I woke up this morning thinking about my maternal Grandparents' house.
The house was in Southern California, in a town called Whittier, about a half hour from Disneyland, if that helps.
I miss that house.
I miss my Grandparents.
They moved into that house in 1957, and my Grandfather left it in the summer of 2004, just a little over a year after my Grandmother passed away. It was just too much for him to continue to be alone.....but that is an entirely different story, and I have been thinking about the house.
I have such fond childhood memories of that house. Growing up about 1500 miles away, it was always very special to visit.
I can remember exactly what it was like to walk through the front door into the entry.....I remember the wood floors. I remember the "pink" and "blue" bathrooms. The flowered wallpaper in the front bedroom. The upright piano in the alcove off the dining room. I remember the kitchen with the happy yellow tile, the Swedish and Norwegian nick knacks on the little shelf near the table. I remember sticking the banana stickers under one of the kitchen cabinets.
It was heartwarming and heartbreaking to wake up this morning thinking about that house and what it meant to me. The memories I have of it and of my Grandparents. I wish my children could have had the opportunity to have experienced that house like I did. It's crazy to think that I will never go back there, and even if I did, it would not be the same.
They say you can never 'go home'.
I wish sometimes that I could.