You can never truly go home ...

I live in a haunted house ...

Yes, haunted ...

But not in a bad way ...

There are no jangling chains ...

No items flying through the air ....

No apparitions of scary monsters ....

There is no fear.

Yes, I bought a haunted house last year ...

It belonged to my parents.

My son came to visit two weeks ago and remarked on how the kitchen smelled like Grandpap's Italian cooking.

My niece came to visit and peeked in the broom closet marveling at how she used to hide in there.

They laugh when they point to the baseboard heater at the bottom of the steps, which was the cause of bumps on toddler heads, a trip to the emergency room, and a remaining scar or two.

Yes, this house is haunted with people, scents, and sounds from long ago...

In the living-room, I see a recliner with a teen-ager who immediately vacates that seat when her dad enters the room!  I see a grandmother wearing a Santa Clause cap while her grandchildren squeal in delight as they unwrap the mounds of presents placed under the tree.  I see a wall lined with shelves full of knick-knacks and photos of graduations, weddings, beloved parents and grandchildren.

In the dining-room, I see a table fully open so that it almost spans the length of the room.  I see aunts and uncles seated there nibbling on pistachios, pepperoni, cheese, and crackers.  I see the white-haired grandmother seated at its head telling a tale or two or three.  There is a family of six gathered there every evening for dinner, each in their own chair.  There is an old-fashioned phone stand in the corner and when the phone rings, I hear the father say, "Whoever it is, tell them to call back, we're having dinner."

Phone stand, now a book-nook

In the kitchen, I see the mother bent over the oven basting a Sunday roast.  I see the dad grating cheese for  lasagna and home-made hot sausage.  I see sisters squabbling while one washes and the other dries the heaps of dinner dishes.  I smell the aroma of garlic, basil, and oregano.  

On the porch, I see chaise lounges where teen-agers sleep on hot summer nights.  I hear Pittsburgh Pirate baseball games and Sinatra serenading loud enough for the neighbors to enjoy.  I hear a bug zapper fry a mosquito before it's able to take a bite out of one of the occupants on the porch.  

Porch Living

In the yard, I see American flags dotting the walkways and waving softly in the breeze. I see a rose-covered trellis, a grape arbor with its clusters, and a statue of the Madonna surrounded by flowers.  I see a toddler hiding under a pine tree.  There is a small garden with huge red tomatoes on the vine just waiting to be picked for sandwiches and salads.  I smell green onions and see the tops of the ripening kohlrabis.  I see teen-age boys mowing and weed-whacking under the supervision of their dad; a man who is proud of his flourishing green patch of ground in the city.

After years of being pruned to the ground, the roses are blooming again

Yes, this house is haunted ...

Haunted with memories that have a way of messing with me on certain days.  Memories that fill with me nostalgia and longing.  

Though I am officially listed as the owner, I will never truly own this house.

This house belongs to another era.

It belongs to ...

my dad...

my mom...

... and their family.

The Way We Were, Barbara Streisand

Engraved in it, heart & soul.