In nineteen twenty-six it rose, a humble, sturdy frame, Grandpa’s hands, both rough and wise, worked wood that bore his name. He cut and milled, each plank and beam, beneath the sky so wide, Crafting not just a house, but dreams, within its walls to reside.
In the living room, in twenty-eight, a new life’s cry was heard, My mother’s first breath, a twist of fate, a future yet unblurred. That room, a cradle of family lore, where beginnings were embraced, A testament to those who came before, and the lives they interlaced.
Years spun like the wheels of time, through seasons, sun, and snow, Until destiny in ‘eighty-seven, whispered soft and low. It called me back to where roots intertwine, to claim what was once sown, To buy that house, that emblem of time, and make it my very own.
It’s not fancy, with its aged wood and doors that softly creak, But it’s home, where love has stood, and walls, if they could, would speak. Of laughter, tears, and moments dear, of family, past and anew, Our old house, through every year, stands resilient, strong, and true.
So here we are, and here we stay, in this house that grandpa made, A beacon through the night and day, where memories never fade. It’s not just a house, but a legacy, a vessel of our story, A testament to what can be, when built with love, not glory.
