Sentimental Value

I do not have to words to describe how much this means to me. And so I simply won’t say anything about the film. Instead, I want to bring up all of the, and I’m sorry for saying it, sentimental moments it brought up in me. Being so far removed from my extended family is my choice. They don’t understand me as an adult. They don’t talk to each other, they just talk at each other. They struggle to understand a world beyond their own. But they’re not bad people. They do love me. But I’d rather keep those beautiful memories of their lavish lives from my childhood perspective. My Grandma Brooks. She lived in this little house in a generic town, with a backyard that I remember being about a mile long. I would go swimming in that backyard. I’d catch fireflies in that backyard. The stars could always be seen there. Every time I’d visit, she’d take me to the local library and we’d get this massive stack of books, and we’d read them all before I left. She taught me to play cards to that solid wood table in her kitchen, that was always just slightly off from the room. She had this god awful futon I’d sometimes sleep on, in the home office that was straight a straight shot gun room. She had this massive gorilla plush doll that was as big as me that I thought was just hilarious. I remember that house only in pieces, but I remember it felt like home.  My Gram. Her house was a copy and paste of all its neighbors. It had these pale pale yellow walls had the most functional house layout I’ve ever seen. It was the best neighborhood for trick-or-treating, and there’s no telling how many miles I’ve walked in that neighborhood. Her house always had this vague lemon smell. It had the most beautiful staircase, where I absolutely got my head stuck in the railings. We would always make cookies. She would always make me grilled cheeses (always a little overcooked). She had this bathtub that was MY bathtub. I remember always loving bath time at her house. She had this loud white leather couch that would later become mine. It felt like home. My Aunt Charlotte’s. Every Christmas Eve, without fail, we’d drive up to her house. She and her late husband had owned an antique store, and the house showed it. I was always terrified walking through the house. She had this massive backyard that backed up to a forest, where she fed the deer way too much feed. She had this long ass walk-up to the house that may too many people rolled their ankles on. She had a fleet of dogs, but specifically Japanese Chins. They stunk like hell, which meant the house stunk like hell. The carpets were matted, there was dog hair on everything, and the multi-level home had everyone crammed in together. The bar was always stocked. Her dining table had a church pew that was horrible to get in and out of. I would always have to go up to her bedroom to wrap last minute Christmas gifts for the family that waited til the last second. She had a Mickey Mouse telephone in her bathroom that I still want. It felt like home.  The Shrader Henderson House. This house was always my dream growing up. It was elegant and eccentric and warm and full and just had heart to it. It had a whole room dedicated to Christmas that I lived in. We had a bake sale during their yard sale that we made a stupid amount of money from. I got to have sleepovers at their neighbors house. I could write a memoir just on the Christmas teas alone. The giant gallery wall going up the stairs. The doorknobs that questionably closed the doors. I loud loud wood flooring. But the thing that always sticks with me is the original kitchen. The house was so old and Victorian that it was designed to have servants out of sight. The kitchen I grew up had this giant rack hanging from the ceiling with every pot and pan imaginable. I still don’t know how they reached any of them. This huge island with these awful red barstools that we’d all crowd around. The floors were this cold gray tile, with one tile broken right by the door. There was a giant roll top desk with approximately one million papers on it. The medicine cabinet held the paper plates. It was the heart of the house. They had their dogs that unfortunately lived in their cages and were all named after political figures. The entire house smelled like cigars. There was always people over. The garden went in phases of being gorgeous and unkempt. They had both fish inside and outside. It was home.  Then there’s my home. My favorite place. I’m going to keep this for myself. But even with all her flaws, she was perfect. I’m glad my parents have put so much work into her, but I miss everything she used to me. That’s what this film means to me