Looking out over the garden in front of my family’s house that has been passed on from my grandparents to my parents, then from my parents to my sister and me, and ended up in my hands after my sister’s passing almost two years ago, I am grateful and happy to soon be leaving it for good, to a wonderful young family. And to go out into the world, once again!

Over a period of seven years when first my father, then my mother, and finally my sister passed, I have come to periodically live in this house, with varying extents of gratitude, to be honest. There’s so much more upkeep involved in a house with a garden than I am used to as a work nomad taking up residence wherever life leads me. Moreover, the circumstances necessitating my presence – revolving around clearing out the house over the years, trying to provide support to my family in sickness and death, making it a haven for my sister and me after our parents’ passing – were not exactly joyful. Nevertheless, I am very grateful to the house and especially the garden for providing me with an oasis of peace when I most needed it.

But now the time has come to move on.

And although all those years I simply HAD to take sorting through my family’s belongings might seem excessive to some, I hope that my experience – as it will most probably play out in this blog – will be a contribution to some readers. Just reading about how other people experience a similar situation can already bring the relief of knowing you’re not alone.

So today I am starting off my blog Bye, bye Bothmerstraße! with a short spin through time.

So what did the house mean to me over the years?

Starting in the 80ies and 90ies, it was my grandparents’ home whom we visited on Easter and New Year’s Eve. They would move their 50ies-style metal garden furniture with flowered covers and a wax table cloth out onto a stretch of artificial grass to proudly sit on their veranda. The interior, with its plush u-shaped sitting corner complete with mirror and wooden lions, was more reminiscent of a Victorian style but could easily be complemented with said garden chairs if need be. Classic snacks were being offered – such as jelly-filled donuts called Berliner, and mustard eggs – but my grandparents also made concessions for the younger generation by putting out peanut flips and pretzels. One of the culinary highlights for me was the so-called Gelbwurst, basically weisswurst in the form of cold cuts, a regional specialty. Today, I wonder how 7 adults could sleep in a 100 square foot home – but apparently, we managed.

I also remember the winters having a magical touch to me, as they were cold and there was actual snow (!), especially in comparison to rainy Northern Germany where my parents and me lived at that time. And in spring and summer, squirrels running up and down the trees and around the neighborhood were always a special treat to me. All in all, I had pleasant associations with the house back then, as the place my grandparents lived.

Later, when they moved into a living unit in an old people’s home they had been reserving for years in advance, my parents moved into the house. Now they were separated by just a 10-minute drive. As my father’s retirement coincided with my graduation from high-school I had time to help my parents move, and then set out to go to university.

I remember my sister and me having lots of fun helping our father nail down tar paper on the garage roof, and seeing my parents transform the living space to their taste and liking. They added a winter garden at the back of the house, and a tiny sunroom extension in the front – which, funnily enough, is associated with another very enjoyable memory of helping hands-on – namely in breaking down the wall with hammers!

Afterwards, there were family gatherings over a period of almost thirty years, and the rooms in the house taking on different functions. Most notably, my sister and me would always sleep in the second-tiniest room of the house in the basement, with a folding bed crammed in, but that’s where we could talk into the wee hours without disturbing anyone – and also enjoy the sweets our father secretly snuck in for us.

All in all, in my mind, the house was reserved for family feasts and family get togethers – which in our case would be our nuclear family consisting of our parents, my sister and me.

Notwithstanding all my hunger for freedom and travel it provided a sense of emotional stability I certainly didn’t fully appreciate at the time. Moreover, I could still leave stuff – like my children’s books and toys, but also more recent items, “at home”. And the attic provided an ample choice of furniture to populate my student’s abodes with. I remember at one time taking a hoover on my train ride back to Leipzig, much to the amusement of the other passengers.

The house in Nuremberg was the place I could and would find my parents without fail – and although our family dynamics weren’t exactly easy and I always had to brace myself for those visits and recuperate afterwards, there was this bedrock quality I’ve come to appreciate only recently.

Later, as our parents started aging, the house saw a lot of pain, suffering, intensifying of detrimental personality traits and hard talks. And yet, as far as possible, the family tradition of gathering to talk or play were being upheld, even after our father died 7 years ago. Our mother followed him a little over a year later, and up until my sister passed, I’d arrange for us to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s at the house in a fashion that reminded us of the bigger family gatherings of the past.

Once, my sister jokingly said to me she could picture me as an old lady sitting in the living room with some knitwork on my lap, looking out over the garden – which, at the time, elicited but horrified protest from me.

But today, I am looking out of the window and enjoying every bird (or cat) that comes to visit, in delightful anticipation of leaving it all behind and in good hands very soon.

I wonder how life will unfold for the new owners here – and what stories the house will have to tell then?

In conclusion to this introduction, I would like to give you some questions around the concept of “home”.

How you have experienced your parents’ house – if there has been one in your life, of course?

Or, to put it more broadly, where have you experienced or placed “home”?

Is there one place in particular or are there several places – or people – or states of mind – which hold that quality for you?

How important is a sense of home to you?

And how grateful would you allow yourself to be for all the instances of home you experience?