There’s an old saying, “If walls could talk, what would they say?” Well, if that were the case, the walls of my Nan and Pop’s house could write a book. It may be a small, two story townhouse, but it is bursting with memories of people and times long gone. Every room has its own story to tell. I feel a very special connection to this house. It has been one of the only constants in a life full of change. Each person who has lived here or made memories in this house may have a slightly different perspective of it, but to all of us it stands for one special constant- a link to our family’s past, the memories of our childhood, and the special feeling of connection to Nanny.

My mother’s parents were always called “Nanny and Poppy” when we were children, and have slowly gravitated towards “Nan and Pop” as we grew up. Nanny passed away four years ago, and her absence is palpable, especially in the house. Nan and Pop moved into this house in Haverstraw, New York over forty years ago, bringing five of their soon to be nine children with them from their small apartment in New York City. The four bedroom townhouse in the Village on the Green development has gone through many changes since that time, but has always remained the same in our hearts. Over three generations of my family have experience this house as our gathering place- Nan and Pop and their eight children, who grew up to give them nineteen grandchildren, and currently three great-grandchildren. This house is where we congregate for almost everything- holidays, Sunday night dinners, birthdays, or just to stop by and say hello.

Perhaps the thing Nan and Pop’s house is most famous for is its ever-changing unconventional decoration. Nanny was a very artsy and eccentric woman, and we all loved her for it, although at times it caused clashes and clutter in the decorations. She had collections of dolls, paintings, trinkets, and many other “chachkas,” as she called them, throughout the whole house. Nanny loved Amazing Savings, QVC, and antique shops. When she saw something she liked, she bought it, never worrying where she would put it. She found a place for everything and surrounded herself with the things she loved. Every time we visited, there was something new on a shelf, hanging on the wall, or stuffed in the corner until she could clear a spot for it elsewhere. Sometimes, I would really admire some little teacup or doll she had, and whenever she generously tried passing it on to me, my mother protested. “Where are you going to put that?” she would always ask me, but like Nanny, I always found a place. I can probably thank her for making me the pack-rat that I am today, because like her, I feel that if I truly adore something, there is no reason I should get rid of it.