We called her Daisy. It was not her real name but her given name—given to her by my big sister when she was little. Daisy didn’t seem to mind, though, because she was our grandmother and we were her granddaughters.
Whenever I see a daisy now, I think of her. Or whenever anyone mentions the fragrance “Youth Dew” by Estee Lauder. And when I drink tea from my Noritake Azalea china cup or see a patch of jonquils in the spring, I think of her.
Daisy’s house, the one in which my mother grew up, was a white clapboard house raised up on bricks, typical of that area in the 1930s. It always held my fascination, largely, I think, because of the stories my mother told me when I was growing up.
Stories about how Mom’s older sister Jenny always led her into trouble but never got caught herself; how their oldest brothers served in World War II and their younger brother wanted to be with them; how Daisy made everything taste good (even fruitcake!) on a budget for her growing young family; how Mom's step-father worked hard at the lumber mill, carried a large metal lunch box, loved his wife and her children.
As the youngest grandchild, I found Daisy’s house to be a magical place. The vibrant heart-pine floors, the fancy cherry furniture in the middle bedroom, the light that poured into the front room, the screen porch with its brick steps, flowers in the yard. My active imagination, coupled with Mom’s stories, created powerful feelings that I could never have articulated and only really recognized in my 20s.
A welcoming place to sit on the porch landing outside our room at Serenbe
Decades later, in December 2016, my husband Mart and I stayed at Serenbe Inn, part of a sustainable live/work/play community outside Atlanta. The inn and its outbuildings reminded me a little of Daisy’s house.
Barn reminiscent of my grandmother’s once-full smokehouse
At Serenbe, I found myself thinking of Daisy’s house often and of how Mom and her stories made it come alive for me.
I haven’t seen the house in many years. Although my memories of it have become a bit faded and dusty, it still stands in my mind as an almost sacred space. And those reminders of it at Serenbe stirred an old wistfulness, a longing for something that’s hard to name but can only be described as a desire for Home: a place where I have never lived but I still miss nonetheless.
Do you have any special places that fill you with feelings of joy, love, or longing? Places with a special beauty for you? I’d love to hear all about it in the comments below, or if you prefer, just email me at glimsenblog@gmail.com.
