The little ranch house, where my great aunt and uncle had lived since long before I was born, was well known for its large capacity. Just in my thirty years, I had long ago lost track of how many lost souls stumbled over the threshold to find love and safety. The walls were weathered and did not appear to offer much room, but for those of us who had experienced their loving embrace, we knew they were a bit like the depths of Mary Poppins carpet bag; never-ending. There was always room for one more at the table.
For those who had not felt the transforming power of the house, it was simple. A closed-in patio with an old screen door that creaked every time it was opened; they would not understand the significance of the extra refrigerator and freezer they saw on that porch. Even had they been told of how the simple wares within could be transformed into the tastiest meals you would ever have, they would not believe the amount of mouths that could be fed.
As they walked into the house they would first lay eyes on my aunt and uncle’s bedroom door, almost always open, the foot of their bed draped with an old farmhouse quilt. To the left, the tiny bathroom that held the priceless horse trough bathtub. While a bit too rough around the edges for most homes, this tub was the holder of many children’s treasured memories. A bath on the ranch meant a pool of water deep enough to splash over your wildest imaginations. The resulting water puddles from cannon balls were not a problem large enough to hinder play and were easily cleaned up. As there was no plumbing in the bathroom, the tub would be emptied by plugging in a water pump that would lap up the sudsy water with a threatening rumble, a noise that would strike fear in the heart of a small girl if it started before she was well clear of the bathroom. The toilet was available by going outside and “down the hill.”
If our visitor were to turn right from the entryway, they would take one step up into the kitchen; the beating heart of the operation. Here they would find my aunt’s desk, where she would sit late into the night, writing of the day’s events in her journal. She was a comforting sight when one had to pass through the kitchen on the way to the outhouse during the night. Her long gray hair coiled tightly in a bun at the top of her head and her eyes, full of kindness and sparkle, focused on the cursive script of her hand. She may not look up from her writing to acknowledge you, but she knew you were there.
Across the kitchen from the desk was the deep double sink. This was where young girls were taught that the process of washing dishes creates far more community when done with an assembly line of cousins, a sponge, and a dish towel rather than a shiny machine with a start button. Against the opposite wall, the old stove would frequently be overloaded with the promise of good things to come. Creamy gravy to pour over mashed potatoes or egg noodles. Giant pancakes and homemade syrup, or ham and beans sweetened to just the right flavor with brown sugar; pulled from a canister that was found behind the doors of the handcrafted cupboards. In the center of the kitchen, they would encounter the table where memory after memory had been formed. The family gathered around a warm meal, pressed in tightly to include us all. Hands would be held to connect a misshapen circle to say the blessing. Voices would rise and fall with the melody of an old hymn before eyes would close and heads would bow. The children would tell stories of having to stay seated until all their food was gone and would quote my aunt in jest when serving their own little ones years later, “You can always take more, but you can’t put it back.” How picture-perfect were the children’s looks of shock when the same rules were not applied to the generation following.
At the foot of the long table was the doorway to the office, and next to that the library, lovingly crafted by my uncle’s hard-working hands. The shelf was conveniently placed as the books stored there could be easily reached if needed to be referenced during an intense conversation around the table.
As they continue the tour of the home they would turn left into the living room. Here they would find the source of heat during the long winter months, a carousel wood stove with glass windows all around. During the holidays the wrapping paper would be saved to use as a firestarter and little eyes would gather around those windows to peer in and watch closely as the bright colors of the wrapping would affect the glow of the flame. Despite how rough and tumble things could get, there would be a wide birth around the carousel to ensure there were no accidental burns.
My uncle’s rocking chair remained next to the fire and what a comfort it was to see him there for those who would stumble in with the pink stain of a cold wind on their cheeks. The bib of his denim overalls would rise and fall gently with his deep, restful breaths. The dark hair of his bushy beard rested against the plaid of his long sleeve shirt, his gaze cast down to the book or farmer’s magazine he was browsing. Plenty of activities kept us busy outside; a lively game of capture-the-flag with cousins, hunting for kittens in the old scrap, or clinging to the back of a four-wheeler with all the might your little arms could muster. Many a time a hat or mitten would be lost somewhere along the dirt road to the barn and knowing my uncle was tending the fire back home would start the thawing process from the inside out.
The hardwood floor was easily transformed into the most cozy of guest beds with an air mattress and a pile of quilts. Oh, the sweet nostalgia of the holiday season when all of the family would return home from here and there and extra beds were needed. Christmas jammies and one big bed for all of the cousins was the hallmark of a holiday season that was especially bursting with relatives.
From the living room, our guest would see three separate doorways leading into various bedrooms. As a niece who visited frequently, these rooms rotated occupants and while the flavor would change with each new one, the bare bones remained the same. The rooms came as later additions, thoughtfully built as more and more children were brought to the ranch to be cared for and given a place they could always call home.
While the house is fully unique, the home within was created by the love shared by my Aunt and Uncle. Their love for each other is one to be followed as a sweet example of partnership throughout life. Their love for their children is seen clearly in how much they have sacrificed for each one. Their love for their extended family can be felt from across state lines, but it all stems from their love for Jesus and His love for them.