"It's all like a jolly detective story or jigsaw puzzle, isn't it?"
2020 hasn't been a great year for anyone, I guess. It's hard to believe that we still have almost half of this stinking year to get through! But recently, 2020 finally brought us something good. Athena and Josh's baby girl, Abram's little sister, my niece
Lydia Caroline
was born around 8:30am on June 29. We met her over the 4th of July weekend, and she is so sweet and good (while we were there, anyway). She and Athena had to stay in the hospital for longer than usual because of stupid Covid-19, but she's very healthy and sleeps for four hours at a time, which is apparently a real gold bar for newborn babies. We didn't do much else for the 4th of July weekend this year, although we did survive our first power outage at this address (it went out for about two hours during a heavy thunderstorm on Thursday night) and watched all of the new series Unsolved. Looking back now, I wish we'd made it last, but it was so good and suspenseful that we couldn't stop watching.
Like when Abram was born, Lydia's arrival has got me thinking lately about the past. One of my projects for this year has been uploading old family photos to a private album on Facebook. I'm currently doing ones of Grandma's kids when they were young, starting with the handful that are dated. Most of these were taken outside the family's first address in my hometown on North First Avenue. I found the address by searching my grandfather's name in the city directory at the genealogy library years ago, but I don't think I'd ever looked it up on Google Maps until this week. The house is still standing, but it has different siding and doesn't look like the house in the photos anymore, which was kinda disappointing to me. But then I found one photo of Mom, Aunt Carolyn, and my uncles on their front lawn, taken in the mid-1950s, that has a good view of the house across the street, which has changed but is still recognizeable. It probably sounds so boring, but stuff like that is exciting to me. It makes the past feel so much closer and realer when you can still see where it happened. I also found a photo of Mom on her roller skates on the front sidewalk where I could identify two buildings down the street.
I have been thinking a lot about houses lately, about the concept of home, and about what different houses have meant to me and my family. The old house on North First Avenue, where Grandma's family lived 1955-1964. The house on Seventh Street, where Grandma lived 1964- 2011, with its big living room where I unwrapped presents every Christmas Eve, the long dining room table where I ate so many meals, and the front porch swing where I swung all those lazy Sunday afternoons. The house where I grew up and where Mom still lives. Uncle John and Aunt Connie's house.
This house, where I've lived for 14 months now, obviously doesn't have the same wealth of memories behind it, and sometimes living here still really stresses me out. But I keep looking at old photos of those different houses and trying to remember that no house is ever perfect. Even Grandma's house, which I idolized so much, had its creaks and quirks and problems. That never took away from the joy.
Lydia Caroline
was born around 8:30am on June 29. We met her over the 4th of July weekend, and she is so sweet and good (while we were there, anyway). She and Athena had to stay in the hospital for longer than usual because of stupid Covid-19, but she's very healthy and sleeps for four hours at a time, which is apparently a real gold bar for newborn babies. We didn't do much else for the 4th of July weekend this year, although we did survive our first power outage at this address (it went out for about two hours during a heavy thunderstorm on Thursday night) and watched all of the new series Unsolved. Looking back now, I wish we'd made it last, but it was so good and suspenseful that we couldn't stop watching.
Like when Abram was born, Lydia's arrival has got me thinking lately about the past. One of my projects for this year has been uploading old family photos to a private album on Facebook. I'm currently doing ones of Grandma's kids when they were young, starting with the handful that are dated. Most of these were taken outside the family's first address in my hometown on North First Avenue. I found the address by searching my grandfather's name in the city directory at the genealogy library years ago, but I don't think I'd ever looked it up on Google Maps until this week. The house is still standing, but it has different siding and doesn't look like the house in the photos anymore, which was kinda disappointing to me. But then I found one photo of Mom, Aunt Carolyn, and my uncles on their front lawn, taken in the mid-1950s, that has a good view of the house across the street, which has changed but is still recognizeable. It probably sounds so boring, but stuff like that is exciting to me. It makes the past feel so much closer and realer when you can still see where it happened. I also found a photo of Mom on her roller skates on the front sidewalk where I could identify two buildings down the street.
I have been thinking a lot about houses lately, about the concept of home, and about what different houses have meant to me and my family. The old house on North First Avenue, where Grandma's family lived 1955-1964. The house on Seventh Street, where Grandma lived 1964- 2011, with its big living room where I unwrapped presents every Christmas Eve, the long dining room table where I ate so many meals, and the front porch swing where I swung all those lazy Sunday afternoons. The house where I grew up and where Mom still lives. Uncle John and Aunt Connie's house.
This house, where I've lived for 14 months now, obviously doesn't have the same wealth of memories behind it, and sometimes living here still really stresses me out. But I keep looking at old photos of those different houses and trying to remember that no house is ever perfect. Even Grandma's house, which I idolized so much, had its creaks and quirks and problems. That never took away from the joy.