A House of Favorite Things

“BOOK. FISH. SUIT. TIME. MOTHER. FATHER. LIFE.

Everything is part of Everything.

We Live, We Blunder

LOVE UNITES US.”

~Maira Kalman

This quote is one I have recently come across on the back of a most intriguing book found in the basement of Literati Bookstore. The book at first looks like it was handpainted and handwritten, and that’s just how it is meant to be. The book entitled “My Favorite Things” documents and explores the significance of objects that thread in and out of our lives and make our lives what they are. It’s the most unmaterialistic book about material items.

It’s beautiful, it’s personal, it’s unique to Maira Kalman and yet it’s a book that speaks to every reader. Even though your eyes may scan over a watercolor illustration of Kalman’s living room and think, “That doesn’t look like my living room,” it nevertheless possesses armchairs, coffee tables, paintings, a window that looks out onto the street, perhaps a musical instrument, a stack of magazines, that reminds you of your own house – the advice given to you in that room, the stories told, the love shared, the tea spilled, the tears dried, the memories molded [some still enshrined in your brain while others you have forgotten].

This book about objects is extremely important in my life of late because of a certain transition: that passing of old houses from one family to the next. Two years ago, we moved out of my childhood house in Jackson, Michigan and my family followed me to Ann Arbor (staying on their side, of course, so as not to encroach on my campus lifestyle!) We passed over the keys to new residents, yet for financial reasons, we still had a bit of ownership over it. Through those two years, I never went back to see it. 1) I never had a reason to but also 2) I wasn’t sure how my heart would feel seeing it again.

Because a house is not just a box of wood and paint. It houses human hearts – it’s a body for our bodies. It lives and breathes with us. It changes. It needs mending. It provides nourishment and shelter and escape and refuge and yes, even stress. It is a home for our memories – from its smell to its stains to its cozy nooks of comfort. And when it’s no longer yours, it’s like a piece of your family’s identity is left behind, too. But we move on. We grow together, we make new memories, we find new nooks. But we still remember our old friend. And I bet you – it remembers us.

In honor of last week’s final selling of the Jackson house (we are no longer the bank), I’m dusting off a poem I wrote in the aftermath of our move:

ode to a beloved yellow house

I had a little treasure box
nineteen years and counting
a shy pastel bursting 
with buttery flavor.
Nature had its way
with decorating – as it does:
promiscuous kisses watermarked
its walls, flecks of snow and dust
collected on its faded, well-worn cheeks.
The lilac lasted but a week –
a single blink of an observant eye.