Images of home

We woke up last Sunday
to scenery that I would have expected to encounter deep in the middle of winter,
but definitely not at the end of October. Everything around us was covered in a
thick layer of snow. In the garden, the trees were bending from their heavy
load. The bushes were hardly distinguishable, buried in white. We realized that we should have put away the deck furniture a long time ago. J Needless to say,
the children were ecstatic. As soon as they woke up and saw what had happened
overnight, they couldn’t believe it. They would dance around the house, going
from window to window, taking in the spectacular view. There was delight all
around, even in their eyes of the tiny little one.
I was scrambling to
assemble our snow gear from last year – between the chaos of the move and the
early occurrence of this winter wonderland, I was found deficient – in order to
get everyone out to the garden. This was one of those days when I really
appreciate living in a house. All three kids were in heaven. There were
ruthless snowball fights and then a giant snowman showed up in the middle of
our lawn. You couldn’t get them to come inside, even when their noses had
turned bright red, their lips purple and their hands and feet positively numb.
I was making sure to
take lots of photos of this special moment in our lives, and that’s when
it came to me – a very similar scene from my childhood. Snow was very rare in
Athens, where I grew up; so rare that when it made its appearance, schools and public
services would close down for the day – or two. Something like hurricane season.
An additional reason for us children to love the snow. I still remember clearly
one of those exceptional winter days, when there was an equally heavy snowfall
in Athens. Our garden was loaded, drowning in white – like our garden was two
days ago. I remember how excited we were to be missing school and to be able to
spend our day outside and invite our friends over to play.
I especially remember my
father taking photographs – exactly like I did – to document this rare occasion.
As I look at the pictures I took last Sunday, I see before me my father’s pictures
– as if it was yesterday. It is one of those moments when I realise the obvious
– that I am to my children what he was to us. I am an actual grownup. I have created
a home for these little people, the same way my parents did for us – and that
feels kind of strange; and hard to believe sometimes. So here I am, thirty or so
years later, following in my father’s footsteps, in a different home, but one
that is also my own.

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