My parents recently sold the house I grew up in. Not just me, but all 6 of us were raised in the same house. We all spread our wings and left the small town. Always to come back and visit, to regroup, to find our center, to come back home.
Now that house belongs to someone else. Another person’s kids will slip candy into the bedroom through the slit in the screen. Someone else’s daughter will steal her brother’s hot wheels and bury them in the dirt under the swing. Some other dad will buy his daughters too-short skirt from her and use it as pipe insulation.
A different family will sit around the kitchen table and talk and laugh for hours. They might even throw dinner rolls across the table that accidentally land in a glass of milk. Another little girl will play poor people at the bottom of the stairs with her bestie and taste the honeysuckles that grow over the neighbor’s fence. Another girl’s dad will make waffles on Saturday morning for her and her little sleepover friends.
Someone else will watch the big cottonwood trees fall over when the wind blows. And be frustrated with the chimney that doesn’t draw right. And deal with the birds that fall into said chimney and end up fluttering frantically producing a sound very similar to nails on a chalkboard. Another little girl will build mud pies and another teenage boy will dig holes the size of swimming pools. Someone else’s mom will step on an inch-long sticker from the blasted sticker tree.
Part of me wants to give the new family a tour of the house. Y’know, show them how to treat it properly. Like using the garage door instead of the sliding glass door. And that they can’t take down the paneling in the front room because it’s real wood. And when the water gathers into puddles on the patio it gets slippery. My butt remembers the pain.
I want to tell them it’s little secrets. Like the tongue-sticking-out-face on the plywood from the strike in the 70’s that was used to build the garage roof. And if you look at the base of the first pillar of the patio you’ll see the year it was finished. And somewhere under the stairs to the master bedroom is a jar of things important to small children.
The fact that it’s no longer my house makes me sad. There are plenty of special people to visit in that small town, I can always go back. But I won’t be going back to my house. To sleep in my room. In my bed. Because it isn’t mine anymore.
No more running to the end of the street to wave at the departing visitors passing on the freeway.
This becomes less about the house itself, and more about the memories of the home. It was someone else’s house before it was ours, and now it moves on for another family to make it a home. And while I’d like to go back home one more time to smell the first time the swamp cooler turns on and see the sunset after the August thunderstorms and feel the pine needles poke my toes and eat one more meal around the table, the house is just a house. It became our home because we were there, and home is wherever we are. Because a house is just a house.
Goodbye house. We’ll miss you.
5 thoughts on “the house that built me”
I noticed the title of your post. Every time I hear that song, I get goosebumps and teary-eyed. Makes me think of my house too.
I loved your house. It is sad to think that your parents are not there anymore, but like you said, now the house gets to see one more happy family raised in it.
I bought my first waffle iron a few months ago and thought about your dad's famous sleepover waffles. I had to buy powdered sugar for my first batch. *sigh* Great memories 🙂
When was the picture of the good-bye waving taken?
Thanks for distinguishing between the house and the memories of the house. The house will not always be ours, but the memories always will be. Here's to powerful memories about how our lives are blessed.
I bet it was taken when we had the impromtue family reunion at the house. It is taken from the freeway heading toward Boron.
You are a magnificent writer.
Some of my memories of my second home….
Swimming pool sized fort holes with plywood for the roof in the back yard dug by my brothers and yours.
Velveeta in the kitchen- banned in my house : )
Piano lessons in the living room.
My Boron wedding reception.
Summer parties with home made ice cream.
The extra key to our house in the kitchen drawer saving my bacon when I forgot mine.
My mom and yours with their big canning production in the kitchen and garage.
The big seed pods from the trees in your yard.
Our moms giving each other home perms – ahhh the smell : )
Running down the street for a cup of sugar.
Grant getting in trouble for teaching Margie a “swear word”.
Gracefully running in to the corner of the under stairs closet before kindergarten – comfort from Sister Clark and stitches (still amazed I managed to do that!)
The Clarks and the Benedicts – lots of memories to love.