A treatise on "quaint"

quaint ( P ) Pronunciation Key (kwnt)
adj. Quaint·er, quaint·est
1. Charmingly odd, especially in an old-fashioned way.
2. Unfamiliar or unusual in character; strange: quaint dialect words. See Synonyms at strange.
3. Cleverly made; artful.

I miss my parents. I miss the smell of my old house. As much as this 23 year-old knows he should repress, he cannot help but feel a genuine sense of... well... genuine-ness when he walks crosses the threshold of the place in which he grew up.

I remember how endless the banister used to seem when I was sliding down it in my sleeper pajamas. Old family paintings that used to be haunted are now just dusty. But, I still swear that arms are about reach out from the space under the basement stairs (where the bodies are stashed) and grab an unsuspecting quarter-Sicilian, quarter-Pollock, eighth Irish, but all-stud ankle one of these days.

There's something about the smell of the French bread my mom bakes and the grunts that spew forth from my father's throat at the mess she makes; though we all know the only reason he's chosen that exact moment to clean the "command center" is because he wants to be in the same room as my mother. There's something about those moments! There's something about home that makes it easier to get through the hard times. Its like home, my mom, my pappa-cho, dog (that can tell my mother's footsteps and knows to get down off the couch before he gets yelled at), two beautiful sisters and not-so-little brother are this base-line for my life, a rock-bottom foundation, the north star from which I know I'll be able to find my way.

Home is my chain-smoking Aunt Teresa (we call her "Aunt Tar") who lives with the white-haired matriarch of the family, my super-Catholic Grandma Veith. Home is my always teary-eyed, Aunt Loretta, and my seven cousins. Zach with his always uncouth -yet extremely hilarious- stories, usually involving some combination his bodily functions, a girl, Brett Farve and beer. Ah, Shorty! There's my always-disapproving (usually with reason) cousin Erica, the overprotective Monica, her husband Steve and their progeny, Aedan, who try to fight the urge to laugh with an aire of disdain.

Home is driving by my old High School and wondering what all the fuss was about.

But now, Home is also seeing the gilded dome of Pat Neff Hall over the shoulder of Judge Baylor's statue. It's seeing young couples necking on the path through the North Village. Home is the courtyard of Brooks Hall, where I've lost myself and found myself. Home is the "tink" of frosty brews with friends like Eric and Myles. Holla at ya boy!

These things, they're familiar in their quirkiness. They're sort of old-fashioned but great. They are beautiful, and artfully done. They are, in a word, "quaint."

So you see, Stace, -may I call you "Stace"?- your words, your sweet innocence, your delicious sublimity, your utter honesty, they're masterfully done to me. Stace, when I imagine you, holding plastic bags, the hard-fought day-before-Thanksgiving contents straining against the handles and digging into your hands, standing in front of a red-haired, feisty mother doubled over in laughter at the sight of your scrunched eyebrows, wrinkled nose and the corners of your mouth turned down with frustration, its like home-made French bread being wafted in front of my nose. I don't think "quaint" is such a bad thing, hopefully you no longer do either.

Thanks, Stacey, it was great talking to me, wasn't it? Hopefully, you'll deign to do so again soon.