nice house. I’ll have to leave my childhood home in my memories. I just hope they don’t tear it down.
I think it would be lovely to have a family home that stays in the family for generations, like it used to be in the past. That would be sweet.
So good-bye to Oma’s house. I don’t even remember saying good-bye to her when we moved. I’m sure we did. I’m not sure where she is now. Wherever she is, I wish her well.
It’s odd to me that I don’t even know her real name. First or last. Ah, childhood is strange.
Recent Comments