There really is no place like home

I remember being a teenager, and my dad drove me and my mom out to this God-forsaken piece of land in the middle of nowhere in Lamar County to show it to us. I don’t remember the details exactly, but I’m pretty sure I was acting bored and petulant and pouty, because, as I mentioned, I was a teenager.

We got out of the car and all I saw was trees and undergrowth and no signs of civilization. I said, “Why are we here?”

Daddy said, “I bought this land. I’m going to build a house and we’re going to move here.”

Well, I thought, this poor man has gone insane. We already HAVE a house. Who in the world would want to live out here? This is not the boonies. You can’t even SEE the boonies from here. This is like the suburb of the boonies.

Anyway, he decided not to build there, but soon solid that lot and bought some more land nearby, and set to work building a house.

Did you hear what I said? He BUILT a house. I can’t fathom doing this. The last time I opened something from IKEA I cradled a bottle of whiskey and sat on the floor crying for 30 minutes.

He didn’t totally build the house by himself – he contracted some of the work out – but the nails were hammered in by him, the bricks laid, the concrete poured. And did I mention he did this while still working at a real job at General Motors? He built cars all day, then went and built a house. Oh, and he built a barn. And he built a fence, to hold in the cow that he bought.

Ok, so the fence wasn’t so great. The wily cow managed to escape enough that it earned an early trip to the freezer. We ate steaks for quite some time after that. The message to other cows – remain content.

I helped build the barn. By help I mean, I scrambled up and down a rickety wooden ladder and toted his tools to him, while he tried to ignore the fact that I didn’t seem to know a socket wrench from a flugelhorn. And I helped build that fence. By help I mean took post-hole diggers and dug holes and whined it was too hot.

That house is still standing. The barn is still standing and full of farming implements that we can’t identify. The trees he planted have grown tall and provide shade over the impossibly large lawn that he has insisted on maintaining himself, even though he will turn 88 in May. Did you hear me? 88! This man served in the Navy and witnessed atomic bomb tests. He sweated in the foul air of a textile mill and then went to work building cars and trucks until he retired.

He has lived in that house for 35 years, the last 9 of them alone since my mother died. Other than his little dog Daisy, there’s been little to keep him company other than the crickets singing at night and the incessant crowing of the roosters from the nearby neighbor who decided to raise chickens (not many zoning regulations out in the country).

And now, he has decided it is time. It is time to stop driving his car everywhere. Time to stop sitting alone in that house and waiting in the driveway for the mailman to come. He has decided it is time to move into assisted living.

I promise you, this is not easy. After a year of driving dangerously that involved more than one accident, my brother and I had to tell him that we felt it was in his best interest – and everyone else on the road’s – if he discontinued driving. He took it about like you would expect a very independent man to take it. I think he knew we were right, but he also knew that he was having to give up a vital part of himself. It was heartbreaking.

I honestly think he will move into assisted living and take the place over. He’s never met a person who didn’t become his friend. The ladies will find him charming and the men will find him to a good fella. He may not always remember my name, but he is still sharp. He may not get around like he used to, but he is nowhere near feeble. I’m quite sure he could still kick my butt.

I am dreading the day, and it won’t be long, when he says goodbye to that house for the last time – the house he built, the house where finished raising me, the house where he loved my mama, his refuge after hard days of work, his castle. There will be tears shed, and sad faces, but there will be memories, memories of a house that was so much more than just wood and brick and concrete. It was, and will always be, home.