Eulogy for a Home

My parents came to visit this evening after a long day for them in the Quad Cities preparing to relinquish all of the furnishings from Oma’s house to the care of the auction house, and what they won’t take...returns to the earth, literally. (It's hard to picture my grandmother’s possessions outside the context of her house.) If all goes well, Oma’s house will give home to a new family next week.

Mom entered into my apartment today with roses. Not only the last roses of the season but the last roses-ever. The final blossoms of Oma and Opa’s rose garden are on my kitchen table. The bushes were so generous through the years they were doted over, pruned and fertilized religiously. They remained steadfast as attention waned.

I wrote the following a few weeks ago and feel it fitting to share now.


Eulogy for a Home

Oma was always so happy to see us when we arrived on her back doorstep. Her greetings had the energy of child unwrapping a present. Genuine joy.

So many good things happened at Oma’s house.

The kitchen never stopped serving German pancakes, or cookies, or spaghetti or anything really.

In the living room Oma taught me to do the Chicken Dance.


My father’s boyhood bedroom became my room on visits. Oma would tuck the sheets around me and sing Gutten Abend. I hated growing older and realizing I should outgrow lullabies. Oma still sang to me anyway.

Faithfully, the house presented itself so nicely for the holidays. Cozy, special, sehr festive with stockings, pantyhose and shoes left out for SANTA to stuff every year. We certainly had traditions even if we weren’t the most traditional family. We ate wieners and potato salad every Christmas Eve, followed by singing with accordion, bell and harmonica accompaniment.

The house offered only one bathroom with two separate entrances that provided endless comedic frustrations. The sole toilet was the epicenter of family joking and sometimes embarrassment. We all were either barged in on mid-business at one point or were the intruder at another. The victim always thinking they had locked the door, the perpetrator wishing the door had been locked. Two bathroom doors are a lot to attend to when you are in a hurry, if you know what I mean.

Some of my earliest memories of the house involved bath time, where the three grandchildren would splash in the tub and pat sudsy foam beards onto our faces. Oma would swoop us out of the tub, stand us on the commode to dry us with flowery towels. I don’t know who loved bath time more, Oma or us.

It was the first house Oma and Opa bought, the only house they owned.

It raised two children, spoiled three grandchildren and welcomed two great-grandchildren.

It was respite to Beate and hospice for Opa, a haven for the family.

Sadness doesn’t adequately describe the feeling Andrea and I experienced when we walked through the house for the last time. On my final visit to look for any last items of utility or sentimental value, I took one last item, a pillow from what was my bed. I brought it home with me wishing that maybe, if I press my ear into it at night, I might still hear Oma’s lullabies whispering me to sleep.