Written by contributor Emily Walker of Remodeling This Life.

When I was a little girl, my Great Uncle Mo had a cottage on a beautiful lake in the wine country of Western New York. My parents had a cottage of their own hours away, so we spent most of our time at that cottage; but from time to time, we’d spend a day or a weekend at Uncle Mo’s.

Uncle Mo never married, so the family of my grandfather (his brother) was all he had. He loved having a place where everyone could come to swim and play, celebrate Labor Day, and eat hot dogs.

Not many of my childhood days were spent there, but my memories are clear—memories of standing on the rock break wall and skipping stones, sitting at his long rickety picnic table on rickety benches and eating hot dogs. Getting sun-kissed and exhausted from days of splashing in the water and playing in the grass.

Uncle Mo passed away when I was 17 years old, 16 years ago now. The cottage was sold and when the new owners were remodeling it, it burned to the ground. A new building stands in its place now, a building that I have never seen.

I still like to picture the yellow two-story cottage with a big screened porch overlooking the lake, creaky stairs leading to a second floor full of bunk beds to accommodate overnighters, a tiny kitchen, a living room with a folding table for playing cards and dominoes, and one little bathroom.

In that little bathroom sat Uncle Mo’s chair.
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Written by contributor Emily Walker of Remodeling This Life.

My kitchen table was given to me by my parents. It’s the same kitchen table that I ate dinner at every night when I grew up. My parents, brother and I each had our own spot at the table.

I have many memories of the meals we ate, the stories we shared, and things we did at that table. I remember sitting around that table making Christmas cookies each year. I remember the year my cousins came over, and we all made gingerbread houses together at that table. I remember getting sick at that table, laughing at that table, and crying at that table.

And today, it’s that same table where my kids are making memories—sharing meals with us, telling stories about their days, laughing, crying, getting sick, making cookies, doing craft projects.

After all these years, the table is not as pretty as it used to be. There are specks of glitter crusted to it that will only come out the day we decide to sand it down and refinish it. There’s glue stuck to it. There’s stray paint from craft projects and home renovations.

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By contributor Emily Walker of Remodeling This Life.

It was over five years ago now that my family bought the falling apart fixer-upper that is no longer falling apart and we still call home today. When we signed the dotted line that day, I had grand visions of future happiness because of this house. Once we fixed it up and sold it, we could go buy the house I really wanted in a nicer neighborhood, with a bigger yard, a screen porch, and garage. Then I’d be happy.

Does this sound familiar?

Someday, when things are a little bit better. As soon as I have that, accomplish something else, live there…then I’ll be happy.

Life doesn’t always go as planned and sometimes, right where we are is where we find we’re truly content.

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