I woke up early the other morning.
I had been dreaming that I went back to one of my childhood homes. (yes, that is plural. Being a preacher’s kid, I had lots of homes). I dreamed that I was back at the house that we built almost all by ourselves. I say ourselves, because I helped. Yes, at the tender age of 8, I helped build a house.
I held plumb line, and snapped it. I even hammered a nail or 2 or 200. So what if they weren’t necessarily in the house. I helped chizle mud off of cinder blocks when the basement wall fell in on my dad’s birthday.
I often wonder what that house looks like now and who is sleeping in my bedroom. Are they enjoying my wonderful walk-in closet? Do the kids whisper messages to each other through the vents? Do they laugh and play where I once did? Do they sit in the basement eating candy bars with their Grams when tornado warnings come? Do they run down the path’s that my sister and I created? Is Tarzan’s mountain still there. (Tarzan’s mountain was the pile of dirt that was created from digging out the basement. My sister and I were really into Tarzan. This pile of dirt had weeds growing from it in spots, and we created a fort/play spot from it. It was better than any playground I had ever been too.)
So, if you live on Flatfoot Road, in Cable, Ohio, in a 2 story English Tudor home on 9 acres of land, let me know if you love it as much as I did.
Did you live in the same home your entire childhood?