The Responsibility of Being a Home
My walls felt uncomfortable when I heard Beverly confirm the news. I will be receiving visitors from house technicians again. This is will be the third time I will be connected to an internet based security system but I still felt anxious about it. I have been feeling like I have been losing my value as a house and home lately. Beverly among all the Harolds is focusing on making me upgraded and modern. I guess I should be grateful for her attention yet I do miss being a responsible home to families. I think about all the changes that Beverly has discussed on the phone. I will not be mainly securing the Harolds with cameras run by the internet but a robot as well. Then I think how funny it is I can easily recall the 1920s when I was built and the how the first family I welcomed relied on their dogs for safety. Then I realize how wonderful my story of being a responsible home is. This is my autobiography.
I was built by a railroad construction maker named James Henry and his buddies. Frank White, one of the St. Augustine’s financially stable hotel owners, and his wife Margie bought me for $2,200. My neighborhood is in a historic downtown so my features of my youth are still classic. My tan concrete walls remain strong to this day. Margie had hired gardeners to create a green wonder behind my gates which generations of my female owners maintained. I have a garage that is a haven for at least two cars. I could say I am a proud beautiful house from the outside. I believe my responsibility as a home is to be a jewel outside so that my families cherish the place they belong to.
But the joys that I offer within my walls are almost unexplainable.
My living room has a relaxing hearth now controlled by technology. It is a witness to entertaining storytelling times, heart wrenching dramas, and boring quiet moments. It was here Margie White painted herself a powerful wife with her wealthy peers. It was here Benjamin Perez told his father he was running away. It was here Susan Willow knitted during rainy days. I always felt with my living room I was responsible for shaping a family’s unity.
My dining room has served a rainbow of cultural foods of the many families that lived with me. The White family served elegant European dishes for themselves. The Perez’ cooked Mexican recipes that were considered gifts that was kept in their family. The Willows It has even been a place of cultural community change. For in the ‘60s, the Simpsons made dinner meetings with their friends to organize the constant peaceful protests in the city. They often discussed how Martin Luther King Jr.’s arrest at Monson Motor Lodge has made the city more famous. Thus, my responsibility with my dining room is to be a place wherein the pleasures of eating and gathering were to be satisfactory experiences.
The four bedrooms I keep on my second floor have given birth to several memories of love and hope. Children were made. Parents grew old. Friendships were strengthened. Families found faith in God and one another in my rooms. My rooms are places of harmony.
I am now part of a community that is 452 years old. I am 97 myself. Though technology has changed me and my neighborhood, I would like to believe that my responsibility as a home remains. I still am the home that keeps the Harolds happy. I hope to live longer providing safety and pleasure to many more families.
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