Echos of Devotion

Today I would like to write about homes. Any home which contains family memories certainly falls under this category. However, my primary focus in this session is that of homes that hold a great many memories, perhaps over a long period of time. My inspiration here is twofold. To begin with, this particular poem was written this last summer in the boyhood home of a dear friend whose father had recently passed away. As I wrote, I actually was sitting in the green chair by the hearth in the library of that house, pondering some of the memories which had been recounted to me. My friend had grown up there and his parents had remained in the home until their golden anniversary. Sadly, it has since been sold and knowing such a sale was eminent I was attempting to capture some of the valued memories as a keepsake for the family. A home can hold so much history, much of it intangible, and when we lose the building we are often relinquishing many of the reminders which serve as a gateway to those memories.
At this moment, those sentiments are all the more poignant as I write these very words while sitting in my father’s favorite chair in his house on our ranch in Oklahoma. This place, this very chair, are the sanctuaries of countless cherished memories. And, much like my friend’s boyhood home, the future of this house and, therefore, its access to my own past remain somewhat in limbo. Doubtless, the people are more important than the memories and the memories more valuable than the real estate in their own way. Yet, we cling to that which is familiar, that which seems to connect us to our past and the people who dwell therein. Such a home, while still in our possession, allows us wander the forgotten halls of our youth and listen for familiar voices in the creak of tired floorboards or rain drops upon the roof. We always fear that somehow our connection to these memories may be lost once we can no longer engage them in their natural habitat. For instance, so long as I am able to sit here in my father’s favorite chair I have the feeling that he is still here with me, after a fashion ... or at least I am with him. Such is the fate of we mortals who dwell in this tangible world. It is our nature to cling to the props associated with our existence here. Our memories, however, have a much longer shelf life than the buildings we tend to store them in. We must always remember that, and make every effort to write those memories not only into our hearts, but the hearts of our children for we are responsible to them as the guardians of their heritage. Often, we are unable to permanently maintain the tangible repositories of our past, like this house where I write from today. Yet, we can glean what they have to offer and treasure those memories up in our hearts to carry with us for a lifetime. However, while opportunity allows, I’ll just sit right here in my father’s favorite chair, in his favorite room, in his favorite place and soak up whatever memories happen to come my way. And someday, when this room is gone or changed or unavailable, I may be able to describe it to my grandchildren and pass my memories on to them ... perhaps even as I sit in my own favorite chair somewhere.

Echos of Devotion
In the quiet of the library
I tarried for a spell
With the party out of earshot down the hall
To leaf through some weathered volumes
In the green chair by the hearth
And admire a favorite painting on the wall
Like every room in this house
This one echos with the memories
From half a century of life, and more
And though things are quiet now
I clearly have a sense somehow
Of all that happened here and came before
I hear the songs of children
On the stair and in the garden
Through happy years of family time here spent
I feel the love maturing
A lifetime of joy still echos
In the halls with countless whispers of content
And there is grief, I sense it
In the quiet of the corners
For loss must come to every house, we know
But the memories here gathered
In this old house whisper volumes
Of a family’s love which spanned from long ago
By Frank Carpenter ©