I think it's rather clear that I love my new life adventure but I recently realized wherever life takes me, my journey will end in the South. Maybe not my hometown, (for everyone's sake I hope not) but it's certainly where I belong in the end. I miss it daily. Despite all the wonderful things I see in this great big city, I miss the basics and the things that I know best and love most. Until I moved north I never realized how much I loved crawfish and king cakes.
So, I think it is safe to share now, via the Internet, that my parents are selling our home. Now, I know I live in New York, I'm 23 years old, I haven't lived there full-time in years since leaving for college, but you all know what it means to go home to mom and dads. There is just something about it: the scents, the sounds of the house, your pets, the neighbors, dads quirks, mom's obsessive need to cater to you. All that stuff, and more, is what makes a house a home.
On a daily basis, people here and family and friends back home ask if I miss Louisiana. In all honesty, I didn't until my parents broke the news to me that they were selling. In my mind, I didn't need to miss home because I knew it would always be right there waiting for me whenever I returned. Except now it isn't. At least not the home I grew up in.
My parents will buy a home in the city with less maintenance and drama and for that I am grateful because the truth is, they'll get old one day and I don't know that I'll be around to ensure the grass is cut, the limbs are trimmed and the house is power washed. I assure you my dad would drag his 80-year-old butt outside to do it, too.
This blog is mainly for me so I can write in words how I feel about the situation, but I'm always surprised that some of you find something meaningful, inspiring or helpful in my blogs, so as usual my words are yours to read.
When I was 14, my family sold our house in town and moved to our current home to be near my grandparents because my Pawpaw was battling congestive heart failure and there was much upkeep. And my pawpaw was equally obsessive about seeing that his six-acre spread was manicured. The day my parents signed the papers on our home in town, my pawpaw passed away. It is one of those eerie, fate type feelings that you just aren't sure how to react to, or, in my case describe. We just assume Pawpaw knew we'd be there to tend to the lawn and care for Granny so he no longer needed to hang around.
The day my Pawpaw died was the first time death effected me. I'd grown up in a Southern Baptist church, which meant you attended services every time the doors were open - funerals included. I'd seen it all before and had already lost both of my paternal grandparents, but there is something about being 14 and finally realizing all good things must come to an end. Being a teenager was going to be damn hard, and Pawpaw dying was the first sign of it. This was also the first death when I realized nothing last forever and death is never fair.
Obviously the first 14 years of my life weren't all that life-altering, aside from upgrading from a training bra to a real bra and trading my Chuck Taylors for flats. You begin to think boys are actually kind of cute, rather than infested with cooties (whatever those are). Lastly, you one by one go through a number of friends only learning who to trust when it's too late.
Life starts in your teens. For me, life began in Springridge. I laugh at how tragic I considered all these moments at 14 that I would die to live again over some current life situations at 23. So, we sold our house and were temporarily living in what I love to call, "The Crap Shack," while I was suffering through sophomore year on the pep squad. Eventually we got our mobile home (as mom always specifies,) and I was instantly in love with having my Granny for a neighbor, Saturdays mowing the pasture and the crickets singing at night.
I only recently began to appreciate the little things about home: bullfrogs on the pond, countless stars in the sky, walking around barefoot and the peace and comfort of always knowing who you were surrounded by. Aside from these things, my home reminds me of all the other factors growing up: boys, heartbreak and friendship, of course. :)
I was a teenager before that first crush never acknowledged my existence, that first boy never called again and then of course, the boy you love who is dating and noticing everyone but you. I lived here the first time I lied to my parents about where I was going and with whom. I had my first boyfriend over to the house, my first double date disaster and last but not least, my first broken heart. With my first broken heart came crying myself to sleep for countless nights, but in the end it resulted in the first time a boy came to apologize and we spent hours talking in the driveway like an old chick flick.
I had the first of many parties when my parents were out of town at home and along with those parties came a million memories (and blackmail worthy photos). Throughout high school I'd have sleepovers with the girls where we'd sneak out late to go to the boys sleepovers. My parents would find a half empty bottle of Taaka Vodka in the fridge my friends and I overlooked during clean up. I'd get grounded for lying, being in past curfew, and sometimes I think I was under suspicion just because I was a teenager.
Around 16, my parents and I fought like cats and dogs. The routine stuff of me wanting to be an adult and they insisting having a license didn't entitle me to the world. They were right. Looking back now I wouldn't change a thing and I wouldn't have changed any of the friendships gone wrong, the friendships that persevered and the boys I so foolishly thought I loved because I learned something valuable from each and every one of those experiences.
Given how much I feel I've grown (mentally) in the past year, it is impressive that I feel valuable lessons come from times when I was so young, but the things we learn from mistakes and living guide us, regardless of when and where.
Finally, I went to college. I'll never forget packing up my clothes and all of my favorite knick knacks and heading to my aunts an hour and a half from home. I'd never not lived under my parents roof and I couldn't wait for freedom. Granted, I went home every weekend for the first year so I guess I wasn't quite as ready for freedom as I played up to. When I got my first place sophomore year of college, I hardly believed it. It was the hardest adjustment, to this day, that I'd ever made. I didn't know how to register for electricity and water, much less how to pay the bill at the end of the month. I didn't know if my tips would pay the bills and I damn sure didn't know what to do if they didn't.
I've lived in five places now, and granted I've experienced many life lessons at each of these residencies, none are as meaningful as those that we learn at home where a hug from dad saves the world, the sight of your dog is the only thing that brings an instant smile to your face and your cat is the only one who knows when and how to comfort you (specifically on the same pillow as your head, ha).
It has been almost 10 years since I started my story at home, and I think my parents selling our home is a sign to continue on my own journey. There will always be a new home to make. Meanwhile, I'll continue making memories as a guest in cities around the country until I make it back to the South: my true home.
Above all else, this home is a family compound and I don't care how "redneck" it sounds. Growing up, before living on the land, I spent every holiday and weekend fishing, swimming in a horse troth we substituted for a pool and being taunted by my older cousins for being "the baby." Our house is simply four walls, it's what is in my head and my heart that I will remember most in the end. So, home, I bid thee farewell, but thanks for the memories! :)
On a daily basis, people here and family and friends back home ask if I miss Louisiana. In all honesty, I didn't until my parents broke the news to me that they were selling. In my mind, I didn't need to miss home because I knew it would always be right there waiting for me whenever I returned. Except now it isn't. At least not the home I grew up in.
My parents will buy a home in the city with less maintenance and drama and for that I am grateful because the truth is, they'll get old one day and I don't know that I'll be around to ensure the grass is cut, the limbs are trimmed and the house is power washed. I assure you my dad would drag his 80-year-old butt outside to do it, too.
This blog is mainly for me so I can write in words how I feel about the situation, but I'm always surprised that some of you find something meaningful, inspiring or helpful in my blogs, so as usual my words are yours to read.
When I was 14, my family sold our house in town and moved to our current home to be near my grandparents because my Pawpaw was battling congestive heart failure and there was much upkeep. And my pawpaw was equally obsessive about seeing that his six-acre spread was manicured. The day my parents signed the papers on our home in town, my pawpaw passed away. It is one of those eerie, fate type feelings that you just aren't sure how to react to, or, in my case describe. We just assume Pawpaw knew we'd be there to tend to the lawn and care for Granny so he no longer needed to hang around.
The day my Pawpaw died was the first time death effected me. I'd grown up in a Southern Baptist church, which meant you attended services every time the doors were open - funerals included. I'd seen it all before and had already lost both of my paternal grandparents, but there is something about being 14 and finally realizing all good things must come to an end. Being a teenager was going to be damn hard, and Pawpaw dying was the first sign of it. This was also the first death when I realized nothing last forever and death is never fair.
Obviously the first 14 years of my life weren't all that life-altering, aside from upgrading from a training bra to a real bra and trading my Chuck Taylors for flats. You begin to think boys are actually kind of cute, rather than infested with cooties (whatever those are). Lastly, you one by one go through a number of friends only learning who to trust when it's too late.
Life starts in your teens. For me, life began in Springridge. I laugh at how tragic I considered all these moments at 14 that I would die to live again over some current life situations at 23. So, we sold our house and were temporarily living in what I love to call, "The Crap Shack," while I was suffering through sophomore year on the pep squad. Eventually we got our mobile home (as mom always specifies,) and I was instantly in love with having my Granny for a neighbor, Saturdays mowing the pasture and the crickets singing at night.
I only recently began to appreciate the little things about home: bullfrogs on the pond, countless stars in the sky, walking around barefoot and the peace and comfort of always knowing who you were surrounded by. Aside from these things, my home reminds me of all the other factors growing up: boys, heartbreak and friendship, of course. :)
I was a teenager before that first crush never acknowledged my existence, that first boy never called again and then of course, the boy you love who is dating and noticing everyone but you. I lived here the first time I lied to my parents about where I was going and with whom. I had my first boyfriend over to the house, my first double date disaster and last but not least, my first broken heart. With my first broken heart came crying myself to sleep for countless nights, but in the end it resulted in the first time a boy came to apologize and we spent hours talking in the driveway like an old chick flick.
I had the first of many parties when my parents were out of town at home and along with those parties came a million memories (and blackmail worthy photos). Throughout high school I'd have sleepovers with the girls where we'd sneak out late to go to the boys sleepovers. My parents would find a half empty bottle of Taaka Vodka in the fridge my friends and I overlooked during clean up. I'd get grounded for lying, being in past curfew, and sometimes I think I was under suspicion just because I was a teenager.
Around 16, my parents and I fought like cats and dogs. The routine stuff of me wanting to be an adult and they insisting having a license didn't entitle me to the world. They were right. Looking back now I wouldn't change a thing and I wouldn't have changed any of the friendships gone wrong, the friendships that persevered and the boys I so foolishly thought I loved because I learned something valuable from each and every one of those experiences.
Given how much I feel I've grown (mentally) in the past year, it is impressive that I feel valuable lessons come from times when I was so young, but the things we learn from mistakes and living guide us, regardless of when and where.
Finally, I went to college. I'll never forget packing up my clothes and all of my favorite knick knacks and heading to my aunts an hour and a half from home. I'd never not lived under my parents roof and I couldn't wait for freedom. Granted, I went home every weekend for the first year so I guess I wasn't quite as ready for freedom as I played up to. When I got my first place sophomore year of college, I hardly believed it. It was the hardest adjustment, to this day, that I'd ever made. I didn't know how to register for electricity and water, much less how to pay the bill at the end of the month. I didn't know if my tips would pay the bills and I damn sure didn't know what to do if they didn't.
I've lived in five places now, and granted I've experienced many life lessons at each of these residencies, none are as meaningful as those that we learn at home where a hug from dad saves the world, the sight of your dog is the only thing that brings an instant smile to your face and your cat is the only one who knows when and how to comfort you (specifically on the same pillow as your head, ha).
It has been almost 10 years since I started my story at home, and I think my parents selling our home is a sign to continue on my own journey. There will always be a new home to make. Meanwhile, I'll continue making memories as a guest in cities around the country until I make it back to the South: my true home.
Above all else, this home is a family compound and I don't care how "redneck" it sounds. Growing up, before living on the land, I spent every holiday and weekend fishing, swimming in a horse troth we substituted for a pool and being taunted by my older cousins for being "the baby." Our house is simply four walls, it's what is in my head and my heart that I will remember most in the end. So, home, I bid thee farewell, but thanks for the memories! :)
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| The levee in the fall :) |
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| Gravel roads... |
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| The pond... |
