A Place I Use To Call Home-Graph 9

                I don’t know why I do it every time I go to my hometown because it brings tears to my eyes. I say to myself before turning onto that road, why am I doing this I already know I’m going to be disgusted. But for some reason it brings back those good ol childhood memories of when my family was still together, and the 1^st time for my, well, everything.

                I drive slowly down the old road going by all of my old neighbors houses and 2 of my best friend’s house that I’m actually still friends with to this day. She’s so lucky, reliving all of her memories with her soon to be new baby in her own house she grew up in. As I drive by I remember, swinging on the tire swing in the front yard, shooting hoops in that same exact basketball net, and getting our butts kicked for stealing smokes and clam baking the teeny tiny ice shake out back that all four of us could barely fit in. Just thinking about it now makes me laugh. As their house goes out of site in the rear view, I start getting butterflies in my stomach. Then, I see Buds house. Everybody knows bud, he’s the nicest old man, give the shirt off his back, always chatting with everyone down to the post office. It was always an excuse to go over and see Bud because he always gave me and my sister candy. Then I would hear my mother yelling, “Girls, you get back over here right now!----sorry Bud!” and he’d always say “Oh their fine” and then chuckle.

                As that little memory fades out of my mind, I put my blinker on and pull over to the right resting my tire on part of Shirley’s drive way, hard to believe she’s gone. I close my eyes and see her round beautiful face with her curly white hair and thick glasses, we would go over there just to say hi most of the time and she would always come out and put her two hands on each side of our faces and give us a big kiss on the forehead leaving a bright red lipstick mark and then say your mother must be worried and always, always, always say make sure your look both ways and hold hands before crossing the road! As I see the two little girls holding hands, skipping, with their ringlet hair bobbing in the air, crossing the road into the yard, I blast back into the present, me sitting there parked across the road looking at it now. The, what use to be perfect little black mail box that my father made darn shore that there were no scuffs on and the numbers were perfect. It sits there cocked off sideways, the black paint all scuffed and you could barely read the white numbers and the red flag is no longer present. The big huge tree sat in our front yard by the mail box that shaded the entire street and half of house. It looked hunched, droopy and depressed. The yard, now let me tell you, this yard was always spotless, my sister and I knew that we were to pick our toys up before daddy got home or else. My father never let anybody else mow his lawn because he liked it perfect; the lines in the grass had to be just right. Now, there are no lines, the grass needs badly to be mowed, and it looks like somebody parked on the yard and got stuck and rutted it all up. There’s another spot where those disrespectful, lazy, dirty people put their pool, right in the front yard, no sand nothing, just plopped it right there, so now there’s a big rotted spot that’s made all the grass go brown.

I see the garage, just about ready to collapse because the people never kept up with it and just stacked garbage beyond garbage in it and actually left the door open to the public, with all of it torn up by animals. Its hard to visualize my dad laying on the floor changing the oil in his nice big red GMC pickup, tinkering around in his well-organized man cave, and he had it all rigged up so that when you walk in through his little homemade door with a bungee cord on it, you hit the lights that was connected to the power strip, and the radio would turn on. That’s just how he was, always worked in there with the radio blasting. Sometimes, well pretty much most of the time, he would be in there even with no vehicle to work on, my sister and I always wondered what that smoke and smell was, it wasn’t cigarette smoke, we knew that smell. But now it’s just the smell of nasty garbage and the roof caving in with rain pattering on it all.

From there was the barn with a big tree in front that always shaded it and the homemade swing that was on the branch. It’s where dad stored all of our bikes, sleds, toys, etc., etc. And above was a loft that you could only get into by the boards nailed to the outside of it, resembling a ladder my dad rigged. Up there was our “tree house”, we were too scared to ever sleep in there, we tried it once but my sister cried and that gave me and excuse to go back inside too. But we certainly did a lot of baby doll playing in there; it was where we played a lot of mommy and daddy with our best friends from down the street.

The Big white house with the black trim, the windows always so clear, the roof well maintained, and in the winter time there was always smoke rolling out of that red brick chimney. Inside the door, oh the smell, I’m home, the wood stove is piping. Our table, where we had all of our dinners as a family, every single night. My sister and I eating together, but nothing that my father wouldn’t eat. Pea’s, yuck! (Thanks dad). I remember laying on the floor in the living room with my feet up on the tall black Sony speakers, my head phones on, connected to the nice radio/5 disc cd changer/tape player, singing out loud to Whitney Huston, trying to memorize the words to Michael Jackson and admiring Mariah Cary’s beautiful voice wishing I could sing like that someday. The living room, with the fluffy brown rug, the huge spruce tree in the corner with all of our little projects that we had made at school for mom and dad. On your way upstairs, with a creek in every step, was the 3 bedrooms. Where my sister would always come into my room so quietly because she was always scared, and want to sleep with me, but do not let dad hear us whispering, we know what that stomping down the hall way always meant, uh-oh to loud, still awake, its slap on the butt time. We whispered and giggled even quieter after that.

                I flash back, into the spot on the side of the road, smiling at what use to be my home as it suddenly transforms back into the horrible creature it became. As the tears run down my face, I put my vehicle in reverse, turn around, take one more look, sigh a big sigh and drive away. If my parents would have just worked it out, it would still be that same wonderful memory I have of it. I can’t change the fact that it’s all just a memory, but I can give my children the chance to have some of those great moments forever.