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“Keep the home fires burning.”
I borrow those words from the British song of the same name composed during World War I. Its meaning remains clear today, even if it’s not war that yanks our children from our homes.
We’ve been busy the past several days doing just that – trying to kindle those home fires that pull a family together, especially during the end-of-year holidays.
We’re dousing the house with Christmas spirit. Adding more colorful lights to the outside and trimmings on the inside. The primary focus is the tree, of course.
I find myself staring at each ornament from my couch perch. I did a good job this year with placement. Making sure each son is visible. Lots of ornaments were made as they grew up, back in the day when Christmas included the excitement of Santa Claus and gifts and treats.
Other ornaments were gifts or trip souvenirs. All good memories. All kindling for the home fires, adding to the warmth that turns a house into a home.
Home. That’s the biggest log on the fire, of course. Something I think about a lot. Which is why I saved some thoughts shared by my friend Trissa many months ago. They help tell the story I’m weaving here.
She was Facebook sharing something she scraped off the internet that gripped her – as a mother and grandmother. It’s been shared so many times that the original author has been lost, but here are the words that also tugged at me:
“I want my children to always know ... if the relationship ain’t working, COME HOME! If you feel unsafe, COME HOME! If something don’t feel right, COME HOME!
“I want my kids to always know they can come home. ... I never believed in the saying, ‘They 18, they grown.’ ... My kids are forever my kids and I always want them to know they can COME HOME.”
So true. Of course, when your kids live several states away, you would settle for a CALL HOME also. But it’s not like when they do come home. Then something happens. Meals take on new flavors. The house noises fill the emptiness, like footsteps on the floor, echoes from the past.
In the background, those home fires are flickering. The heat comes as a huge hug of comfort and contentment and the simple joy of being in the same rooms together.
Of course, that message that Trissa shared goes deeper than family gatherings around a Christmas tree. It telegraphs a clear message that parents never stop being parents. And the home you grew up in never stops being your home. It should still be a place to feel safe. And not alone.
As I am paddling the river of retirement, which my wife will join in a few years, we both talk about selling the house we’ve been in for nearly 40 years. Someday. Maybe. But we both know it would be difficult.
Selling a house is easy enough. Selling a home is not. The home where the kids grew up blowing out birthday candles and knocking over lamps. Where family gathered and toasted memories and future dreams.
The house becomes a home when you find yourself walking on a carpet of memories. And those memories are logs you throw on the home fires.
Of course, I understand it does not matter where you live. The real home fire is the constant burning ember in the heart.
And no matter where you live, you want your kids to come home to that.
• Lonny Cain, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. His PaperWork email is lonnyjcain@gmail.com. Or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.