I’ve shared that I’m a fan of the home show Fixer Upper. The most recent episode found the show’s stars working on a home that had been in a chick’s family for quite a while and had been built by her “Paw-paw.” The team did an amazing job and the place was just beautiful.

 

Watching the episode got me thinking about my great-grandparents’ old, run-down house in Zebulon, Georgia. We lived there off-and-on when I was a child and when I think of my childhood home, it is their house that comes to mind. It was not only a constant in terms of refuge, it was also the only place that offered me true unconditional love. That means the world to me. Still.

 

But back to Fixer Upper. I can’t tell you how many times I dream of Granny’s and Papa’s house. I’ve imagined it as it was and I’ve tried to imagine it in a finer state. I’ve pictured what I would do to make it not only livable, but also fabulous. I’ve gone over the parts that would absolutely have to be saved (such as the door frames and wood floors) and which walls would have to be opened and scrapped. In my mind, I’ve seen it with a metal roof and new porch railing. I’ve thought about how the back porch could be so inviting. Honestly, I’ve thought of it more times than I can count.

 

And it’s all for naught. That old house was torn down decades ago to make way for a freeway. There is no sign left that people lived there, that children were loved and nurtured there, that roses were tended or that pecans were picked from the ground. There is no remnant of kids trying to out-scream a train’s whistle as it flew down the adjacent tracks. There are no reminders of the garden rows that brought forth food to fill hungry bellies of the children who, without their great-grandparents’ kindness, would have been homeless. There are no dirt driveways where mud pies were made or where doodle-bugs were watched. There is no scrappy yard where bare feet danced or dreamers lay in the dark to watch the night sky. There is no front porch where folks sat on hot Sunday afternoons, eating watermelon and spitting seeds. No, there isn’t a trace of all that went before. There is just a non-descript, emotionless highway.

 

It has long been said that you can’t go home again. And for the souls who’ve tried, that may be true. But for some of us, trying isn’t an option. We can only visit our childhood homes in dreams and in memory. But if I could… Well, at least in my dreams there is no freeway. There is only love.

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