I didn't finish my thread.  I'm not sure if I can remember it now, a few hours later.  I was talking about the necessity of getting to know a thirty year old house, again.  I didn't really get to know it when I lived here in my youth.  What I am beginning to remember are a few things.  One is I was an avid model railroader.  When we moved into this particular home, it had a double garage.  That was to be my mecca.  After dinner each evening I would retreat to this garage and work on one of two model railroads I built over the four years I was in high school.  There was something sanctuary about this space.  (knowing full well that the word sanctuary is a noun, not an adjective)  The house into which we moved the summer before my freshman year in high school was three stories.  The den and double garage were built on a concrete slab.  I didn't understand the relevance of this then.  Today fully I understand the benefit.  Concrete is solid, therefore our den and garage seem solid. There could be no more perfect place for our vintage Hammond A-100 organ and Leslie 145 than in this den.  The pine paneling creates a favorable listening space.  Perhaps in the future the carpeting should come up revealing the hardwood beneath it and offering more treble response to its sound.  Ironically in the last several months I discovered that termites had made a meal of the exterior wall of this garage.  While there is a brick facade on the outside, the three small windows that provided illumination to this space appeared to be eaten by termites.  Their frames were riddled with hollow gouges painted over many times.  We contracted the same builders who replaced our windows and installed vinyl siding on our upstairs.  They did an admirable job replacing these windows and all of the damaged framing underneath the drywall.  What we got was a pristine looking wall with three gorgeous windows.  Definitely it changed the feel of the garage.  Quickly I covered up that newly insulated wall with my junk.  The positive result was the garage is much more quiet and a bit more temperature controlled.  It still gets cold, but I have found it much easier to work out there with an even temperament.  I can see better, and I am not distracted by the aircraft noise.  Fully I hope this cold winter will dispense with soon.  Even an efficient kerosene heater does not make it appealing to venture there in the cold weather.  I cannot remember this issue when I lived here as an adolescent.  Besides building a train layout in our garage, evidently I spent a fair amount of time on our baby grand piano in the living room.  The only thing I can remember about this is my mother having to set the timer on the stove to see that I practiced thirty minutes a day.  It was brutal.  I didn't really like practicing, yet I became an accomplished classical pianist.  I don't know how really.  I was not a good sight-reader, but over a given period of time I could figure out a piece of music.  I could learn it in my own time frame.  This Knabe baby grand still sits in this same living room, yet I have failed to make peace with it.  Possibly it is because I have been spoiled working on ships performing often on Yamaha C7 seven foot grands.  These particular pianos largely were responsible for my composing output while on ships.  The instrument is so effective, and each note is so clear and strong, all one must do is pick out the pretty notes.  My goal one day is to have one of my own, but not necessarily in the space occupied by this Knabe baby grand owned by my father.  Over the years this piano functioned admirably.  I learned to play the piano solely on this instrument.  Today I cannot bear to play it, because it has been neglected.  More truthfully I cannot bear to play it, because it belongs to my father.  It is his war artifact, and it has served its purpose.  I feel no sentimental connection with it whatsoever.  Instead I enjoy playing my own Yamaha P2 piano in our foyer.  I do have a tangible connection with it, because I  purchased it with my own money.  This money came from the sale of my Roland MKS-20 Super Jupiter synthesizer module.  It was a worthy trade, and other than having a burnt out backlight it was a solidly professional instrument.  It  could use some more creative patches, but that is for its new owner to provide.  I have a limited sentimental connection with our Hammond A-100.  It doesn't feel like mine, again because it was  purchased by my father.  Most things in this house were purchased by my father.  The exceptions are the things that mean the most to me.  While eventually I did inherit our Honda Ct-70h minibike, and I take great pleasure in riding it on the street to this day, I value the two motorcycles I bought myself with my own money.  I guess all things are like this.  Living here again makes me a different person.  It makes me considerably different than who I  am.  It is difficult to remember who this is, because this heritage is overwhelming.  It surrounds me each and every day.  Without meaning to it inundates my soul.  I have difficulty finding my soul at all.  Often it is more comforting to try and remember, yet when I do I feel is loss.  I feel the loss of my father's presence.  I feel the loss of my sister's presence. I feel a loss of most of the positive things I experienced here in this house.  Namely this is the conspicuous absence of my one and only true love.  We have been separated for many years, and it was I ultimately who made this decision.  She agreed with it.  It necessarily is not healthy to forage these memories.  The same couch is in our living room where we necked, but making this connection is not healthy, is it?  It necessarily is not healthy to try to make new memories in this same space.  How am I supposed to live here now with these issues?  Systematically I have organized, cleaned, and separated my father's belongings from my own.  It has taken a lengthy two year period to accomplish such a thing.  I think I have been thoughtful, respectful, and kind.  Still the absence of his things and the inclusion of mine has not made the adjustment easier.  Still it is difficult to dwell here, because it really is not my house.  It is my parents.