On the wall, black and white pictures. From the pictures, my forefathers (my great-grandparents and grandmother) leniently observe our XXI century daily routine. As I admire (in a picture taken in the early 1900s) my great-grandmother’s beautiful features, I wonder if she was ever inquisitive about the future, about my life, her great-granddaughter’s life. Did she ever try to imagine the type of home I would choose for myself and for my family? If she did, she would probably be very surprised to discover the kind of remodeling that I am about to accomplish in my house, as it is not at all the residence of the future. Going back to my roots, still longing for my ancestors’ house, to me, it only seems appropriate to bring into my home dark carved woods, rich dark color paints, and old world furniture.
I still dream about my great-grandparents’ house which was, to my eyes as a child, the most remarkable house in the southern Romanian village where my grandmother was born. I will never forget the picturesque water well, the old cherry tree and the beautiful yellow flowers smiling on the garden’s gate. To me, the house was a mansion and as I set to recreate the house that I lost and the history that produced the human being that I am today, I find myself surrounded by live memories. The European-carved newel post that adorns my stairs today reminds me of the beautifully carved railings of the spacious terrace where my grandmother and great-grandmother (bunica buna) enjoyed their morning coffee.
The 200 year-old house carried mysteries and legends of hidden treasures. From the old-fashioned fireplaces and the beautiful old world furniture to the fine books and the old-fashioned clothing hiding in the closet, everything seemed veiled by an enigmatic light. I was intrigued by the back room where the chest was: the antique, covered in dust, filled with fascinating books chest. An uneasy feeling came over me every time I spent more than a few minutes in that small, dark room. The straw hat hanging on the wall, covered in spider webs, seemed to be waiting for her owner’s return, ready for yet another brisk butterfly chase in summer fields. As scared as I was of all the ethereal presences in that room, the experience was also captivating.
I fondly remember how, when I was a child, parents and children, we all cuddled up at night in the big bed and we all listened to Dad’s stories about werewolves and fairies. In the room so dark that we could have imagined ourselves blind, a solitary ray of light was coming through the small, guarded by steel bars, window. The terrace light attracted thousands of insects that literally covered the wooden floor, the table, and the chairs. For us, children, the spectacle was impressive. The whirlwind of memories also brings back to me the cold and mysterious cellar, the beautiful portraits on the wall, the impressive collection of exquisitely painted eggs, the lovely pieces of traditional Romanian pottery…
As funny as it may seem, painting the walls of my house brought out the artist in me and with the paintbrush in my hand I reflect on the genesis of my artistic makeup (my great-grandfather, a painter and my grandmother, an art teacher). My ancestors’ house was a silent reverence to beauty and all I can hope for is to be able to faithfully follow their example. As I cuddle up in bed with my children and remodel my house to remind me of old and happy times, I look up, at the white and black pictures on the wall and wonder: do we make them proud?
Tags: ancestors, past, remodeling, tradition
