Having not spent more than a week or two at the farm over the past 47 years, living in the nearly 100-year-old house where my father was born has been quite an adjustment.
Three tile brick silos were dismantled and the bricks used to construct the stucco house. The use of these recycled materials, along with other innovative construction techniques, earned the house and farm a place on the National Register of Historic Places in 2009.
The house features stunning original woodwork, rich hardwood floors, and 22 windows on the first floor that flood the space with brilliant Colorado sunshine. It is filled with light and steeped in the memories of my childhood.
When I told my friend Jim Wanner that I was moving into my grandparents’ house on the farm, he said, “So, you’ll be rambling around in that big house all by yourself. Have you thought about the memories it might stir up?”
I told him I had.
I remember meeting my grandmother at the back door on Halloween and receiving a huge homemade raisin cookie. I remember the iron wood stove in the kitchen. I remember Christmas celebrations with my cousins, aunts, and uncles. And I vividly recall that terrible night in 1963 when I sat on the couch with my grandpa, mom, and dad, watching television in shock after President Kennedy was assassinated.
But I never expected that a simple doorknob would become such a profound trigger for memories.
At 94 years old, my mom no longer drives, but she still enjoys going to church on Sunday mornings. As I was grabbing my coat to take her to church, I opened the porch closet. When I touched the doorknob, a thought struck me: how many times had my ancestors touched this very doorknob—or the doorknobs on any of the other doors in the house?
This particular doorknob belongs to the door of the closet where Grandpa Firestien kept his work clothes, winter coats, and the ancient shotgun he occasionally used to chase off coyotes threatening the cattle. I remember the smell of oil, dirt, and sweat—and, in winter, the distinct odor of manure that we fertilized the fields with, lingering on his coveralls.
Doors and doorknobs hold deep symbolic meaning.
Doors can symbolize access and opportunity—or barriers and exclusion. The act of opening or closing a door highlights the dynamic choices we face in life: whether to venture forward or retreat, to accept or deny.
Doors appear in religion, folklore, architecture, and even dreams. They are universal metaphors for transitions, choices, access, and exclusion. Doors invite us to reflect on our journeys, challenges, and aspirations. They are thresholds to new worlds.
Until now, I had never thought much about a door. But living in this house and returning to the farm and the community where I spent my first 22 years has certainly set me on a new journey.
Doorknobs, often overlooked, carry their own symbolic weight.
A doorknob represents control over access. Unlike doors, which may remain static, doorknobs require interaction. Grasping and turning a doorknob is an intentional act, bridging thought and action. Doorknobs symbolize taking initiative, making choices, and embracing turning points or personal growth. They can serve as portals to new worlds or hidden truths.
This humble doorknob—a small yet significant object—invites us to reflect on how we navigate boundaries, make decisions, and step into the future.
I believe doorknobs are a powerful metaphor for innovation and creativity. What doorknobs are you facing in your life? Will you turn the knob to unlock new ideas and embark on new journeys, or will you walk away from the door and remain unchanged?
It’s an interesting choice, isn’t it?
As a testament to the craftsmanship of the builders, not one of the doors in this nearly 100-year-old house sticks. I can’t help but wonder: what might that symbolize?
If you’d like to learn more about the house and the Von Trotha-Firestien farm at Bracewell, follow this link. https://www.bracewellfarm.com/
