Chapter 3: “Where I grew up”

            A place I don’t stay all year, a place that I only know during holidays. A place I won’t ever know again. Brownsville, Tennessee. I didn’t ever live there, but I surely lived while I was there. My grandparent’s house, acres upon acres, a pond, trees to climb, and seven beds to sleep in. You could always find someone in the kitchen and something cooking, someone outside reading, someone always dreaming. There was always land to be explored, grand adventures to partake in. It was my sanctuary, home away from home, with my closest family always by my side. The moss in the front yard, soft underneath my bare feet; the rough bark scraping against my hands as I tried to climb that tree again; wind rushing past me and through my hair, as we rode through the fields on the four-wheeler; the floating of the bobber as we wait for that moment when it goes under.

The fire flew high on the torch when Jordan, my cousin, threw it into the air to show off, as he preformed for my grandparents 50^th anniversary; that year we put on a Hawaiian themed celebration. The sunsets were never more vibrant and beautiful as they were at that house, and I’ve never seen so many hummingbirds as I did in that backyard. So many acres and so many memories; like the time we pretended to play house in between those two big walls of brush, or the time we climbed on that mountain made of rocks, imagining the ground was lava; and somehow, over night it seemed, that mountain shrunk into a pile not so big anymore.

            The room that I always ended up in had three beds in it, two twin beds and a double. It was routine for Spencer, Rhett and I to all have long talks about boys, school and God, laughing so loudly we disrupted my grandparent’s sleep below. The house wasn’t fancy, it was quite old, but it was as much of home to me as the house I’ve lived in for thirteen years back in Texas is. So many pictures taken of memories frozen in time, or a flower captured in just the right light; from sunsets to smiles bright, I thankfully have enough to remind what it looked like and all the memories stored in between the trees and floorboards. The creepy house across the road, all broken down and forgotten, was always a good place to catch a butterfly; and one time, next to the broke down house, in between the rows of corn that grew taller than my head, Tucker found a twenty-dollar bill. Right next door to the neighbors, who had the pool where we’d always swim and laugh and do front flips off the diving board, there was another small old house that was rotting away. For a time, Duck lived there, an old black man who was homeless if not for that house that he was offered to stay in; he always reminded me of Boo Radley. I don’t think he ever showered, but he helped with the yard work, so that was nice. It was always creepy getting too close to his house, or him in general, because he wasn’t the friendliest, and I don’t think he knew how to act around us kids. I think he passed away a long while ago, and now that old little house is abandoned once again but is filled with old tin cans that once held food and empty Gatorade bottles.

            The pasture next to my second home, once held cows, and then held bails of hay that us cousins would always climb upon and play on. More recently, it held Sky King Chief Fisher, Chief for short, who was our horse. He was seventeen hands high and as black as the night. I loved him, even if I didn’t really show it, and I do miss him. He would run back and forth along the fence, always excited to see us when we came to visit; he’d go in the pond to cool off and escape the hot summer sun as well as get a drink; you could hear him splashing in the water from the back porch. We sold him to granddad’s good friend that next summer. 

13 years of my life are full of all of these memories and more which up my summers, Thanksgivings, and Christmases. I’ll cherish them forever, knowing I won’t get to go back to that house, but now there’s a new house with new memories to be made.