Jim Olson

6/20/23

In 1954, my father and mother, having saved every cent my father sent home while in the Army during the Korean War, and that mom could squirrel away on her own, put money down and purchased a house for the considerable sum of $13,000 in a developing neighborhood in Piedmont Heights.  

They would together, then my mom independently upon dad’s death in 1997, make this house the only homestead my five siblings and I would ever know, spanning 69 years until mom’s passing at the age of 97 in January of 2023.

The transition from a house to home took less time than one could imagine.  Black and white photos of what look to be a house warming gathering show a very happy couple with relatives smiling, laughing, and warmly supporting my parent’s achievement of home ownership.    The pictures to follow combined with a lifetime of memories solidified like iron, not the importance of the house, but the living presence of “home” in every sense of the word. 

Joy, celebrations, tears, sorrow, maturity, anxiety, and confidence were borne in that home.  For me, it was the stairway to the second floor I remember the most as the flood of those experiences washed over and into my soul.  

The foot of the stairway stood at the corner of the dining room and what we referred to as the ‘front-room”.  As a middle child of six kids, each in their turn, my room was on the main floor across from my parents and as early as I can remember, the stairway to the “older kids” living spaces was something awe inspiring.   I would climb and risk the trespass into their realm, waiting anxiously for a place there. More importantly, I would sit toward the base of the stairs with book in hand and listen as my grandparents sat and visited weekly at the dining room table, learning to laugh as well as understand serious discussions long before my age could have otherwise allowed for it.  It was always a delight to have my grandma’s sister Doris visit.  It seemed the gloves came off and levity was the rule with great laughter.   My sense of family deepened with every one of her visits that seemed to open the tap of warmth and mirth unending.  

It was a place equally alarming as I quietly sat and learned of the stress and heartbreak that could be heaped upon a household as my oldest brother tested the family, and lost himself into a future where he would spend half his life in some form of supervised or incarcerated care.  Those sorrows can only be assuaged by a strong foundation, and my stairway was surrounded by such strength of home.

The many passing years tested but never diminished the emotional context of that home.  Mostly due to proximity, I became the primary caretaker of “home” after my father’s passing. To the end, mom made every visit there a kind reminder of the rarity in today’s world of such an emotional connection to a singular place.

Home was sold four months after mom’s passing.  A house once again.   It was a surreal and emotional experience for us remaining siblings that now leaves a young man of apparent sincere grace and opportunity to transform, at his own pace, that house into the home of his heart.  Our hearts will remain there.