I have a place where when I walk in the door and the familiar smell brings back years of happy childhood memories. It's a place that I feel is integral to who I am and who my family is. It could be because out of all the Christmases that I remember, there was only one that didn't take place at this house until I got married. It is where the majority of my memories with my cousins take place.
My grandpa's home.
What a wonderful place to go and visit.
I love the seclusion. I love the wood throughout the house. I love the smell of the garage to this day. Most of all, I love the sense of family, my family, that house evokes.
I am sure my nostalgia for this house runs high because as time continues its assault on my grandpa, the years (or months) that he has to be in this house are few.
We took Carolyn and Blake out for a visit today. They hid behind me as we entered, timidly explored their new surroundings, and soon ran pell-mell around the fire pit like crazy hooligans.

Watching them play and jump and chase each other reminded me of twenty-some odd years ago when I chased my siblings--except the hearth around the fireplace is much more toddler proof than it was in my days.

I want this house. I want to own it, to feel that more generations of children will gather around the wood stove while a grandpa plays Santa on Christmas Eve. I'm not the only one that feels this way. Other siblings and cousins have wistfully spoken of being in this house.

It's not practical. It's location is awful if you have a husband like I do who works in business centers. The upkeep on the house is out of my reach. But, emotionally, it's ideal. It's wonderful.
I cherish every moment I get to spend inside and am very grateful that today my children were able to have some of their own moments in this house.