{"id":17,"date":"2016-10-01T18:51:24","date_gmt":"2016-10-02T01:51:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/?p=17"},"modified":"2016-10-01T20:01:29","modified_gmt":"2016-10-02T03:01:29","slug":"17","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/2016\/10\/01\/17\/","title":{"rendered":"Home"},"content":{"rendered":"

When I think about home, I think about the Old Old House. It’s what we call the house that I, my sister and my brother grew up in. We lived on the bottom floor with my parents, and my grandparents lived upstairs. It was big and roomy, so we always had a revolving cast of friends, family members and friends-of-friends staying with us. Because of its size, our house was the main gathering place for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, birthday parties, anniversaries, etc. We lived on an acre and a half. At the very back of our acreage was a mini forest filled with pine and maple trees and a wood chip path lined with logs. The back fence looked out onto a Christmas tree farm that stretched out so far all you could see was green and the mountains beyond. The Old Old House was succeeded by The Old House, but we don’t mention it with the same nostalgia and reverence as we do the Old Old House. And although I do think of my current house as home it cannot compare to the Old Old House and the meaning it has not just for me, but for my entire family, who remember it fondly. Cousins, uncles, and family friends will often remark to me how much they miss “the big house”, but we knot it’s not the house itself they are referring to. A house is tangible. Home is intangible. Memories, experiences and emotions are tied to the physical space.<\/p>\n

The Old Old House is the only house I ever dream about. Usually, I dream that someone is trying to kill me, that evil creatures have invaded and are approaching from the woods and I try to hide or escape. Sometimes the sky is stormy and apocalyptic and my family furiously pack our belongings before driving off into the night, knowing we can never return. As a child home meant stability, something that was interrupted when we moved for the first time. I think I have these dreams because I long for the feelings of comfort and safety that home used to provide. When my family tells stories about \u00a0things that happened at the Old Old House or the house I am living in now, I feel that familiar sense of comfort. Again, it’s not the physical space we are talking about but the intangible experiences that occurred in that space, the place where reality and imagination meet (Chamberlin, p. 74).<\/p>\n

Thinking about the stories and memories I have of home, I realize that they are tied to physical land and objects which give meaning and value to the places I call home. There’s the oak dining table with the claw feet that I always thought looked like a lion’s paw. It was the site of many family dinners. The garden where I picked peas off the stalk with my nana was where we buried my first pet. It was my first experience with death. The forest with its golden maple trees, where we would pretend to be villagers foraging for food of play kick-the-can and flashlight tag. The garage where I would go to sneak popsicles, wary of the glistening eyes of the mounted bucks that lined the walls. Waking up in the middle of the night to sneak a peek at the glittering Christmas tree, hoping to spot a certain red-suited fellow.<\/p>\n

All of these memories and experiences of growing up, being alive, and being part of a family have all contributed to my ideas of home.<\/p>\n

Works Cited<\/p>\n

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Chamberlin, Edward<\/b>. If This is Your Land, Where are Your Stories? Finding Common Ground<\/i>. Toronto: AA. Knopf. 2003. Print.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

When I think about home, I think about the Old Old House. It’s what we call the house that I, my sister and my brother grew up in. We lived on the bottom floor with my parents, and my grandparents lived upstairs. It was big and roomy, so we always had a revolving cast of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":35746,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/35746"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17\/revisions\/23"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubc.ca\/marissabirnie\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}