The House That Neville Built

At 98 years old my grandmother could no longer look after herself and finally had to leave her house. Her husband, Neville, died about 10 years ago. He was a carpenter and built the house himself.

It was also home to my mother and her four sibilings. I remember going to many family get-togethers with the extended family.

It still has the same feel; the same atmosphere. The bulk of my memories of the house are from when I was quite young. As I am the youngest of the generation, most family had grown up and moved on. So gatherings here were scarce in more recent years. Therefore, in my mind I held onto a more childlike image of the house.

Taking the time to walk in and out of each room slowly, thinking about who had once lived there and how each room was used, I noticed much more. Viewing through the lens, without the aid of the wonderfully advanced human eye, darkness is enhanced and the light seems to have more a physical presence.

My grandmother, Ivy, may have had to move on, but the house still remains. Hopefully it does so at least for her lifetime. Her memory fails her in the present but she still describes vividly the distant past. There are so many more memories in between and so many to be found in the house that Neville built.

I wonder what it would be like lying alone in the room where your daughters first slept 60 years ago. All the time in the world to think. Wondering what your daughters are thinking now that their own daughters have left. Would you keep the curtains closed some days?

It seems the more a house ages the more colour appears. Carpets fray; floors scuff; walls fade; benches stain; door handles become worn. Yet it’s more than this. There’s a remnance filled with the traces of those who have lived within the spaces. There’s an aura filled with the human emotions pieced together over time. There’s an atmosphere filled with colour.