Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to

It’s odd having my own house. Sometimes, I look around and can’t believe it’s our’s. Not our parents, but our’s. We’re old enough to own a home. We’re old enough to have kids. I am becoming more and more like my parents, and less and less like a child each year. It’s hard to imagine our house will one day be a home to our kids the way my parent’s house was a home to me. What will make it a home to them?

Here are a couple things that made my parents’ house a home to me:

Our neighbor worked for some food company and would give us surplus from time to time. She gave us a few boxes of Pop secret microwave popcorn that sat in our garage for years since we didn’t have a microwave. If we ever wanted popcorn, we used this:

My favorite furniture in my parents’ house is their grafanola. I used to put records on (Sound of Music, Mary Poppins, Nat King Cole Christmas) and dance around until I was so dizzy that I collapsed.

We were the only ones on the block with a rope swing. It only caused a couple injuries.

Our marble board. Joel and I still haven’t finished our contest to 100 wins. I think I’m up to 83 though and Joel is in the sixties. It’s only a matter of time until I win that DVD we bet on four years ago (woo hoo! Huge prize).

My mom decks out our living room for Christmas. December first, we would spend half the day pulling boxes down from the attic, and the other half of the day testing Christmas lights and unboxing Avon decorations. I loved it, because it always got me into the Christmas spirit.

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