A little over ten years ago, I moved out of the house I'd inhabited for almost my entire life to that point. We didn't move that far away, but we never wanted to revisit the neighborhood. It was too thick with good memories; the first house my mother fell in love with, the cul-de-sac in which a few homeschool families staked out their territory, the years when we didn't have money for computers and we scored our threads at thrift shops from necessity, not pretension.
This past Saturday, faced with the prospect of a day home alone with a paper I didn't want to write, I did what every good college student with wheels does: took a road trip. I decided to hit the highway home.
It was a strange trip. I'd barely thought about the old house in a long time. It cropped up in my dreamscape, as childhood landmarks do, but without much significance. I felt some mild curiosity about the state of the neighborhood.
As I made the last turn, felt the road unfold before me. There was the curve at the bottom of the hill; rounding it, I no longer needed my GPS. Off to the right stood the trees on which I'd tested my first pair of glasses (the visceral excitement when I realized that I could see the leaves at a distance). Ahead the trees enclosed houses and quiet streets. As I drove down the last street, excitement and anxiety sat heavier in my stomach than I'd expected. The trees were taller, the streets a bit more worn, the houses somewhat more settled.
Then I turned into the cul-de-sac, and the driveways were all there, and the house. It was the same color. The porch was broken, just as I remembered it. I parked on the street and jumped out, ran to the very center of the asphalt circle. There was the legendary nail, pressed firmly into the street itself, with the tire-marks still on it. This was the subject of one of our most sacred childhood traditions. I pressed my fingers against it gently, wishing.
No, I won't tell you what I wished. You know the rules of wishes as well as I do.
Then I went exploring. The backyards: small changes. They'd built a deck behind the old house, and the fence at the bottom of the yard was partially deconstructed. But the bare patches were still bare, and the walnut trees still stained the grass with black burdens. The old tree-house tree, which I remembered as the home of fat angry ants, still stood.
The mailbox: battered but much as ever, the package drop easily opened. We used to catch box turtles and leave them in that box for the mail lady to release. But at Christmas time we left her homemade cookies.
The playground: a little faded but still solid. The mulch, source of the family-famous Time Leslie Had To Have All Those Splinters Pulled Out. I climbed up the slide, ran the monkey bars, then sat on the swings and called my parents. "Guess where I am?" Three deer crossed the playground while I talked; another change. I remembered one or two foxes, mice, snakes, raccoons on the side of the road, but few deer.
The hill; no longer as big as I remembered, the sledding slope grown over with evergreens. I looked up at their tops and reflected that these trees were younger than I. Nothing was as big as I remembered it, but I'd been expecting that. It filled me with delight rather than disappointment.
Every spot was another memory, a holy place. I walked them with the avidity of a pilgrim. When I left at last, I felt quiet satisfaction.
I am thankful for my life now. I have family and friends and thoughts so much bigger and richer than anything enclosed in the cul-de-sac. I sit here now, with my sister and brother-in-law, listening to Bob Dylan, my current writing project open in another document. Tuesday night I hung out on campus, talking for hours with friends about church and school. I write this post for a blog read by friends in other states, even other countries. God has blessed me richly in the past decade, in the good times and the bad.
But I'm thankful, too, for my memories, for the house with the broken porch and the tiny cul-de-sac and the old playground, and the small piece of me that plays there still.
This past Saturday, faced with the prospect of a day home alone with a paper I didn't want to write, I did what every good college student with wheels does: took a road trip. I decided to hit the highway home.
It was a strange trip. I'd barely thought about the old house in a long time. It cropped up in my dreamscape, as childhood landmarks do, but without much significance. I felt some mild curiosity about the state of the neighborhood.
As I made the last turn, felt the road unfold before me. There was the curve at the bottom of the hill; rounding it, I no longer needed my GPS. Off to the right stood the trees on which I'd tested my first pair of glasses (the visceral excitement when I realized that I could see the leaves at a distance). Ahead the trees enclosed houses and quiet streets. As I drove down the last street, excitement and anxiety sat heavier in my stomach than I'd expected. The trees were taller, the streets a bit more worn, the houses somewhat more settled.
Then I turned into the cul-de-sac, and the driveways were all there, and the house. It was the same color. The porch was broken, just as I remembered it. I parked on the street and jumped out, ran to the very center of the asphalt circle. There was the legendary nail, pressed firmly into the street itself, with the tire-marks still on it. This was the subject of one of our most sacred childhood traditions. I pressed my fingers against it gently, wishing.
No, I won't tell you what I wished. You know the rules of wishes as well as I do.
Then I went exploring. The backyards: small changes. They'd built a deck behind the old house, and the fence at the bottom of the yard was partially deconstructed. But the bare patches were still bare, and the walnut trees still stained the grass with black burdens. The old tree-house tree, which I remembered as the home of fat angry ants, still stood.
The mailbox: battered but much as ever, the package drop easily opened. We used to catch box turtles and leave them in that box for the mail lady to release. But at Christmas time we left her homemade cookies.
The playground: a little faded but still solid. The mulch, source of the family-famous Time Leslie Had To Have All Those Splinters Pulled Out. I climbed up the slide, ran the monkey bars, then sat on the swings and called my parents. "Guess where I am?" Three deer crossed the playground while I talked; another change. I remembered one or two foxes, mice, snakes, raccoons on the side of the road, but few deer.
The hill; no longer as big as I remembered, the sledding slope grown over with evergreens. I looked up at their tops and reflected that these trees were younger than I. Nothing was as big as I remembered it, but I'd been expecting that. It filled me with delight rather than disappointment.
Every spot was another memory, a holy place. I walked them with the avidity of a pilgrim. When I left at last, I felt quiet satisfaction.
I am thankful for my life now. I have family and friends and thoughts so much bigger and richer than anything enclosed in the cul-de-sac. I sit here now, with my sister and brother-in-law, listening to Bob Dylan, my current writing project open in another document. Tuesday night I hung out on campus, talking for hours with friends about church and school. I write this post for a blog read by friends in other states, even other countries. God has blessed me richly in the past decade, in the good times and the bad.
But I'm thankful, too, for my memories, for the house with the broken porch and the tiny cul-de-sac and the old playground, and the small piece of me that plays there still.
6 magic ships | take me disappearing
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