I find myself thinking of home a lot. I’ve lived in four houses (one of them was an apartment) since I was born. Certainly not a lot, but the search for a home is something that I am constantly looking for.
The first home I lived in was the house my mother rented from a relative. I was born in that house and it was located right next to my grandmother’s house pictured at left.
We went to Cotton Valley today and my brother stopped in the driveway where our old home used to be. It’s not there anymore. It has been torn down.
He then drove next door to look at my grandmother’s house. It’s still standing, but the trees and grass have covered it almost. My great-grandmother’s house is right next door to her daughter’s. Both women have passed.
My brother is talking about tearing down both homes since he owns the property now and it has me feeling some type of way. I spent a lot of time with my grandmother at her home. She loved sitting out in the yard under the tree. We used to eat outside and walk around just throwing beans and waiting for them to sprout! She told me I had a green thumb, which while I don’t garden at the moment, I still find myself immensely fond of the compliment.
I probably feel emotional about the potential destruction of the property because of its link to my grandmother. A visible, physical link to her and once it’s gone…well you get my train of thought.
It’s strange. I don’t go to my birth town often, but I always know I’m home when I see my grandmother’s house.