See One, Do One, Teach One

I am sitting at the hospital–reflecting. At the recent blogger meetup, somebody asked about blogging about one’s home. This is the first story that immediately jumped to my mind.

Bye, House.

The red-flagged stakes were showing up around our yard. We could not deny it. The new highway was going to be built right through the middle of our house. The small home north of town that my mother worked so hard to build was not going to be ours forever.

The house rested along a small, country road surrounded by trees. In the back it was guarded by a huge massive water oak that covered our small wooden patio. Uncleared woods bound the yard on the sides. Many a day was spent throughout that land clearing paths and building forts.

Two tall, thin, obviously planted trees lived out front in our grass-filled yard. The trees were some rapid-growing hybrids that my mother had purchased from the back of a magazine. Much like me at the time, they were undersized and underdeveloped for their height.

With a basketball goal attached to the side of the house, many days were spent playing hoops with my classmates. Although I had a small circle of close friends, I knew everybody in my high school by name. In a small town high school, everybody knows everybody. Either for birthday parties or campouts, almost all my classmates had been to my house at least once.

My mother was quite proud of her house surrounded by woods with the large water oak in the back. Considering our modest means, we did not know if we could afford building another home in such a perfect location. We were helpless to eminent domain and the state’s generosity. Although the red stakes were a constant worry to us, eventually we received the state’s offer which was appropriate and fair. The thin line between financial security and disaster had been avoided.

Searching for a new homeplace, my mother found a beautiful lot south of town. It was surrounded by dense woods that sheltered it from other nearby homes. My mother’s worry had been transformed into excitement. Suddenly, we were discussing floor plans, security systems, and septic tanks. Several times a week we would travel to the new house to watch it slowly take shape under the trees. Eventually, it was finished and we moved in; the old house was left bare and hollow. The enthusiasm for the new had muddied the waters of the old.

Sitting in history class one day a few months later, the teacher stepped out for some reason. One of the running backs on the football team jumped up and walked to the window to stretch his legs enjoying the brief freedom. Suddenly, he started laughing and pointing out the window while shouting:

“Yo, Kirk! Your house has been repossessed! Your house has been repossessed!”

Out the window the old waters became clear once again. My old house was loaded on the back of a flat-bed trailer and was slowly passing on the road in front of the schoolyard. Like the roots of an upturned tree, the bricks on the foundation were jagged and covered in dirt. It had been ripped from the earth. The net on the basketball goal gently rocked back and forth as the truck tugged along.

Now everybody was at the window. Some were talking about the skateboard ramp that previously lived in the carport. Others were remembering trashing the house with toilet paper some Halloween ago. Sleepovers, parties, dates–the kids were sharing their collective memories of my prior home. The state had sold the house to another family and suddenly I hurt a bit for what we had lost.

The teacher returned and scolded us back into our seats. We explained what was happening. The truck was 100 yards away from the school now. Only a small section of the house could still be seen. The teacher looked at me and said, “Say bye to your house.”

As the class watched the house slip out of sight, I whispered to myself, “Bye, house.”