It’s not the gorgeous Maria Bartiromo seen in all her high-definition loveliness, finally, on CNBCHD on a new wide-screen Sharp TV.
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Not the SpongeBob SquarePants marathon on NickHD — a decent antidote to the low-life, high-def terrorism in Mumbai playing out on CNNHD.
It’s not the rustic den bar, crafted in the interior of Mexico, that you always wanted and finally got, perfectly complemented by rustic barstools made of rebar, of all things, with Southwestern-themed upholstered seats.
Not the 12-bottle wine fridge with glass front and accent light humming to one side.
It’s not the fancy roll-top desk placed for looks in the front "office” or "study,” itself put there by the builder for looks.
Not the elegant 125-cigar cherry wood humidor with built-in peekaboo windows on the lid and front of the box.
Contrary to every home-furnishings ad and shelter mag you’ve ever seen and every interior design spiel you’ve ever heard, it’s none of those things, although those are nice things, that make a house a home.
It’s the shelf in the kitchen dish cabinet with heavy plates on the left and only light bowls and saucers allowed on the right, because you’ve never gotten around to replacing that plastic doohickey that holds the front corner of the shelf up on the right end.
It’s the spot inside the back door from the sweat off of somebody’s Resistol hung on a nail at the end of the day for years.
It’s the worn place on the wall in the front room where Daddy’s recliner rubbed when he relaxed after a hard day in the fields or pastures.
It’s the scratches in the varnish and stain on the inside of an otherwise handsome hardwood front door, left by granddogs that know to nose some bells hanging there on the knob on a string to ask to be let out to do their business,
It’s the one narrow place between two stones on a porch wall that will hold a 50-ring cigar in the middle of a standing smoke if you have to run into the house for a second.
It’s the gazillion holes from nails that once held posters and pictures and shadow boxes of homecoming corsages and orchestra trip snapshots on the walls of your daughter’s room, now a guest room – where "empty” meets "nest.”
It’s nothing that anyone brings into a house. People, and the marks they leave — which sticklers think and Realtors insist are flaws — are what make a home.
It’s time to reflect. Tell me, what really makes your house your home?
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