My aging home is full of sacred spots

 Here's an underrated part of living in the same place for a long time: Sacred places.

Not sacred in a religious sort of way. More like in a "remember when we used to . . ." way.

Spots that look like a backyard or entryway to someone else.

Mrs. Brad and I have lived in the same house since 1992. That's the month that George Bush and Boris Yeltsin decreed the Cold War was over. Bill Clinton wasn't president yet. Our oldest son was just learning to walk. Our youngest son wasn't born.

They're now 24 and 21. (Our sons. Not Clinton.)

In addition to the obvious benefits of staying in one place – paying down the mortgage, knowing your neighbors, not going underwater during the Great Recession – there are a growing number of places that harbor great memories around Casa de Stanhopes. Maybe it's because the boys are older and the memories come easier. Maybe it's my getting older and more sentimental.

Whatever it is, I find myself looking at our mature California pepper tree and remembering when it was a stick and served as the backstop for kickball games I played with the boys during my dinner breaks.

I look at the corner of our house and remember when our dog, the beloved Vida, used to sit on second base during those games. Second base is now the corner of our house after we added a second bathroom.

I look at our driveway and remember our oldest son staggering down it as he learned to keep his balance while our neighbors (who were the age Mrs. Brad and I are now) stood and laughed.

I see the bathroom, which we turned over to the boys after adding the one off our bedroom, and wonder how four people shared that one toilet and shower for 15 years. I also wonder about when Mrs. Brad remodeled the bathroom: We thought a day without a toilet could go smoothly.

I look at the aforementioned entryway – which is about 6 feet deep – and remember games of dodgeball and a made-up game called "entryway ball" that I played with the boys as they learned to duck, dodge and discovered that Dad could create a complicated scoring system that assured that he would always win.

I see the full backyard and remember when Vida tore our new store-bought swimming pool to pieces and then raced around the yard when we came home to find it littered with plastic.

I see the basketball hoop – now bent and beaten by years of abuse – and recall when Mrs. Brad and I huddled in the early April wind to assemble it after our youngest son's birthday as both boys eagerly watched through the sliding glass door.

There are plenty of bad memories – when we all got stomach flu at the same time, when the ceiling fan slapped me upside the head at full speed, when we dealt with unpleasant, scary issues. But that's the thing, at least for me.

After more than 20 years living in the same house – in a neighborhood, by the way, where there are a few people who have been around longer – the good memories outweigh the bad.

We expanded our house, put on two new roofs, added flooring and changed out our dishwasher about five times. We bickered, laughed and complained that it was too small. But it's our only house, the place where our sons grew up and the only home in which our youngest son has lived.

For a 1,200-square-foot tract home, it's sure full of memories.

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.