The House is not beautiful.
It is far from being a paragon of architectural mastery. There is nothing special hidden in its curves and latticework. It is, if anything, derivative and boring, a faux Victorian pustule sitting on the top of Coffey’s Hill.
And it is ours.
My mother is obsessed with our family history.
She’s always delighted in genealogy, and her skills far surpass anyone else’s that I’ve ever known. I’m not sure how far back she’s traced our family history, but based on the stacks of files she keeps in her office, I would guess she’s made it back at least a few centuries. And that’s being conservative. For all I know, she’s followed our lineage back to the invention of paper. I wouldn’t be at all surprised.
As a child, I often sat at my mother’s feet as she worked in her home office, playing secretary for her. She’d give me “memos” to run and give to my dad, or my brother, or my sister… or even the dog, if we were the only two home. Sometimes, she would tell me about her work if I pestered her enough. She most enjoyed telling me about our family history.
“Did you know, your great great Uncle Alexander had a twin?” she would say.
“What happened to him?” I’d ask, knowing through her tone of voice that the “had” was integral to the statement.