The House That Built Me

There is a song I hear each morning and after afternoon on my commute to and from work. It chokes me up EVERY time I hear it. Between the rhythms of the smooth guitar, the soft, mellow voice and the lyrics themselves, I simply melt.

The lyrics resonate within me. One of those moments of "ah, yes, that's how I feel and that's what I'd say if I could" moments. You know those times where you can't put words with your feelings? How frustrating that is! Then someone comes along and not only gives your feelings words, but makes beautiful music.

I think about my birthplace a lot. So many wonderful childhood and adolescent memories. As an adult, the memories are few and far between as I've spent little time in my adulthood. It was different when I was in college and then out of college and after we were married. I'd go home and I retrace my footsteps through familiar settings.

There are times now when I wish I could go back. Not necessarily to the place, but to the time. I can life through my 12 year old eyes! I can feel the heat of the summer, the cool air-conditioned running in the kitchen window; I can remember swimming and playing. I vividly remember the summer nights. The balmy evenings with fireflies; nighttime serenades from the crickets and tree frogs. Oh how I remember the way the sky looked at night! A velvet blanket of stars—they seemed close enough to touch some nights. And if the moon was full in the sky, it was like a soft spotlight shining on the stage.

I can still hear the gravels beneath the wheels of a car coming down the drive. I can hear the sound of the tractor mowing the lower field; the sound of the saw-mill over the" holler". And even the sounds of the bees and other honestly annoying summer insects.

One of my favorite things about summer mornings was the dew on the grass. When you'd come outside, it was hot, but the green grass was cool and damp beneath your feet. The sun would stream from the mountain peak, just on the horizon. It was so beautiful early in the morning, before you could really feel the heat from its beams. Oh and the birds singing at first light? Divine!

In my mind, I walk about the front door and down the gravel drive. I turn the bend in the road, and walk down the hill towards the creek. The water laps gently along the stone, rushing down towards the pond. The drive tilts up another hill; along the left edge is a steep embankment with trees hanging over the road. Along the right is a barbed wire fence—rough and rugged, reminding me of another place and time. I touch the fence, between the barbs. I long to connect with something from the past. You can smell the woodsy air and on the breeze you pick up hints of years of memories.

As the steep road flattens, I smell the familiar aroma of my grandparent's home. I can hear the dishes on the stove and the blaring television set. I see the glow of the familiar lights as dusk is falling. The porch lights beckon me like a moth to flame; I climb the cement stairs...one…two…three…four… I stand before the old oak door with aged window panes. I can hear faded laughter and distant porch swing chains clanking. When I reach for the door knob, the lights go out, the sounds disappear. The house is empty and dark.

(no, that's not the actual house but similiar.)

I'm staring out a window at a brick parking garage. The only sounds I hear are from the busy street below and the keys on the keyboard. I enjoy being transported back in time, but it hurts my heart. When I'm there, in my mind, everything just seems to make sense. When I'm here in reality, I can't seem to make sense of much of anything.

"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 could just come in I swear I'll leave

I won't take nothing but a memory

From the house that built me…"

 Sometimes I wish I could move backwards. Sometimes I do wish I could rewind and have another shot at something. How I wish that going back to the house that built me would give me strength and perspective. I guess there are times in our lives when the roots surface. Taking time to acknowledge their existence isn't a bad thing. There is strength in our foundation.

 Knowing where you come from is a huge part of who you are! Holding on to my vivid memories and bringing them to life gives me courage. Sure, I can't stand on that front porch. I can't walk barefoot in that grass. I can't hear the gravel beneath the car or the tractor in the distance. I can't go back and sit in the tree behind the house and pick cherries; eating them until my stomach aches. I cannot watch my mother at the kitchen sink from the yard—with the light casting an odd orange glow in the backyard from the overhead light. Wondering what she's thinking? I'm just watching, studying.

 I have a head full of memories. They get all bunched up sometimes. I can't figure out how to get it all out. Not that I want to lose them; quite the opposite. I want to save them-- I want to pass them down to my children. I want to be able to paint pictures with words; tell the stories so believably that even if they can't live it, feel it, see it… they will experience it in their minds. I want to give them the living, breathing memories from the houses that built me.