The House That Built Me

"You leave home and you move on and you do the best you can
I got lost in this old world and forgot who I am"



My parents would have celebrated forty years of marriage this year. My mom has lived without her husband (my dad) for pretty much the last ten years. He was diagnosed with dementia in the fall of 2000 and passed away 2 years ago, this October. These past ten years, she was living alone in her marriage. Living alone in the house she and my father built in 1972. ...The house that built me.

I was barely walking when we moved to the country. I don't remember it except for the photographs that were taken. My parents bought over two and half acres of bean field. This was total farm land when they bought it. It's now grass with mature trees, a fenced in garden with 5 raised beds consisting of one herb garden and 4 vegetable gardens and a patch of strawberries that have taken over the path between two of the raised beds, two rows of fruit trees, a small row of Concord grapes, some raspberry bushes, a flower garden, numerous lilac bushes, flowers and so many memories for me.

I saw the Miranda Lambert video a few days ago after hearing the song on the radio. I was immediately saddened. I knew that even before my father's passing, some day my mom would sell our family home. It is getting more difficult for her to take care of the property and house, although she has been doing it pretty much alone for the past 10 years. But, it's getting to be more than she can handle. And now that she is retired and is still young enough to go out and enjoy living her life, she doesn't need so much house. She has offered to sell it to my husband and I on a couple of occasions. I know she doesn't want to see it go as much as I don't. But, I know we couldn't give her what it's worth. It was just a bean field 38 years ago, but even though the house is a modest 4 bedroom, 2 bath ranch, it's prime real estate now. And although I love the neighbors, the land and the house because of all of the memories, there is just something about moving on and creating my own life by starting from scratch.

Like the video, I relate to the lyrics where she sings,

"I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
This brokenness inside me might start healing
Out here it’s like I’m someone else
I thought that maybe I could find myself
If I walk around I swear I’ll leave
Won’t take nothing but a memory
From the house that built me."

Memories...
Every time I do the drive to the house, memories just come flooding back. I think of how the road was dirt and gravel when my parents built the house and how I learned to ride a bike on that dirt road. I remember totally buggering up my arm as I flew off my bike and how my mom was there to fix me up. I think of all the nights I drove home late on those roads and how my parents were probably up worrying. Every time I pull in the drive, I think of how my siblings and I would play hopscotch, hula-hoop, volleyball or basketball in the driveway.

I think of walking in the garage and it smelling just like my dad. It's a mix of years being made to smoke his cigarettes outside the house, exhaust and mixtures of gasoline from lawn mowers, tillers, chain saws, etc. That is THE best way of remembering my dad. He was an outdoorsy type. The same John Deere lawn mower that my parents bought in '72, still sits in that garage and still mows my parents yard! If that isn't a testament to John Deere, I'm not sure what is. Most of my dad's tools still sit in the garage, a few fishing poles on the wall, his work bench with vice is still there, as are some of his memories from past jobs. The garage is a huge memory in itself.

We always entered the house through the garage. There is a front porch and front door, but we always entered through the garage. I'm not sure why. Perhaps we were all addicted to the smell of gasoline? But the kitchen is the next best thing in the house that built me. My mom is an excellent cook and our house bustle was centralized to 'the kitchen.' Wonderful smells and a lot of love came from that kitchen. And a lot of excellent communication happened at our kitchen table.

I remember learning to make so many recipes with my mom in the kitchen. Home made pasta, chocolate chip cookies, fried chicken, real mashed potatoes, chili and chicken soup that that can still fix a cold or a hurting soul. I had my last spanking over my dad's leg in that kitchen when I was around nine, I think. When you have to lay over 2 legs instead of just one, you are probably getting too old for spankings. I learned about reproduction at the kitchen table. My mother was a nurse, with a lot of medical books containing diagrams that were biological, yet totally self explanatory, and 'the talk' happened one afternoon before dinner. I never wanted to be anywhere else so bad, as I was old enough, but my siblings giggled through the entire dreadful hour. As I look back on that day, humiliating as it was as, I'm thankful this particular life lesson happened at our family table, rather than the backseat of some boyfriend's vehicle. I remember the many wonderful holiday meals we shared as a family, with immediate and extended family and my parents 25th surprise wedding anniversary party, my siblings and I hosted. It just seemed appropriate to celebrate that many years and to have everyone present around that one room. The kitchen has seen 2 updates over the past 38 years, but I can remember so many memories right down to the green and yellow wallpaper kitchen of the 70's, the mauve and country blue kitchen of the 80's and 90's and the current Tuscan painted walls of this decade.

"...Mama cut out pictures of houses for years
From Better Homes and Gardens magazine
Plans were drawn and concrete poured
Nail by nail and board by board
Daddy gave life to mama’s dream"

I could go room by room through that entire house. Every room, every hallway, closet and nook has a special memory. Not all the memories are of good times, but every family has their share of tribulations and times that make them tougher in the end.

I have memories of the yard and woods behind it, and of being a child who grew up outside. I played outside in the dirt before grass grew. I rode my tricycle and later a banana seat, then a 10 speed, over every hill in that yard and through trails my dad mowed for us in the woods. I had a neighbor friend, as a child, who happened to be a boy, with whom I dug tunnels and ran Matchbox cars through. We once got stuck in my parent's garden after a heavy rain and they had to lay down railroad ties to pull us out. The mud was like quicksand. I lost my boots, socks, pants and gloves that day. I also remember getting into deep trouble afterwards for having been in there in the first place. I remember having slumber parties where my dad would cart my girlfriends and I around in a trailer hooked to the John Deere. He'd drive us around the yard and down the road for what seemed like hours. I remember pulling weeds in the strawberries, which seemed to multiply by the thousands overnight. I remember having the potential of getting paid $1 for picking a paper grocery bag of dandelions. I think I did this once and I only got fifty cents because I got tired. I remember having my first kiss at 13 maybe, on the grass at dusk, laying (more like hiding) next to the asparagus patch on the south side of my parents garage. And it was a really good kiss. Thank goodness for that talk at the kitchen table. I knew exactly what I was doing!

I remember the harvest every year. Sounds like we lived on a farm, doesn't it? And most of the time when I say I grew up in the country, this is what people will assume. We had a garden and we couldn't push mow our yard because of it's size, and our neighbors weren't watching us through the back windows, but we did not live on a farm. The only animals we had were dogs, a couple of wild rabbits and one cat. Fresh fruit and vegetables were always in abundance and I think this is why I have such an appreciation for fresh food now. We had berries of all kinds, so many vegetables, including corn which was inevitably knocked down yearly by a summer tornado. We'd still plant a patch of it and end up with some sort of harvest to put away in the freezer. We had fruit trees and come every fall, were so loaded we were giving baskets of produce away. We still pick apples and pears from the trees every fall. I remember mushroom hunting in early spring with my dad. We'd both take a long stick and wear hats because ticks were plentiful. This was a tradition until one year in the late 80s, he overdid it and got sick off of the -egg wash and cracker crumb coated - fried in a pan with butter - way in which my mom always prepared them. We haven't been back since. And to think I saw morels for over $20 a pound at the corner lot by Walmart a few years ago. We used to bring home grocery sacks overflowing.

The memories are endless. My mom started journaling our family life in the early 80's and wrote something every night before she went to bed. I believe she still does. She says it has helped remember dates, times, places and keeps her memory in check. Perhaps this is her version of a blog? She'd surely laugh if I asked her, because she doesn't even know what a blog is. She is still using dial-up and hand writing checks. But I won't fault her for that because all of my family memories are in my mind and our family photos are on cds and we horrifically balance our checking account by calling the 800 number and seeing what has cleared.

Because of my mom's retirement earlier this year, she's had time to organize the last 20 years of our family photographs in chronological order to coincide with the journals. This has been a huge project because she said it got away from her 20 years ago when she went back to work after my siblings and I were all in school, all day, and she was just overwhelmed with the day to day. Something with which I can totally relate...as it's taken me an evening and morning to write this blog between 'life.' And I've started to realize when my mom does sell the home, I won't be able to go back and walk in 'that' kitchen and smell wonderful aromas or watch my own children pick all of her flowers, which took her all spring trying to get to look nice, but the memories in my mind, in her journals and all of the photographs over years and years will preserve this forever. I can 'go home' whenever I want because, like the saying, it is not the house that makes the home, it's the people in it.

"...Out here it’s like I’m someone else
I thought that maybe I could find myself"

And contrary to the lyrics above, I never have to look far to find myself. The house that builds me, is wherever I am. I am close with my family and they are my home.