Rooted: The House I Grew Up In

If you’ve missed this series, you can start here.  God has been redirecting what He wants me to write on Rooted, so the posts may no longer be in chronological order. This is Rooted: The House I Grew Up In.

We moved into the house I grew up in 1983 or 1984, shortly after my sister was born and we moved back to my dad’s hometown.  It was a new home, built on old land given my dad by his mother, my grandmother.  We felt like we were moving into a mansion.  Perhaps by standards in those days, maybe it was.  It was a brown cedar home, consisting of a basement, three bedrooms, a living area, car port, two bathrooms, and the smallest kitchen you could possibly imagine.

In the living area, we had a TV which actually sat on the floor. It was framed with wooden detail to make it a nice piece of furniture.  Above it hung a brownish gray piece of artwork painted by an old friend of mom’s of an old water wheel and stream with river rocks that echoed the detail of our fireplace, which was in the same room.  The only remote control then was my sister and I turning the knob or pressing the buttons until we landed on something daddy liked to watch.  Shows did not have to be family style, just whatever entertained the dad.  We had about 4 channels until we got a satellite dish in the backyard.  You know the big giant kind?  Then we had more channels to choose from. Even now, cable is still not offered in the back woods country where I grew up as far as I know.

The best memories I have around that TV are of the family, me and my sister on the couch, dad in his chair, and mom in hers, holding back tears as I watched the Wonder Years.  Years later, the carpet would change from brown to green, as would the wallpaper, and the couch would be replaced with a piano, the TV moved to the basement for dad, and one upstairs for us girls, and one in mom’s room for her.  Since family time had been centered around the TV, it became almost extinct once we had multiple TVs.

That old house could tell some tales, I know.  Some good ones, and some harsh ones.  Some of harsh words, some of hugs. Some of little giggling girls hiding in homemade “tents” consisting of that favorite comforter of ours hung between two full size beds. There would be some of teenage yelling matches with tired and worn out parents. Tales of love made between the sheets between two parents who loved each other. Tales of cold nights spent all alone and of scary faces showing up unexpected in windows.

That house holds memories of my dad who has now been gone over 7 years.  He was a deeply passionate man, who seemed the antithesis to my grandmother and only like my grandpa in quick temper.  His beliefs were almost always the opposite of theirs, and according to him, he grew up in a cold environment where no one said “I love you” and hugs were rare.  He hugged us kids like a fierce bear, and even though he never said “I’m sorry” for his temper tantrums his enormous affection for us was almost always obvious.

As a child growing up, I always fancied myself most like him.  I would be the one to sit beside him going out to eat for dinner.  Again, it was me that would follow next behind him when we traveled or moseyed through one of the tourist attractions we visited.  I would be the one who mentally told my mother, “Stop talking before you make him angry.”  He could hardly stand it when no one could decide where to go for dinner, so I started making the decision to keep the peace.  He was an avid bible scholar, studying in particular the end times and Revelation.  I think he was meant to be a preacher or teacher, but something happened to him as a young adult, something mysterious, which deterred him.  I wonder if it is why he threw himself so wholehearted into his work as a construction engineer.  He was always misunderstood and I think that’s why he often stood up for me when I didn’t know how to do it on my own.

As I got older, I learned things about him that broke my heart.  I did not want to fancy myself like him as much.  But that has never changed who I am or how much like him I am.  Writing “Rooted” has made me remember him more completely, make peace with him, resurrect the good in him, and allow me to accept how I carry on his ways.  I too became an engineer, and I too am a student of the bible.  I doubt I am nearly as smart as he was, but I do often wish he was still here to debate with, to say I’m sorry to, to hear him sing, or to receive one of those amazing hugs.

All my memories of him are mostly centered in that house that I grew up in.  The cedar is now hidden under white siding and it has a green metal roof, and a porch that he built sometime after we moved in.  My mom moved out of it a little over a year ago, about 6 years after he died.  He died before his parents, who are still living today.

On April 27, 2011, my grandparents home was destroyed by the tornadoes.  They moved into the home I grew up in shortly after.  Hurtful things happened that make it difficult for me to visit them or the house, which is devoid of him and all our memories.  They are living their dream, but their dream feels like it comes at my expense somehow.  Their status may be one of gratitude, but it feels more like a direct hit to my heart.  It seems as if it would be easier if strangers lived in that home.  I have not been willing to sacrifice myself and my pain to visit as often as I should.  It is easier to remain here away from the pain, away from the house, instead of looking at memories wiped clean and new ones made in their place.  Perhaps, I will become brave as I look back.

“Rooted” rebuilds those memories in the home I grew up in a place now stored in my mind instead of the house that stands in the country still.  This new home is somehow better than the first, and I am grateful that God is a God who resurrects even after the dead are long gone.