Hoses and homes. ex. 2

Presenter: If you were starting over in an empty house without any of your accumulated belongings, what would you need to make it feel like home? In other words, what makes a house a home? We asked four young people. This is what they said. Mary

Mary: I've decided that the first thing I would look for would be a big family dining table – big enough for all of us, plus relatives and friends. That's because so many of our special times have been when we've all been together around the table. It's where we giggle and laugh and sing "Happy Birthday to you"; where we celebrate small things such as an 'A' in arithmetic and momentous things like a promotion at work or a college degree; where we soothe one another's hurts; and quiet our worries. And it's where we share our dreams, because when families share their dreams, everyone pitches in to make them come true, and miracles fan out from family dining tables like magic.

Presenter:

Peter: Our home would need an old-fashioned fireplace. I know most people prefer the modern no-sparks, no-smoke gas kind, but we would need the type with burning an old-fashioned fireplace that crackle and glow red and smell of wood smoke. It's where we always gather on bad-weather days to play Monopoly or work on a jigsaw puzzle or just read. It's where we daydream.

And also, there would be an awful emptiness if the books we love were missing from our home, so I'd search for a great big bookcase to hold books. Slowly, we would re-accumulate the books we cherish – from "A Child's Garden of Verses," "The Little Engine that Could," and "Goodnight Moon" to books by Dickens, Twain, Hemingway, and Frost.

Presenter:

Lucy: I'd buy pillows for our sofa. Silly? Probably, but pillows always create that put-your-head-back-and-your-feet-up feeling. Pillows say, "Don't worry, everything will be fine." I'd mix and match them: big red and white checks and blue toile and golden plaids. Lots of them – puffy, fluffy and pretty and very therapeutic.

We would need a yardstick in order to start a new measuring wall – out in the kitchen, probably behind a door, where children are measured, where year after year, and the inches march upward on the wall to show how tall they have become. It's where they stretch with all their might and where futures are fashioned with the words, "When I grow up."

Presenter:

Steve:

Ever since I was three, I have shared two households. Both were—and remain—vastly different. One belongs to my mother, one to my father, but both are a place I consider home. My father’s cosy apartment remains my haven of peace and quiet, scratched Jimi Hendrix records, really good food and a lot of understanding. My mother’s house is crossword puzzles, paintbrushes and lots of friends. Never quiet but so diverse. Home is comfort. Comfort is reading in bed. So I would start with a bed and good light above it. That will remind me of my dad’s house. As I became accustomed to the noise of my mum’s house I would like to have a spacious room with sofas and tables where my friends and I will chat, eat and debate.

My home isn’t a singular unit; my home lies between and within two households. A house is where you live—but a home is where your heart is.