My grandma, Kris Zondca, moved into the little white house as she was expecting her second child in 1968. It was always meant to be a home for a growing family, a place to raise her babies. Now, 54 years later and in the wake of her husband’s death and the absence of her grown children, she is the only one still living there.
So much life spent in one spot leaves a mark on the place that holds it. The wood paneled walls feature uncountable marks from roughhousing and picture frames, the backyard is a small graveyard of the family’s beloved pets, and the carpet has been permanently indented by furniture that hasn’t moved since renos from the 80s. And there are the less beautiful memories – the dining room she nursed her dying mother in, her late husband’s bathroom shelf that sits untouched even 8 years after his death.
At first, I wanted to capture the sentience of the house itself but found the real richness to be rooted in the relationship between the little white house and my grandma. Everything is a vehicle for remembering.
