Saying Goodbye to the Family Home
Much of my work is related to loss, anticipated loss, and grief. My own experience with loss is why I do this work.
This week, I am experiencing another wave of raw grief. It is not, thank goodness, for the loss of a loved one. It is for the loss of a family home. Every grief is different; this loss is disorienting and searing in its own way. Maybe you know what I’m talking about.
In 1956, my grandparents, newly married and with their one year-old baby—my dad—in tow, bought a few acres of land for $1,500. The property was at the top of a hill in a country community in western Pennsylvania. They pulled a small trailer onto the land and lived paycheck to paycheck on my grandpa’s machinist salary. This simple act of faith, of a young family trying to put down roots, shaped so many lives, including my own.
Grandma and Grandpa lived in a trailer on that land for over ten years while they saved what they could as their family grew to four sons. When their youngest son was six months old, they finally had enough money to dig out the foundation of what would become their home. My dad, as the eldest, worked alongside my grandfather to build the basement, laying cinderblock and installing a small kitchen and bathroom. In October of 1967, the family of six moved out of their two-bedroom trailer and into the basement of their new home, where they all slept in one large room (later to become grandpa’s workshop) with curtains hanging from the ceiling as room dividers. They lived through two winters down there, “like moles” as Grandma tells it, keeping warm by the heat of a wood-burning stove. While Grandma held down the fort on a shoestring budget, Grandpa scavenged and saved for building supplies. On nights and weekends, Grandpa and my dad laid bricks, ran plumbing and electric, and built the plaster walls of the two-story home.
The house my grandparents built was the centerpiece of their growing family. When I was growing up, I can remember the excitement of visiting “Grandma’s house.” My parents would drop my brother and me off on a country road at the edge of a field, where we could just glimpse the house on the other side of a rolling hill, and we would run a half mile or so to try to beat them there. I used to search the long gravel driveway for hours, certain I would find a gemstone or two hidden there. We fed horses that came to the fence from the farm next door, picked “swallow-berries” from the grape arbor in the fall, and climbed so many trees. When my great-grandparents retired, they moved into a trailer on the property and lived there in the summers. During warm-weather visits, I would get to enjoy four grandparents at once, running between the houses to maximize on treats and attention. Before my uncles were married, when I was the only grandchild, they would swim with me in the above-ground pool and drive me around on their dirt bikes and in their muscle cars. After they were married, holidays became increasingly crowded and boisterous affairs. The house my grandparents built was “home” for all of us.
It has taken decades for me to understand how that place has shaped my life. For so long, I took for granted that it was there, and I took for granted that it would always be there. I didn’t understand the effort, the perseverance, the long-term vision that went into the creation of the space where we gathered together as a family. But, like the tectonic plates that hold for so long under increasing pressure—making it natural to believe the earth beneath us will never shift—even the most solid things in our lives eventually give way, revealing the impermanence that was always there.
Now my great-grandparents are gone. Both died at home, on the property. My grandfather died in the home he built, surrounded by his four sons, in 2013. Tragically, my dad and his youngest brother died one week apart in 2018. My mother sold the home she shared with my dad for 26 years, which was only a few miles away from Grandma’s house, in 2019. And next week, Grandma will sign over to its new owner the land she has known as home for 64 years.
We often do not understand what anchors us until the line is cut, and we feel ourselves drifting, unmoored. We often do not recognize the center of gravity in our families until we find ourselves spinning away from it, released from a force field we mistook for a law of nature. Anchors, centers of gravity, roots . . . these things are not just “there.” They are created by intention, by hard work, by love, by dedication. More than bricks and walls, they are the spaces we create and hold for family and community to gather in celebration, mourning, and the mundane.
These spaces are sacred.
These spaces are created and maintained by the stories we tell and the values we profess.
“I am building a home for my family.”
“This will be a space to gather and be nourished.”
“We take care of each other. We welcome the stranger. We love unconditionally.”
“You belong here.”
Now it is up to us—we who were nurtured in the spaces created for us—to create our own centers of gravity. To let our roots sink deep into the earth of the family and community we are in. To carry forever in our hearts the memories of those who taught us how.
Some Ways to Preserve the Memory of a Place
Photos. Consider having a professional photographer (or a friend with a good camera!) take a few pictures of your family in the home, highlighting the house itself for future generations.
Art. Commissioning an artist to render a photo of your home or a special place at your home, like a back porch, can create a family heirloom and a link to the place and the stories it holds. For example, in my parent’s home, my dad built a beautiful back porch, pond, and waterfall, which quickly became everyone’s favorite place to be. An artist painted the pond from several photos, and it will travel with mom wherever she goes.
Sound. When my dad passed, we hired a recording artist to record the sound of the pond and waterfall, so that we could take it with us. Other options are to create an audio or video recording as you walk through the house, to capture the familiar sounds of doors and floorboards creaking and birdsong coming through the window. You can add conversation about each room among family members if you wish.
Some Ideas for Saying Goodbye to a Home
There are endless ways to say goodbye to a place. Whatever you do, take a moment before you leave. Gather as a family and express gratitude or say a prayer. Walk through or sit in each room, allowing yourself to remember what took place there, and give thanks for the space that room held for you. Let go of any energy there that no longer serves you. Then speak an intention of blessing for those whose lives will occupy this space after you.
I have used ritual to say goodbye to a few pivotal places in my life, and I still reflect on how the experience helped me to heal and move on. Consider using an element that is meaningful for you, such as burning sage or holy water, and if you have a minister or friend who can serve as your guide, all the better.
Treetown Law is here for you through every stage of life: from building up to letting go. If you don’t have an estate plan, don’t wait. Set up a complimentary call with us today.
