Yankee Stadium is gone. The home of the greats like DiMaggio and Ruth will go dark at the end of it's last game. New York will never be the same. This home of great American baseball will close it's doors forever, taking with it over half a century of memories.
Home. Such a simple word - but holding so much meaning.
My home - the corner house made of red bricks with the white pillars - was never a home of great American heroes. Well, at least not the kind people buy cards of. However, it is the place where I grew and made a million memories of my own. The sounds and smells that are found there are also part of who I have become. I imagine many people have similar memories - but these are just a few of my favorites and most familiar...
The blanket closet. It has it's own smell - but not one I can easily describe. Everything pulled out of there smells dark and cool...like cotton on a sunny winter morning.
Sunday morning. Most people would associate sunday mornings with going to church, which is expected. However, what I recall about Sunday morning is the smell of coffe and the sound of Nascar or golf quietly playing in the background and Tom slowly reading through the Sunday news. It's how Sunday always was. Now, whenever I walk down the coffee isle at the grocery store, or hear the sound of a race car, that's what I think of. It's comforting.
Grandpa's National Geographics. We never really read them and most of them were from the 1970's and 80's. However, they had a special place on the wall in the family room. My favorite was one that had a silver conver and an irredesent globe on the cover.
The Myrtle Wood mantle. It's deep, rich wood always looked the best right after being smoothered with Pledge and wiped down carefully with a wash cloth. No matter who did the dusting, it seemed that all of us loved that piece of wood so much that we wanted it to shine.
The piece of wood in the flower bed out front. Mom said it was a piece of wood Grandpa found at the beach. He brought it all the way back here just to put in the front yard. Most people have bird feeders - we had a warped piece of wood that had been shaped by the winds and water of the pacific ocean. He's now gone, and that piece of wood sort of stands as a memorial to him. Strong. Steadfast. Familiar.
The "thump, thump, thump" of the washer when the clothes all went to one side of the bin. Not long after if would start, there would be another "thump, thump, thump"... but it would be the sound of someone running down the stairs to stop the machine and adjust the clothes. More than likely, the thumping would return again before the cycle would end.
Mom's porcelain ballerina music box. Ok, so it's not a music box, but it did - at one point - play music. One of it's leg had been hot glued back on, which was, I'm sure, the result of some rambunctious children. I don't recall the song it tries to play, but it has alway been on Mom's headboard - and I hope it will always be there.
Piano music. Mom plays the piano and we grew up listening to her play. One of the first songs I remember singing with Mom is "I'm a lonely little petunia in an onion patch". Whenever she'd play it, my sisters and I would all wind up in the family room looking over mom's shoulder as she would play - just waiting for our cue to sing. This would be our time with mom. Away from everyone else. Just her, the music and us.
Home. So many things to remember. So many pieces of so many lives built in the home made of red bricks and white pillars. Cristi
