A Place Filled With Dreams

It was like a million other Saturday mornings. Lots of errands. My daughter Julie and her husband Stephen were with me. They wanted my input about an apartment that they were interested in renting.

We were also near the house where I grew up. On the way home I couldn't resist taking a slight detour.

I parked along the street with the engine running, pointing out little details of what still remained from our life there.  We moved in October of 1962 and for 20 years it was my home. My folks sold it in 1992. 

I wished with all my heart I could go inside for a glimpse of who I used to be; a young girl who played piano for hours, sang with abandon, and had a head full of dreams.

The current owner was in the garage and saw us.  

I called out telling him that I grew up there and was showing the place to my kids. I also wanted to reassure him that we weren’t casing the place for a robbery.

To my surprise he invited us in. My wish was granted.

We parked where my VW Bug once sat. 
  
All I could think as I walked through the door was "wow."

The carpet had been replaced with tile, a wall had been knocked out so the kitchen overlooked the living room and an island had been added. A very HGTV kind of renovation.  The kitchen cabinets were the same as when the house was sold, installed after I accidentally started a fire that almost gave my mother a nervous breakdown. However that's a story for another day.

As the owner Luke and I chatted, my eyes roved around the room and I struggled to choke back the emotions that rose from my heart.

One of my parents is gone.  Thankfully my mother and I are as close as sisters, a new rich chapter in both of our lives. I love her so much. Yet I sometimes desperately miss the old chapter that included my dad, who would come through the front door and empty his pockets on the kitchen counter while whistling an off key rendition of “Folsom Prison Blues.”

Luke permitted us to walk down the hall. The doors were still varnished just as my folks had left them. Dad’s den had been converted into an adorable little boy’s room with red walls, and Disney sheets.  

They didn't make any changes to the bathroom. Considering today's penchant of ripping out the old and putting in the new it was refreshing to see old fixtures left in place. The vintage look worked beautifully well and had stood the test of time. The tile was the original salmon pink that was popular in Florida homes built in the early 60’s. There was a tile soap dish that extended from the wall over the sink where Dad would rest his razor after he shaved. For a brief moment there seemed a faint whiff of English Leather where we stood. Unspent tears burned my eyes but I wasn’t about to embarrass our generous tour guide by allowing them to spill down my cheeks.

I peeked into the daughter’s room which used to be mine. I didn’t realize when I lived in it that the space was so small. I guess that everything seen through the eyes of a child looks bigger than it is. Cheerfully decorated, there were squirts of bright colored paint on the walls in girly colors, with purple curtains and a coordinating quilt on the bed. There was a mountain of stuffed animals in the corner. Amazingly after so many years, the room still housed a lady in waiting with a head full of dreams.

My folks’ old room was next door. The paint and window treatments had changed but Luke and his fiancé had arranged the furniture in the same fashion that Mom and Dad had. It was as lovely and restful looking today as it was when they occupied the space.

We went outside and stood by the pool. I gazed around the backyard where I’d spent so many happy hours. I remembered where each lost pet had been buried; kitties, a dog, goldfish, and a few turtles. A child’s menagerie lay beneath our feet.

A huge oak tree had sprouted up by my old bedroom. It wasn't a typical southern oak.

Mom and Dad visited Thomas Jefferson’s home "Monticello" in Virginia around 1990. Dad scooped up some acorns from a big tree and stuck them inside of his toolbox when they got returned; a place that he never expected a squirrel to go. 

Yet, one of the little rascals did.

The acorns were spirited away and buried in the backyard. 

The resulting tree had big beautiful leaves, very different from a southern oak’s small ones.  In a way it was a piece of Americana, with the same genetic code of trees belonging to one of the framers of the United States Constitution. 

Kind of mind boggling.

We said goodbye to Luke and his family and drove away. The trip down memory lane had come to an end. It was time to return to the world as it was today, where I was no longer a young girl but a middle aged wife and mom with a home of my own.

But for a brief period of time, I remembered what it was like before all that came to be. 

And it was wonderful.

In 2005 we drove by my grandmother’s home in Fort Wayne, IN. It was a few weeks before Christmas. Grandma had died in 2001 and the house had been sold to another family. They’d turned it into a charming country place much like those that are often featured in magazines. I could remember the cooking aromas, the swish of the trees that surrounded the house and the happy chatter of my mother who was reunited with her own if only for a few days.

Like today, the trip down memory lane that night was brief. 

I wrote a poem about the experience called “Your House.”  It seemed to be an appropriate end to a very special day.

Your House

I stood outside in the sleet,

and gazed at your house,

our house,

once my safe haven…

with a bonging clock,

a creaking porch swing,

and tales of long ago.

Now all that remains are the memories that

flow from my heart to my pen

of your house,

now their house

no longer ours.

Does anyone ever really own a house?

Perhaps not.

It is a fleeting possession on the journey of life.

The house remains.

We don’t.

But you have left your mark on your house,

on us

and on me.

As I stood outside in the sleet

and gazed at your house,

somehow I knew you were there.

Michelle Close Mills ©