NaBloPoMo Writing Prompt: Describe an heirloom that has been passed down through the generations.
Maybe it’s being a product of divorce, or that I moved around a lot growing up, but I can’t really think of a family heirloom that has been passed down–something that had history and significance to me and my family. But then I started thinking, if I were to pass down something from my family to the generations to come, what would it be?
Being a Southerner living in NYC, I can’t see myself moving back down South for any long period of time. I can see, however, bringing my Southern roots into my family-to-come, especially with food and stories.
Sweet tea, black-eyed peas, and chicken and dumplings. Can it get any better than that?
I lived with my Grandma Billie for some time growing up in Alabama. She was a Southerner through and through. And, yet, despite (or, maybe, because of) growing up on a farm in Virginia, she had a lot of stories to tell. On her old typewriter, she wrote poetry and short stories. In the early ’90’s one of her short stories was published in Mobile Bay Tales: Essays & Stories About a Region. She decided to go back to college in her 60’s and get a degree in English. When I went off to college, she’d ask to read my textbooks when I was finished with the semester. She’d sit in a chair in her bedroom, with her feet propped up, licking a spoonful of peanut butter, reading for hours at a time. She had a painting she bought at a yard sale (she loved a good yard sale!) that she was convinced was a long lost Picasso. And when she passed away, I found boxes of the stories she had written and bound them in a book I titled Stories by Billie Moore. This I will pass down to the generations.
In the end, an heirloom isn’t about the thing itself, but the memories and history that it holds.
NaBloPoMo Writing Prompt:
When was the first time you realized your home wasn’t like other people’s homes?
To me, home has many meanings: structure, design, functionality, people, and energy.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my home, mostly fantasizing. I love home magazines: Elle Decor, House Beautiful, Martha Stewart, etc. It’s like you peek into these worlds and imagine what your life would be like–in a loft in Dumbo, or a country cottage in the south of France. Everything seems so relaxing, right? So perfect, so carefree.
I think my existence in a small cozy apartment in Brooklyn isn’t unlike many others in New York. You make compromises: cute, vibrant neighborhood over space.
But I don’t think I’ve ever had a real sense of home in my adult life until I moved in with Dave. Every other apartment, no matter how nice I tried to make it, was ultimately just a place to put my stuff and always felt temporary. I used to always be on the go. I hardly ever had a proper dinner, unless I was out with friends specifically for that purpose. I’ve never spent so much time in my home as I do now. Dave and I cook meals together, eat at the dinner table, lounge on the weekend with a paper copy of the NY Times, make up songs (well, Dave makes up songs), and laugh.
I am sure our apartment is not on the list to be photographed by Elle Decor, but I can see for the first time that no matter where we may be, we will create a home. So this might not exactly answer the writing prompt, but it is a realization that my home isn’t like my other homes.
See also: the challenge.