Have you ever imagined what it would be like to live in the house where your father was born? Or to walk through the barns where your family raised cattle and sheep? Or to venture into the machine shed, smell the familiar scent of dust and oil, and remember what it was like when your dad fixed tractors there?
That is exactly what I have been experiencing over the past week.
On our family farm in Colorado, in addition to the red barns and the silver machine sheds, there are three houses: my parents’ house, where my sister and I grew up; the big farmhouse where my grandparents lived; and a house my sister recently built about ¾ of a mile from the farmyard.
After we lost my dad in a car accident in 2004, my sister moved back into the big farmhouse. She restored much of it and modernized the rest, making it her home for 15 years, until she built her own house four years ago. During the past four years, we rented out the big farmhouse. However, in October, the renters purchased a home and moved out.
We decided not to rent the house again because of the hassle of managing tenants. And so, this 100-year-old home—built of brick and stucco, full of windows, light, and decades of family memories—was going to sit vacant.
I never really considered moving back to Colorado. My life was firmly rooted in Western New York and at Buffalo State University. That was until I had dinner with my dear friend John and his wife Gabriella over the Christmas holidays. John was considering accepting a position in Colorado Springs.
“Colorado Springs?” I said. “If you and Gabby move to Colorado Springs, you’ll only be two hours away from our family farm. Let’s coordinate a visit the next time I’m in Colorado.”
We agreed it was a good idea. Then John asked, “Don’t you have a house in Colorado?”
The light bulb went off. “Yes, I do have a house in Colorado—my grandparents’ house.”
What if I were to live there part of the year?
The day after Christmas, I called my mom and sister and shared the idea with them. They loved it. My wonderful sister even cleaned the entire house.
As I’m writing this, I’m looking out at the familiar red barns. To my right, through another window, I see the twin peaks of the Colorado Rockies. At night, my window faces the house where I grew up and where my 93-year-old mother still lives. We have lunch together every day.
The plan is to split my time between my home in Buffalo, New York, and my family farm near Greeley, Colorado.
So, what has this change done for my creativity? It has freed it. It has liberated it. It has given me a new way to look at the world. It has revealed insights I had never considered before. It has humbled me.
Where is your ancestral home?
Can you go there?
Can you imagine it?
