Isn’t this a magnificent house? It’s the house that -- at one time or another -- played home to my grandmother’s parents, siblings, nieces and nephews. I call it the Homestead. And it’s only two blocks from where I live now in Mayberry (in my own big white house).
Throughout my youth, I remember looking at countless photos of older relatives taken on this porch and in this yard. It seems that every family gathering worthy of photographing was held here. The Homestead sits at the bottom of Mayberry’s favorite sledding spot -- Stroller’s Hill -- and I even crashed my sled into a tree in this yard when I was in sixth grade. As a young girl, my cousin and her parents lived in this home and I played there with her many, many times. I have fond memories of nearly every nook and cranny of the house and so do most my relatives, even though no member of our family has lived there since the 1970s.
Last fall, we had a family reunion at my house. After dinner, my cousin Betty Marie, who lives in another town, said she had driven by the Homestead not long ago and noticed a man working on it. She stopped and talked to him, learning his name and finding out that he lived across the street and plans to restore the home. And once she shared that nugget, all the women in my family nearly simultaneously hatched the same plan: let’s go there and ask him to show the Homestead to us!
Because it was dark and raining, we loaded into cars and drove the two blocks. We knocked on the owner’s door and gave him our story -- That’s our family Homestead across the street and we’re having a family reunion and please, oh please, won’t you let us tour the house?
Of course, no man in Mayberry could turn down eight pleading women and assorted children and menfolk. Though we were delighted to retrace the steps of so many memories, we were distressed to see the house is in shambles. (It’s so sad and pitiful I couldn’t bear to photograph it.) There were walls missing and it was filled with junk and construction supplies. Most the windows were boarded over. Still, just stepping inside the door brought a flood of memories to each of us and we told them out loud to each other as fast as we could while we lingered in each room. Betty Marie remembered the many family meals served in the dining room when she was a child. (And how the men were served first, and only after they had eaten and decamped to the parlor did the women sit down to eat. Oh, how times have changed from the world my grandmother lived in.) Allison remembered her mother and father were married in the parlor. I remembered riding down the stairs on a suitcase. We all remembered the house so much larger than it actually is.
Even though the house has shrank from the perspective of adults, the memories haven’t. If anything, they’ve grown larger, more looming, and certainly more precious with time. All of us hope my neighbor fulfills his plan to restore the Homestead.
It’s a happy house, filled with the spirit of generations of good memories, and deserving of another extended family that lovingly calls it home.
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