I’m no fan of country music. It’s kitschy, twangy, and, worst of all, predictable. Mix together a pair of ripped jeans, one faded ball hat, a splash of beer, and a sprinkle of over-the-top nostalgia (a mention of your grandfather, optional) and there you have a country song. But there is one song that, even I must admit, tugs on the heart strings: Miranda Lambert’s “The House That Built Me”. In the song, Lambert describes going back to her childhood home, now owned by someone else, hoping that a return to her roots will result in self-discovery. It’s twangy. It’s nostalgic. It talks about “mama”. But it’s good. Whenever I hear the song, I think of the little, white house on Shabbona Road, where I grew up in Michigan’s Thumb. My dad referred to it as “Lightning Hill”, because of the many incidents of lightning strikes on the property throughout the years, and it was the stage on which the scenes of my childhood played out. My parents bought the house and 10 acres when I was 3. It was a mess when they bought it. I remember little of my first visit to the place, but I have a vague memory of tall grass and a smell I can only describe as old. There were truckloads of debris in the basement. Nothing had been updated in years. A real mess. Mom and Dad put countless hours, and not a little blood, sweat, and tears, into making the house a home; but they did. When we moved in, I remember thinking it was the biggest house I had ever seen. In retrospect, it was a comfortable, but small, house. But it was wonderful. I had a room with green carpet (Mom and Dad let me choose the color). I spent hours in that room leading my G.I. Joes into battle and launching Matchbox cars off of ramps. When I was 9 or 10, I set up a “museum” in my room, where I had on display precious gems (field stones), a dinosaur (the neighbor kid’s confirmation gift), and a planetarium (glow-in-the-dark plastic stars affixed to the bottom of my bunk bed’s top bunk). I charged admission (10 cents, or whatever you had on you) and even had a gift shop stocked with must-haves, like Tic Tacs and handmade drawings of the exhibits. The living room was, like that of most homes, the hub of the house. It was the scene of family gatherings and birthday parties, of hilarity-inducing mishaps and hushed, nighttime conversations. I remember staying up with my dad, after everyone else had gone to sleep, drinking tea and talking about ideas. I remember late nights spent lounging in the armchair, unable to put my book down; the sound of the phone ringing, the call that would tell my mother of the death of her beloved sister; the sight of a small, white Scottish Terrier pup, cowering under the table, fearful of the place that quickly became his domain. I could go through each room and tell stories.There are endless memories of that house and the land it sits on. The warm glow from the kitchen window I would see after coming home from a Friday night game at the school. Fall afternoons spent raking leaves and falling into the piles. Winter days baking Christmas cookies with my mom and sister, while the wind howled outside. Spring days in the garage, talking to Dad as he changed the oil in the car. Summer nights around the bonfire with neighbors and cousins and friends, one uncle playing his fiddle, another playing his guitar and harmonica. I thought those nights would never end. Memories… When I was back in Michigan this past summer, I drove by the house and stopped in front of it. My parents sold the place 5 years ago, which was a good move; but I felt a twinge of nostalgia as I looked at it. This was the place I learned to ride my bike and tie my shoes; the place where, no matter how grand the vacation or holiday visit out of town, I was always happy to return to. It was home and I loved it. Thank You, Lord, for a wonderful childhood… In just a day or so, my wife and I will welcome a little one of our own into the world. I have many hopes and dreams for Charlotte. One of them is that she will enjoy her childhood as much as I did, and that she, too, will have a place to live it, a place like Lightning Hill.
2 Comments
Kimberly
11/21/2018 02:23:58 pm
Ty, you took me back to the same days. I remember you charging 10 cents to enter your room; I remember Toby greeting everyone with a rock in his mouth; I remember hot cocoa at the table and conversation that inevitably ended with laughter! I thank God for the family I have and am so thankful you’re part of it! Thanks for the trip down memory lane!
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JANE A PIERPONT
11/21/2018 03:03:05 pm
I felt like I was right there, Ty. Thank you for sharing.
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AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
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