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I like chandeliers, but you don’t see them very often. Or maybe they are in houses that I’m just not visiting.

The house I grew up in was from the early 1900s and had a grand Victorian staircase in the front entryway. It was made of deep dark wood (Cherry? Oak? I have no idea), with a stained glass window at the landing and a small closet underneath. My friends, their parents, our neighbors, distant relatives- everyone who ever walked into our house, basically- would comment on it. As a kid, I didn’t think anything of it; I had lived there since I was five and the stairs were as much a part of the house as the bathtub. I remember my best friend once saying she loved coming over our house because of these stairs, as she grew up in a modern split-level, something I found rather amusing. My siblings and I used to ride down those stairs in laundry basket cars. Once my brother got his head stuck between two spools. At Christmas, we had to wait at the top of the stairs while my parents “checked to make sure Santa brought everything”, parent-speak for set up the video camera. Sliding down the banister was off-limits.  We polished the wood weekly. It was just there.

My family moved when I was in college to a 1970s ranch-style house, the Victorian’s polar opposite. It was around then that I understood why everyone was so enamored with those stairs. I never realized how much bigger our old house was compared to the modern ones my friends lived in. Nor how rare such things as the staircase, the fireplace and the stained glass windows were. Even though the move was a good thing, and necessary, since my siblings and I were growing up and moving out, it was still a little sad.

It’s weird, but when I dream of home, I don’t dream of the house I live in now or the one my parents live in. I dream of the old Victorian with its creaky floors and beautiful wood.