Recently, I was reminded how fortunate I am to have a home. I take for granted all the little things like going to the kitchen and grabbing my dilapidated recipe book from the cupboard when it’s time to cook a meal.
It isn’t just the homeless that camp out on our city streets–a lot of people don’t live in their own home for various reasons. I was nineteen when I spent five months in the Rockford Sanitarium recovering from tuberculosis. Ken served in the U.S. Navy from 1954 to 1958.
Sixty-four years ago, we set-up housekeeping in our rented abode using wedding gifts and our purchases. From time to time, most items have been replaced at least once or twice except we continue to climb into the same walnut, double bed at night and store our underwear and socks in the two matching chests of drawers.
In 1966, we bought a lot in Durand and live in one of the houses constructed in the 1850s when the village was being settled. Through the years, we’ve added a family room and a two-car garage plus remodeling several times. Our do-it-yourself decor would never earn a prize from House Beautiful magazine but it suits us. I chose and pasted up the wallpaper in the kitchen and bathroom. Ken painted the remaining walls and woodwork in our pick of colors. I am the pseudo-artist of the large, paint-by-number, country mural that nearly fills the expanse in the family room. In front of it, the model train from Ken’s childhood crosses a wooden bridge built by our carpenter friend, Jim. Framed pictures of our family and plaques noting our various achievements in the workplace have been hung.
Our empty-nester upstairs stores the slides Ken took while he was in the navy. Boxes contain keepsakes from my parents and items from my childhood. There are family photographs, some in albums and some in piles waiting to be organized.
Do you ever think about how lucky you are to live in your own home?