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Tuesday, July 1, 2008

The Heart of the Home


This morning I went to the Seaview beach approach to walk on the beach with the dog. It’s the nearest to our house and the nearest to my grandparents’ summer home and where I played as a child. I was looking for some flotsam and jetsam to send to a dear person whom I’d very much just like to bundle up and bring to the sea, but who can’t be spared from home just now.

It’s misty this morning so let’s go inside instead of sitting on the porch. The front door to my house by the sea leads straight from the porch into the kitchen. It’s an unusual set up, but since the kitchen has always been the heart of every home I’ve made I guess it’s good to skip the formality of a sit in the front room and get straight to command central. Has it not always been thus since man figured out fire for cooking and heat, folks gathered around the fire for sustenance of one kind and another?

Our kitchen here is not only where the cooking is done, it is where puzzles are put together, games are played, and stories are told. It definitely is the nerve center of the house. To keep the little ones amused we have a little table and chairs for with two cupboards of doll tea things, crayons and coloring books. Something’s always cooking in our kitchen.

One time, when we’d lost track of my husband who was out kayaking on Willapa Bay, we sat around the kitchen table discussing which to call first, the Pacific County Sheriff or the Coast Guard in Astoria? We paced around the table and out onto the porch where my uncle stood watching in the direction from which he hoped to see Dave come while my father sat smoking at the kitchen table—the only time I ever let him smoke in my house.

Having a front door into the kitchen means keeping the place picked up and the dishes done. The first time we looked at this house with interest in buying, the kitchen was a monumental disaster. A plywood island was covered in dirty dishes, paper plates and left-overs. The sink was so full of dishes I understood why the family was using paper plates. A cardboard box filled with beach sand served as a cat box for their cats, but they had thoughtfully opened the front and back doors allowing a breeze to keep the worst of the stench down.

A front door into the kitchen means that the table is a magnet for things being brought into the house. When I am here alone I manage to keep it relatively clear. When the children come things fly through the air and land on the table. When friends come it groans over the weight of too much good food. The Thanksgivings and celebrations this kitchen has seen! And the door frame bears the pencil marks of my own growing youngest’ height and those of the grandchildren.

Where is the heart of your home? Does everyone gather in the family room around the boob-tube or do you gather at the table breaking bread and, as a dear friend likes to say, “Swapping lies.” We are not devoid of entertainment here.

While there is no regular television in our house we have a set for playing videos and DVDs and there are radios everywhere tuned to one of the excellent community radio stations coming from across the river. Books abound and I have lots of old time radio shows to listen to, but our kitchen is not just a place of sustenance for the body, but for the soul as well. Whether it is just my mother and myself or a whole crowd as there was last weekend, we are there in good times and in bad.

Well, I need to pack up my beach prizes and make a trip to the Post Office over on Lake Street. Thanks for stopping by.

10 comments:

Lorraine Hart said...

I wish our houses were next door to each other Stephanie...I would soooo be over to sit at your table and "shoot the caboodle."

You've seen our nice big combined kitchen and family room. I want to get some comfy stools 'cos folks tend to gather at the kitchen counter. My kitchen table is one of those horizontal "caboodle magnets," as I like to call them. We pull it out from the wall for Holiday dinners...and the plexiglass top that protects the antique maple can always be carried into Anna's room when she's too tired to leave her bed. It doesn't matter what the table is...as long as we gather 'round it.

I keep a cloth over the TV in the livingroom...I recommend this move for slowing down the "turn it on" impulse...and makes the living room look much nicer when company comes.

I'm glad the woodstove is in the kitchen/family room too...it's true about the hearth...heart of the home.

I really do want to come and visit...perhaps Blogonias at the Beach Day? I want to feel the vibe of your home...though you do such a great job of showing us through your words. I want to run my hands along a doorway that marks the kids' growth...and try my hand at a few whoppers around the table!

Stephanie Frieze said...

And you know how very much I'd love to have you and all the Blog Squad here!

Your house has a homey sort of feel like a comfy slipper!

Lorraine Hart said...

I tend to stay away from homes that feel like four-inch heel, patent-leather dress pumps!

JosephMcG said...

I enjoy the kitchen... stories are told, sadnesses and joys shared...

In the tv room I fall asleep.

On the front porch (or the back one) memories are shared...

Thanks for the chance to celebrate with others some of my favorite places...

Stephanie Frieze said...

I doubt if four inch heels have ever been seen by this house in its 127 years! We're more sandals or rubber boots here.

As one of my aunts said, we have a "homey" sort of house.

Lorraine Hart said...

This is a good place to put my vote in with Kim's, for you to compile your wonderful family memoires and publish them. I'd buy that book!

Stephanie Frieze said...

It's my father's story I'd like to see get a wider distribution. He lived an amazing life. But then, Lorraine, so has yours. I'll bet your father has more stories.

JosephMcG said...

Stories... more stories.... Heading home from the convention I got out of Ontario just fine...
Got confused in San Francisco Airport; ended up helping a woman my age (late sixties) to settle down... she was late for her plane, thought she missed it, got up to where she could check in, found out the plane was not going to leave for another forty-five minutes...
I missed my plane; spent the night (11 pm to 5 am, sitting in the very cold airport...with a light tee shirt on (I thought my arms would turn to ice) got home the next day at 9:30 am, and have been sleeping every since...
I am learning a lot about airplane travel
END OF THIS STORY

Lorraine Hart said...

I humbly disagree Stephanie...we could, yes, tell stories about our dads...but you have rooted stories of family and place that's ambrosia to a wind-blown spore like me. Houses that generations know and familial loyalty. You're like the Madrona of the hearth...long-burning warmth.

Oh Joseph...that didn't sound like the most fun airport story ever...glad you're catching up on the sleep you lost! I could write a million stories in airports.

JosephMcG said...

Did I include in the story my enchanted moments... the lady I helped quiet down, started to make a pass at me ("you are one handsome devil aren't you") but then I told her I was a Catholic priest and a Jesuit, and the conversation changed... she followed up quickly with a priest/rabbi joke; a nun in the classroom joke; and I just was thanking God that she caught her plane because in my imagination I saw myself about to pass the night listening to various Catholic jokes...
Oh, well, I think I shall take up traveling by wagon train...