Coming back home

So let's take a little trip together.  You won't need to pack much, just the baggage you carry every day.  I want you to imagine the home you grew up in.  If you grew up in several, pick the one you liked the most or remember the most.  Okay, have that picture in your mind?  Let's get in the car (or plane or bus or train) and go back there.  We'll visit my childhood home first in hopes that it brings back memories for you.

As you enter my old town (after several stops along the way for potty breaks, Starbucks infusions and a greasy cheeseburger or two), I'll notice some changes, i'm sure.  The grocery store is a thrift store.  The bank where I got stickers or lollipops when I set up my first savings account is now a coffee house.  The church I attended houses a senior center and the old school has been torn down and a mall built on the space.  The playground where I did my first chin-up or knocked the air out of my lungs the first time is a park with big toys and a jogging lane.

I keep driving and begin to recognize some familiar spots:  the house where I took piano lessons, the place where I was bitten by a dog while riding my bike to school one morning with my friends, the 'old lady' that gave away the best candy at halloween, my best friend's home.  Some of the houses are gone and some have been maintained; different paint, more or less trees, newer cars, remodeled exteriors.

As we keep driving around, I notice that the street that I lived on has some changes.  There's a roundabout at the intersection that was always so dangerous -- I couldn't cross it until I was old enough to look both ways and use the crosswalk (after checking one more time for cars). There was a fatal accident at this intersection when I was about 6; the wrecked auto sat on our property for months during the investigation. If I had remained there during my teenage years, it might have been the intersection where I got my first ticket for not making a complete stop or for making an illegal turn (it wasn't where I got my first ticket; that was the 2nd town I lived in for making an illegal U-turn in front of the Sheriff's office). 

I drive almost completely past my old driveway because the trees that lined the street have grown to mammoth size and the fence and sidewalk are completely obscured by overgrown shrubs and weeds.  There are potholes in the asphalt and a chain-link gate with a sign that says the premises are secured by "Smith and Weson".  Backing up, I park across the street and look for a few minutes. 

Was this really my old house?  The front yard is covered in brown, dead grass and the rosebushes that my mother so lovingly tended have suckered and resemble brambles instead of flowers.  There was a porch where I slept outside during the summer and would sit at night and watch the stars in the sky or listen to the coyotes in the far off hills and burrow under my blankets on the lawn chair.   And the sliding door where the quail and the roadrunners would 'beg' for the food my mother gave them.

The house itself is in disrepair and in need of a paint job.  Windows are broken, steps and railings are missing or split and the front door is cracked and has an external deadbolt (this is the same door my father played a practical joke on the ladies that came to convert my parents to another religion).  Do I have the nerve to walk to the door, knock and meet the new inhabitants?  What if they aren't friendly or don't care about the memories I have of my childhood home?  For now, we'll assume I can walk through the home without being disturbed or worried for my safety (I don't want to be writing the next blog from prison...). 

Where do I go first?  The Kitchen?  The living room?  My bedroom?  I had pastel kitties for wallpaper in my room as a child -- on my 11th birthday my parents repapered my room in a white paper with roses in little ribbons up and down the walls.  That was also the birthday I got my canopy bed and the furniture to go with it.  It was my princess room (although I have to admit I never was much of a princess -- more of a tomboy, but that's another blog).  I had one of those wall clocks that was a cat; the eyes would move back and forth and the tail would too.  It had rhinestones on it and the light from the hallway under my door at night would creep me out as the eyes and the tail would glow in this eerie rhythm and motion.  My barbies, stuffed animals and board games inhabited this room with me  -- mostly to keep me safe from the cat with the glowing eyes and tail.

My mother made the best meals in that kitchen with avocado green appliances and indoor/outdoor carpeting with vinyl flooring.  We played monopoly by the hour in the breakfast area; had many a family meal (including tamales with Gramma G. and liver and onions for my dad).  The laundry room was off the kitchen.  It was where our dogs were potty trained when puppies and where the dog food was kept later on.  The door leading outside was the door where my dad tied a string to the handle and slammed it, pulling out one of my teeth (yes, parents did that and no one accused them of abuse.  My children prefer the trampoline method).  It's also the room I participated in my first dare:  Eat dog food for 25 cents (I did it and my dad gave me $1.00).

The living room was where I raced home to watch "Speed Racer" after school on our 27" Zenith console TV.  It was where I watched my mother knit socks for my father as we watched "The Wonderful World of Disney" or "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom".  My father had a chair in the back corner where he sat and read his paper, drank his Crown Royal or Seagrams 7 and smoked either his cigar or his pipe.  I cleaned all his pipe bowls out once because I thought I was being helpful.  Apparently, not so much.  I still miss the smell of his pipe and cigars.  The couch along the sliding door was where I spent two weeks one summer recovering from pneumonia.  My dad was traveling (on a trip mom didn't want to take and didn't want to take me with) and we had the whole two weeks planned with fun adventures.  And then, I caught pneumonia.  Mom spent the entire two weeks playing one extended game of monopoly.  This was where I got my first baby doll and carriage from Santa, under the aluminum tree with blue ornaments and the rotating color wheel.  My dad showed slides from the projector on the screen of his trips to Asia and our family trips to Hawaii, Mexico and the Caribbean.

So many memories flood my mind about my childhood home.  But as I look around, I recognize nothing of the old house.  Obviously the furniture moved with us to the new home (I still have a few pieces with me now).  After thirty years, the carpeting and drapes would have been replaced.  But the home, inside looks completely different.  The floor is dirty and falling apart.  The walls have holes and stains and watermarks.  The furniture -- what is left of it -- is worse than thrift store -- more like refuse pile.  The hallway where I used to hide and watch "Gunsmoke" (after my mother said it was too scary for me and sent me to bed) is now open to the rooms that used to be bedrooms.  There is nothing inside this building that even closely resembles the home or the house it once was.  In some ways it's worse than the outside.

We don't really have time to walk around the outside and view the poorly maintained land; the almost-an-acre where I pretended for hours to ride (make-believe) horses, played tonka trucks and planted vegetables (and learned that gophers liked cantelope and watermelon right off the vine).  The fruit trees that covered the property have been left alone for too long and no longer bear the sweet cherries (for pies), apricots (which I hated) and plums (I hated plums too, then).  It's where my dogs and a few cats lived, where I chased horned-toads and desert lizards.  I got my first facial scar from stepping on a scooter that I should have put away -- the handle end clipped my eyebrow and made me bleed -- certainly not my first nor my last accident as a child.

The people that live here, apparently (I find out later from a local), do not own the property, they are only renters.  They have lived here for awhile, relocated from another part of the world.  However, they are behind in payments and haven't made any in months; maybe years.  Legally, they have no permanent residence or ability to live here (or anywhere else) but they cannot be removed from the property as they are entitled to a place to live and cannot be punished for their lack of payment.  In fact, the local law enforcement turns a blind eye to the happenings and lawlessness of these people because there is nothing he can do unless he wants to face the loss of his job, threats and lawsuits, possibly death.  These particular inhabitants do not work and have made no effort to be a member of the community they have chosen to live in.  They have made no efforts to maintain the property, return it to it's former glory or remodel the disrepair created from decades of abuse and age.  It is not their property and they claim no ownership to it; they only want what is owed to them at the hands of the landowner and the law.  The neighbors have tried many times to get them to repair the house; helping to mow the lawn or tending the garden and yard; to no avail.  The inhabitants live here, but they do not claim responsibility or love for their residence.  The last time a neigbor came over to bring cookies or to ask their children to play, they were escorted off the property by the local law enforcement for trespassing and told not to come back unless they wanted to face jail time by violating the standing restraining order against them and all other trespassers.  (Man, am I glad I didn't actually go inside!)

My retrospection is interrupted by a man with a big dog and a gun.  It appears I'm trespassing on his land and need to leave.  As I mention that this was my childhood home, he softens a bit and allows me a few more minutes to remember what once was.  We reminisce about a time, not so very long ago, when the home was well-cared-for and lovingly tended.  When there were family gatherings and children playing in the yard.  The neighbors knew each other and took care of the sick and the needy.  They watched each others children play and looked after the house if someone was on vacation.  It wasn't unheard of to mow your neighbor's lawn 'just because you had the time', or for the children to play outside all day and not come home until dinner time.  You knew everyone in town because you all shopped at the same stores, your children went to the same schools and were on the same teams.  And, if you had a disagreement with a neighbor, it was solved with cookies (for the kids) and a stiff drink (for the parents) over the BBQ or stove in the backyard; not with a team of legal experts and reams of paperwork.  Visitors or even long-terms guests were welcomed and offered hospitality; but they neither demanded nor asked for more than that hospitality. 

I thank him for his time and wish him well, waving as I get back into the car to drive away.  I had hoped to take a few photos of my old home for the scrapbook and to show my children, but it in no way resembles the home I grew up in, so the camera lies beside me on the seat.

I miss my childhood home.