My Sacred Place

My Sacred Place

In a small town not far from the Maryland/Pennsylvania border there is a house. Built in the early 20^th century it lies on what remains of a much larger farm. The old barn and pig house are now sheds and the gardens and grapevine are in the same location they have been for the last almost hundred years. The ancient walnut tree still drops its green hulled nuts every fall. My grandparents used to give me a dollar for every 5 gallon bucket I picked up. The small strip of trees at the back of the property are filled with the trash and refuse of farm life, I remember as a small child going a searching them for old bottles and pots.


 The land was a mass of hills and every so often a field rock would stick up out of the ground. Around these rocks is where the little four pedaled violets grew and I would pick bunches for my grandmother who lived in the “new” house at the bottom of the hill. 


But it was the old house that appealed to my childish heart and still does. When I was a small child my grandparents changed the old house into two apartments. My great-grandmother lived in the bottom apartment for many, many years and I used to love to go and visit her. We always came in the back door because the front door was never, ever opened. Inside the back door is a hall onside is brick and the other is siding. On the left side is a sliding door that leads to a bathroom and the laundry room. At the end of the hall is an old door with the skeleton key still in the lock. Inside the door is the kitchen and dining room. Off the kitchen to the left is the bed room with another bathroom. Oh, in the kitchens far wall is two steps and another door. Open the door and you will see a flight of stairs which lead to the upstairs or now a blank wall which closes the upper apartment from the lower. Go over to the other side of the landing and you are in the living room and off the living room is the parlor, which has siding pocket doors. I loved opening those doors as a child. 


In the hall is a door that leads down to the cellar which was always cool even in the hottest day of August. Down in the cellar is the potato cellar and the old well. These rooms are dug out of the dirt which is cool to the touch. I never liked going down to the cellar. It smells of damp and age. And the shadows were always darker and longer there. Exiting out the side door in the cellar I walked around to the back of the house and up the flight of wood stairs to the upper apartment.


 I lived here for a whole year and enjoyed it. The top half of the house has a sleeping porch and you enter through the door here into a kitchen and dining room. Again on the far wall is a door which leads to a flight of stairs. I will come back to the stairs. Off the kitchen is a hall way which leads to a bathroom, two bedrooms, and a living room. Every door is original to the house and the paint is cracked with age. In the bathroom is also the laundry room. The closets are tiny. Very tiny. 


I can look out the windows (which sadly my grandparents took the wavy glass out of) and see the flower gardens that surround the house. But back to that door and the flight of stairs, up the stairs which creak under your weight is the attic. This is the perfect attic. Large and full of wood. It smells old and like dust and old pine. The wood is all faded a dark grey and in the ceiling is a sky light. There is no heat up here. No insulation. The floor is hardwood just like all the floors under the tan colored carpet. The attic moans with the wind that whips around the roof. 


I go the one window and curl up in front of it. Looking out of it I can see the moon and the stars over the town. The wind blows through the sill and I shiver. The window is a modern one. I shake my head at the thought of the wavy glass windows. I hear the church bells that ring from the church down the road. These bells play hymns and songs. I listen and feel a peace creep over me. This is my family home and I belong here. This is a place that is sacred to my heart. It is full of family and memory. I want to keep that feeling and maybe one day I will bring my children to this house and sit with them by that window. We will listen to the old hymns and stare at the bright moon. And then I will realize I have come home.