Status: complete :)
The House of my Childhood
The place I love the most
“Momma, am I supposed to be a car rider tomorrow?” I would ask every Thursday night, already knowing the answer to my question.
“Yes dear.” Her simple response would put a smile on my face because I knew she would be taking me to my grandparents’ house the following day.
The house that was a beautiful hour drive away, the house that I loved and spent half my childhood in, the house that would be gone before I knew it.
Over my life I’ve grown to love Fridays not only because they begin the weekend but they also lead to the house on the hill, the one with the big red barn behind it. I would rush from school to my mother’s car, and we would be on our way. We’d meet halfway between our house and theirs, my grandparents, and I’d happily climb right in the candy apple red pick-up. I’d take my place right in the middle seat next to my grandfather and feel like a queen; after all I was his little princess.
We’d drive home, and as the small town of Woodbury approached I could tell we were almost there, and my anticipation would mount. I knew the twists and turns of the roads like the back of my hand, two lefts and we were home. Pulling in the driveway was like the first time all over again; every time I arrived I would just look around and take in the beauty of this place.
First thing you spot is the long drive way leading to the transformed doublewide trailer: the trailer that had a large concrete patio built onto the back, and large pool to the side. If you could avert your eyes from the glistening water for a moment you would see the sturdy hand built swing set sitting within the confines of a square sandbox. I remember battling the ants for dominance over that silly old sand.
Farther back in the yard you were taken aback by the size of the large red horse barn. It had five stalls, a tack room, a place where I spent hours bathing horse after horse, and a loft that became my club house. On the back side there was somewhat of a lean to built on, and that’s where I parked my four-wheeler. I loved that thing, and after years of abuse I proudly named it “Old Yellar.”
Past the barn you can see the open fields and the rolling hills of the fenced in pasture. The horses would graze merrily and raise their heads in wonder occasionally. Those horses were and still are my life, two males and a pestered female. My babies name was Maggie; I experienced the world in new ways on her back. There with her I grew and changed, but she was always the same.
Over the years this place aged, as did I. It went through changes and renovations as I got older and taller, but the year I turned fourteen its most devastating change occurred. We (my grandfather, my brother, and I) were out and about one warm summer night when we received a very serious phone call.
“Your house is on fire,” spoke a neighbor.
My grandfather responded, “What a joke.” The silence that ensued assured me that this was indeed no joke. My heart jumped to my throat. We rushed home at which time there were already teams of firefighters blasting water through the night air. Half the house was ablaze, and sitting at the end of the driveway, watching, I felt helpless. I cried a bit watching the best of my childhood memories go up in smoke.
I remember this statement from the day after the fire: “It didn’t hit me until today that everything I own is on my back.” Times were hard at my grandpa’s house for awhile after this; he worked hard on getting his life back together. He sold the land of my youth and bought twenty beautiful acres in the mountains of Grundy County.
Now a beautiful house sits on a hill. A house larger than life, it was the house of my
grandfather’s dreams. The house was adorned with abundantly sized rooms, gapping windows, and every accessory you could imagine. This is where I now spend my weekends making new memories for my future, but the house of my childhood will never be forgotten.
“Yes dear.” Her simple response would put a smile on my face because I knew she would be taking me to my grandparents’ house the following day.
The house that was a beautiful hour drive away, the house that I loved and spent half my childhood in, the house that would be gone before I knew it.
Over my life I’ve grown to love Fridays not only because they begin the weekend but they also lead to the house on the hill, the one with the big red barn behind it. I would rush from school to my mother’s car, and we would be on our way. We’d meet halfway between our house and theirs, my grandparents, and I’d happily climb right in the candy apple red pick-up. I’d take my place right in the middle seat next to my grandfather and feel like a queen; after all I was his little princess.
We’d drive home, and as the small town of Woodbury approached I could tell we were almost there, and my anticipation would mount. I knew the twists and turns of the roads like the back of my hand, two lefts and we were home. Pulling in the driveway was like the first time all over again; every time I arrived I would just look around and take in the beauty of this place.
First thing you spot is the long drive way leading to the transformed doublewide trailer: the trailer that had a large concrete patio built onto the back, and large pool to the side. If you could avert your eyes from the glistening water for a moment you would see the sturdy hand built swing set sitting within the confines of a square sandbox. I remember battling the ants for dominance over that silly old sand.
Farther back in the yard you were taken aback by the size of the large red horse barn. It had five stalls, a tack room, a place where I spent hours bathing horse after horse, and a loft that became my club house. On the back side there was somewhat of a lean to built on, and that’s where I parked my four-wheeler. I loved that thing, and after years of abuse I proudly named it “Old Yellar.”
Past the barn you can see the open fields and the rolling hills of the fenced in pasture. The horses would graze merrily and raise their heads in wonder occasionally. Those horses were and still are my life, two males and a pestered female. My babies name was Maggie; I experienced the world in new ways on her back. There with her I grew and changed, but she was always the same.
Over the years this place aged, as did I. It went through changes and renovations as I got older and taller, but the year I turned fourteen its most devastating change occurred. We (my grandfather, my brother, and I) were out and about one warm summer night when we received a very serious phone call.
“Your house is on fire,” spoke a neighbor.
My grandfather responded, “What a joke.” The silence that ensued assured me that this was indeed no joke. My heart jumped to my throat. We rushed home at which time there were already teams of firefighters blasting water through the night air. Half the house was ablaze, and sitting at the end of the driveway, watching, I felt helpless. I cried a bit watching the best of my childhood memories go up in smoke.
I remember this statement from the day after the fire: “It didn’t hit me until today that everything I own is on my back.” Times were hard at my grandpa’s house for awhile after this; he worked hard on getting his life back together. He sold the land of my youth and bought twenty beautiful acres in the mountains of Grundy County.
Now a beautiful house sits on a hill. A house larger than life, it was the house of my
grandfather’s dreams. The house was adorned with abundantly sized rooms, gapping windows, and every accessory you could imagine. This is where I now spend my weekends making new memories for my future, but the house of my childhood will never be forgotten.