My, how things change

Today, I went to SA for a dr's appointment, and on the way home, I drove through my hometown. I took the turn at the DQ and drove down the street to the house where I grew up. As I slowed to take the corner, so many things crossed my mind. The corner lot where our house stood was always so large, and so meticulously groomed. The stately cotton wood trees that gave such good shade placed so carefully in their spots to add beauty and comfort to the yard. The crisp white paint job with the green trim, calling me home. But that is not what I saw.

Somehow, the yard shrunk. It is only a portion of it's size, as I remember it. The trees are long gone - only stumps remain. The house itself looks almost like a miniature; it's tan and melon colors make it look like someone else's home, not mine. A tall, ugly privacy fence surrounds the yard like a compound, and the grass is overgrown.

At first, it made me sad - several of the yards of dear neighbors looked about the same, and I was sorry to have gone. And then, I decided that all that matters are my memories. Memories of daddy mowing that grass to perfection, then sitting with his smoke and the water hose to cool down afterward. Checking the Four O'Clock's blooms to see if it was time for daddy to come home. The swing where Cathy and I, among others, sat and told all our teen-age secrets, and waited for friends to drive by. The yard full of cousins and friends during Strawberry Festival weekends. Not knowing where our yard ended and the Carr's began, so seemless they appeared. All memories of growing up happy in a place all our own. Nothing grand or expensive, but paid for and well-loved. Those things will never go away, as long as I remember them and the life that it represented.

So, I don't think I'll be going by that place again anytime soon. It belongs to someone else.