House vs Home

I've been thinking about houses and how they speak.

My friend Tricia's house calls to you. It's rich tones and warmth invite you in, offering comfort and elegance all in one. It speaks of good taste and quality, crystal and fine art - a mixture of modern and traditional blended and laid out by her own hand. It's filled with color and texture and love and the voices of children grown and moved away but always welcomed home. It's a good place to be.

My friend Iris's house spoke in the happy jumble of a work in progress. Things out of place, intimate and spacious at the same time. It was a house well lived in and well used where neatness and order took a back seat to family gatherings, where all were welcome all the time. It was a refuge.

My mother's house spoke of conflict and contradiction, reined in and tightly controlled, filled with stained furniture and discounted gadgets. The rooms were small and carefully cluttered and everyone had their place in them. You did not sit in my mother's chair, did not make yourself at home, did not move things without permission. It was oppressive and uncomfortable, cheap and tasteless.

My grandmother's house resembled a museum, muted shades of beige and gray and dusky green, quiet tones and understated furnishings, costly but soft spoken and very proper. It was a staid house where great rooms were filled with Victorian era sofas and armoires, where the television was always on low volume, where damask curtains kept out the light and the hall mirror always sparkled. It was a place of dark, polished, lemon scented wood, glassed in bookcases and low light, lace doilies and subtle conversations. It was a place of safety and sanity, of dignity and old world order. When it spoke, it said "Ssssshh..... don't forget to wipe your feet."

The house she kept in Nova Scotia couldn't have been more different, it was filled with sunshine from every window, painted in bright reds and whites and always wide open to whoever happened by. The furniture was haphazard at best, collected over the years from who knew where - leather rockers, old cots decorated with patchwork quilts and multicolored pillows, assorted lamps with fringe, a ship's clock that chimed each quarter hour when someone thought to wind it. It smelled of sea spray and fresh linens, home cooking and lavender. It was home.

Ruby's house was a maze of small rooms, nooks and crannies, cluttered and sometimes hard to navigate. It spoke of country living and farm work, of gingerbread and front porch sitting, vegetable gardens and old time religion. The television was out of place here, a nod to progress in a house from the past and a novelty to my tiny grandmother who had raised ten children almost single handedly. Her house whispered, "The work is never done here.....".

My own house - small and overrun with cats and dogs - is a sanctuary to me. Here I write and remember, retreat and regroup. Here I can sleep all day and shut out the world. There is no elegance or silence here, no antiques or fine things, nothing precious or of any value except to me. There is no history here and when the house speaks, it speaks only of now and it says "Be content, life is more than a house."