Some folks will tell you that nothing lasts forever. They’ll remind you, without knowing for certain themselves, that everything that is will soon enough be what was. That dead men tell no tales, and ashes to ashes, and all those other warnings of ends. Those folks cannot see beyond the darkness of their finite assumptions.
I endeavor to know and see that everything lasts forever. Everything. Me, you, those fabled ashes, all fallen down as they may be. And as for the dead not telling more tales? Oh, yes they do. You just have to know how to listen properly, and see with the right eyes.
And beyond such bold notions of everlasting everything, I am here to tell you one more tale too wild to be true, but is: some houses have souls.
Hearts, too. As broken as yours, and thrice as big, capable of entrapping memories and moments in its very walls. Some houses remember your name and the sound of your voice and the fall of your footsteps. Some recall you as a child, and perhaps, your Mama and Daddy as children, too. It’s the old houses that have the oldest souls and the densest of memory laden walls.
I think of an old house in particular as I ponder these things. The Christmas tree would be up by now in the living room, a fresh Fraser fir from the mountain, cut and covered in silver tinsel, and popcorn on an endless mile of thread, precisely and carefully needled through and strung on the aromatic branches by three or four of us grandkids, the red and green lights reflected off shiny glass orbs in our fascinated eyes, and soaking into the walls of the soulful house.
And the presents! Oh, they were stacked as high as my knees and upward, and the oranges tasted sweeter than any ordinary summer orange. Nobody could have ever convinced us we were just poor hill folk. No, sir. We were royalty on those bright nights, new socks and coats and all.
Mamaw is in the kitchen baking buttermilk pies and basting the fattest turkey you’ve ever heard tale of and reminding us kids to not run our fingers through with her best sewing needle. And Mama says if we do, she’s a’ gonna bust our tails good for us and we’ll all get coal in our stockings. She doesn’t mean a word of it, we know. Daddy plays Elvis on the record player and cousin Tommy dances a jig right up in the middle of the living room, and Mamaw swears to God he’s a heathen for such an awful display. The aunts and uncles and Mama and Daddy are at the dinette playing cards, and Mamaw praises the Lord and warns them good and proper that they’ll go to Hell for gambling, and it’s a good thing they were playing for popcorn instead of money, otherwise they’d have to do it out on the porch and out of her house.
They would laugh and say “oh, mother,” and carry on like there was no tomorrow. But there was a tomorrow, and we all knew it even then. And a yesterday. Papaw thought of those yesterdays as Elvis sang “I’ll be Home for Christmas,” and he would sit in his rocking chair and cry silent tears for the home in a distant Kentucky that remembered the worn out old man he was as a child, a home that stood dark and still somewhere up in a forgotten holler. But he remembered it. And perhaps that old place remembered him, too.
Yes, there is a tomorrow. It’s here. It’s now. Papaw has been long gone into the hereafter, and Mamaw has joined him. And so has Daddy and all the uncles. All of the children have grown up and scattered here and there. The cards have long ago been dealt and all the popcorn strung or eaten or thrown out to the winter birds.
And the house is now empty. It stands dark and silent against the backdrop of the faithful mountain where the Fraser firs grow forever green.
But the house has a soul. Oh, for certain it does. It has seen and heard and loved too much. It misses us. And on silent nights I imagine the echoes of heathen laughter and the faint nuances of Papaw’s tears still linger and seep from the walls and keep the old house warm and waiting.
We make other houses home now. And they have listening walls, too. But the oranges aren’t as sweet as I remember. And I am now the one with the silent tears.
Nothing lasts forever? Oh, yes it does. Everything lasts forever. Everything. And I’ll be home for Christmas, as I have always been. As they have always been. And always will be. They are still there, waiting for us.
You just have to know how to listen properly, and see with the right eyes.
My family was constantly moving from one rental house to another. When I was young, I got attached to a few of them, and when we left, it was like leaving a part of my soul. I quit doing that after a while, but I started again when I was an adult, and figured I had control over where I lived. Now, at 54, I’m finally in the home I will be in for the rest of my life, and it’s time to give it some memories.
You say what my heart thinks.
Yes, the old homes do have soul, heart and so much love. One only has to sit quietly on the steps to hear the memories, to smell the good times and feel the love they have.
My Christmas Present, more of your written thoughts! This brought tears to my heart remembering family times like you described. And the house, torn down now, but they left it’s heart in the rubble of the basement, where nature has taken over once more. And in the yard, mothers iris, still growing after 50 years, and one lilac bush.
Thank you so much!
From days gone by, you remind me to always look and listen to the past. For its never far away, just close your eyes, inhale deeply and just listen and I am back on the farm in SW VA.
Thank you and Merry Christmas
Reblogged this on Voices of Ancestors.
Tears from the mountains of California. I love all of your writing.
The souls of old homes speak to me. Our current home is loaded with memories of past families. This is our third Christmas here and when I sit still in the night and enjoy the light of our tree, you can “hear” and “see” the past come to life. My wish is the walls absorb the laughter and warmth of our family and add to it’s story. Thank you for sharing your memories.
I too grew up in Tazewell County, Richlands to be exact. I loved reading this story. It reminded me so much of gathering at both of my Grandparents home most every Sunday and especially at Christmas. I miss those times so much. Times when whole families got together and were just together enjoying family. At Christmas the song “I’ll be home for Christmas” brings me right back home with a smile on my face and a few tears as well. Enjoy reading your stories.
I love this. My Mothers family were share croppers of cotton and tobacco in rural Georgia. I spent some my best childhood times on their farm and in my Mamaws kitchen. I cried through the entire read. Thank You for these memories.
Wonderful!
I love your writing style. Got publish a book!
I love your stories. Yes, they are full of soul!
Wow! words fail me. Thanks for writing this.
This brought tears to my eyes. It made me think of the house my sister and I grew up in and all those Christmases long ago…and our lives there long ago. My parents are long gone also and our childhood home has stood empty and cold for many years, crumbling and beyond repair. My sister and I talked of having it torn down last summer, but we just couldn’t do it. Our dad built it and he added many unique qualities. Every time we walk inside the old place we feel we’ve stepped back in time. Too many memories….ones we will have forever.
This is beautifully written as always. Your words have soul.
Dear Anna, thank you for your tidings of comfort and joy! Merry Christmas darlin’.
Such an absolutely beautiful, haunting piece. I’m so intrigued by your writing and this wonderful tale. What a beautiful soul you have.
You have given this Granny a beautiful Christmas gift. The old Spanish style house I remember still remembers me and those I loved. I have no idea if the house still exists in southern Calif. or if “progress” has destroyed it but the memories of those dear ones live in the soil and the sunshine.
Goodness…you have no idea..I have that home …My Grandma Georgie’s home…and right now I have those silent tears….Thank you
Lovely! Remembering my Grandma May’s house this very moment. Hope it remembers me! S
This is the most beautiful piece of writing I have ever read! It went right to the heart. I don’t live in the mountains, but I clearly recall my uncles and cousins playing cards in the kitchen while the aunts and young cousins sat around the dining room table eating bakery and drinking coffee. Rudolph would be on the t.v. and the youngest of cousins would be playing games they got as Christmas gifts. It was bright and fun and the best of memories!!!
Thank you so much for this heartfelt, sentimental piece!
There, Anna, see? SEE? Now you’ve gone and done it! I just knew it!
I knew this would happen if kept letting myself return to read what you write here. Your words finally brought tears. And I’m glad of it. What a wonderful gift for Christmas.
And what a wonderful gift you have. Thank you and thank you.
I know this to be true. I personally have encountered such houses with souls; their memories still pull at me to this day. One or two are certain to break my heart anew each time they return unbidden to my thoughts.
And yet, I never fail to allow, to even embrace the longing and sorrow that these houses bring. For they are the homes that surely have built my soul and created the very heart that defines me. We are one.
Anyone who understands this also knows that from the very beginning letting go was never part of the deal.
No deals. You belong to it. And it to you. Thank you, Ken.
Your talent for writing is amazing! You made me feel like I was back home. I was sobbing by the time I finished reading it. Just need to listen harder…..
Many thanks. I so appreciate it.
Thank you, Anna, for filling my eyes and my heart!
Thank you for articulating this…my old home place stands silent on a hillside located on the Pine Mountain side in Dione, KY. It is crumbling to the ground, overtaken by time. Each visit back there causes my broken heart to crack more jagged as the crevices overtake the crumbling rock foundation. My Dad built that house in the 1930’s, and if ever a home had a soul…that one does. You have summed it up beautifully. The love and memories still linger. Yes, indeed, houses have souls…and the whispers of our loved ones can still be heard…..and yes, the oranges were sweeter…as were the inhabitants. I love this so much I must, with your permission, frame a copy to hang beside a picture of the house where I grew up. That house remembers me just as surely as I remember every detail of the place where I was raised. Home has a soul.
No permission needed. That’d be perfect. Thank you.
What a beautiful tale. I expected nothing less from you Ms. Wess. As soon as I saw it on my feed, I knew I would read it and love it. I often remember my home in just this way. Thank you.
Thank’s for sharing this ..I do believe this..Sometime Ican smell my brother or my dad’s cigars ..It helps if I talk to them …They here me I just know !! ❤
I am an old 64 year old woman, my brother now owns and lives in my grandmother’s house. I never ever sleep sounder nor feel safer than when I am back there. I have no explanation except that I’m home and the house comforts me and keeps me safe. I dream of my grandmother and a child that I had that died but they are sweet dreams. No nightmares or feelings of loss. Happiness and comfort is all I find there.
If God is really eternal, then every thought in the mind of God lasts forever, and always has. And since She made us all up…
My mind immediately went back to my home in a holler in Ky as a child this time of year. Thank you ! My grandmothers house had a really tall porch like the one in this picture, and a windchime that was one of those chinese glass things you got at a dollar store. I can still hear the clink of that glass held together with red paper circles. I can still hear my granny calling me by my nick name… Snoooks come here chile and get outta your grandaddy’s beans !!!!