There

We sold Mom's house last Friday. For me it was weird, sad, bittersweet. We needed to sell it. Taxes, utilities, and insurance are just three of the reasons my siblings and I were anxious to pass the house on to someone else. Plus there were all the trips I made over there to clean, haul off stuff, turn on the water, take in the mail, check on things, etc, etc. Now one time and energy eater is gone because I don't have to go back there for anything else.

But there, that house, has been a part of my life for over 60 years. We moved there in May of 1959, and I remember the day. I was sitting in the back seat of a Chevy-- my memory tells me it was a two door white Impala-- with a small box in my lap. I don't recall what was in the box, but it was most likely everything that I owned. We parked on the edge of the street. I carried the box into the house and set it on the floor in what came to be Helen's room. That's all I remember from that day, the day we moved there.

I was a week or so short of three years old. Before moving there, to 422 West Harding, we lived on Leflore Avenue. I have four memories of life on Leflore, but practically speaking, my whole life began and was lived on Harding Street. 

The street was full of kids then. There we ran, played hide-and-seek, chased the fog machine (the DDT spraying mosquito truck), played baseball, football, and basketball, fought, threw dirt clods and rocks at each other and passing cars, built tree houses, got stung by honey bees, rode bicycles, and came of age.

I moved out of there in 1977, but still that house was intertwined with my life. Mom and Dad lived there so I was in and out. There I ate chicken, steaks, and fish. Boy could Dad cook fish and steak and chicken. There we celebrated Christmas. There our children met their cousins and aunts and uncles. There we watched Mississippi State football, and there we watched Dad pitch fits like only Roger Hodge could.  

Our maternal grandmother died there when I was twelve years old. Dad died there in 2013, on the floor in the den. Mom died there in 2017 in the same room where her mother passed.

For weeks after Mom died, every time I went there I cried. Then one day I went in and didn't shed tears. I've rounded the corner, I thought. I went in again after that and just before I was to leave, I noticed the door facing that separated the kitchen from the den. There were marks and names and dates. There was the record of kids and grandkids, the progress of their growth. Then I cried again. There in that house that someone else now owns is that memorial to the growth of a family, not just any family but the one I was born into.

The day of the sale, my brother was in Alaska. He texted me and asked if the closing was still on. I told him it was. He shared with me that he had become emotional when he signed the deed. I'm glad he told me that because I drove around that day and teared up over and over when I thought about "there" not being in the family anymore. Later at the closing, I found out that my little sister had the same emotional conflict that her two brothers had. "There" was the place of so many memories, so much history. And "there" was leaving us.

The lawyer brought in our checks. That helped soothe things a bit. At least it did for me. The special attachment to "there," however, is not likely to fade anytime soon. It's too special and too strong and too long going. Yes, I have driven down the street since to take another look at "there." A new vehicle is parked there. New memories will be formed there. A new family will be raised there. I hope they enjoy the house because there is no house like that one. And yes, I will drive that street from time to time and reminisce on all that happened "there."