I’m blessed to live in my Grandparents house. A five bedroom house with a large garden and fruit trees.

Fifty years ago my grandmother was in the same position I’m now. Three children. Same sex, same spacing. My mother did it too, twenty five years ago.

A house full of generations of memories. Five generations have lived under this roof.


I don’t know, living in this house sometimes just channels domesticity. Home cooking. Vegetable gardening. Picking fruit. Cut flowers. Making chutneys and jams. Baking. Family recipes. Children outside playing in the dirt and trees and under the hose. Pushing trucks on the wooden floors. Riding bikes down the long driveway. All my childhood memories, and those of my own mother’s generation, relived again.

Sometimes I can feel my grandmother around me. When I’m mopping the floors or cooking the dinner. Thinking that for many years she did these same things. On these same floors.


On the right day this house could echo with the  laughter, tears, prayers and conversations of years past. I wonder what she did, how she managed and what she did differently to me in managing three small ones.


Perhaps that is part of what fuels my passion for being at home with my children, gardening and cooking and playing and cleaning and creating. For being a Catholic, as so much of what my grandmother did was the reason for me becoming more Catholic when I was a teen. She taught me about Mass and so many things of living as a Catholic.

And now living happily this tradition in the footsteps of great women before me.