This Saturday morning I hit the heated July pavement with my AC blaring and my panting Boston Terrier in the backseat. The forecast for the day was a scorching 100 degrees in downtown Raleigh. It would be just as excruciatingly hot upon my arrival to a Henderson family shrimp broil being held just less than a few hours down Highway 64. Prior to my departure, I had double-checked my suitcase to ensure it contained every item which may be of necessity to a young lady during southern summer festivities. This included a baiting suit capable of staying intact during taunting pulls and pushes into the swimming pool and a dress for church on Sunday that was cool enough to withstand the hair-frizzing humidity, yet tasteful enough to keep my name out of any Monday morning gossiping at the diner.
About a half hour into my travels, I crossed over Jordan Lake and Miranda Lambert’s,
House That Built Me was playing in the background as I listened to my Dad’s voicemail play on the other end of the phone.
“He must be golfing.” I looked over at my dog- who now had made his way to the front seat. “I don’t even think he knows I’m coming home.” Chewie gave me a blank stare and a sniff- unless I was saying “
outside, bone, or no!”, my dog had no clue what I was rambling about. After hanging up the phone, I turned up the radio and Miranda sang, “
You know they say- you can’t go home again…”
Since around the age of 17, “home” has been a relative term for me. I was raised in North Carolina’s centermost Randolph County. I had a pretty average suburban/country childhood, yet the circumstances of my family dynamic have drastically changed since my youth. Each of my parents fall within the latter years of the Baby Boomer Generation, and, like many others of their time, my parents fell out of their young love and called it quits around the time I headed away for college. My mother now lives with her horses just thirty short minutes northeast of Raleigh- a perfect setup for me anytime I may be in need of an escape from the city life. My father spends the majority of his time in Asheboro either on the golf course, at his desk, in the woods (he’s a forestry consultant), or at his girlfriend’s eating her delicious chicken salad...
which I could look forward to eating in just less than an hour...
***
Following my parents separation, I began to dread summer and winter breaks from school- or any other time I had to be faced with the realization that my family was no longer “normal.” For some time my father remained in our old 1800s farmhouse in Seagrove. Just right through the woods from this was my grandparent’s log cabin they had built a few years prior. Fifteen minutes up the highway in Asheboro, my dad’s brother and his family resided. My mother’s side of the family would normally gather at my grandparent’s, and my dad’s side at his brothers. After some adjustment, I became okay with only one of my parents being at family “get togethers”. I began to build a stronger and closer relationship with each my mother and father. Eventually, I was okay with them being apart, and just content with seeing each of them happy. Throughout all of these changes, although I had come to peace with my parent's separation, I had slowly lost a large portion of my own identity that had once thrived within our prior family dynamic.
Over the years, the old farmhouse in Seagrove progressively become empty. Each year during the holidays I would live out of my suitcase and travel back and forth between my grandmother’s and my boyfriend’s house in Asheboro. To me, the house in Seagrove represented what was broken, and it only frustrated me to go there. I felt alone in the presence of its uninhabited walls. My frustration began to cloud my thinking with each visit back to Randolph County. It was not that I wanted my parents to be together again. My mom by this time had moved to Zebulon and was doing very well with her horseback riding academy, and my father was the happiest I’d seen him in years. I really could not pin point why I was angry and would repeatedly tell myself to accept things and be grateful for all the wonderful things I did have. Dealing with these feelings was not something that happened overnight. Just until we broke up last year, I would cling to my long time boyfriend, and spend most of my holiday vacation bonding with his family instead of my own. At the time, I was thankful I had his family as an outlet for normalcy, but this was only hindering the process of me moving on. I was losing my old self and not moving forward to grow into someone new.
I am now 25 years old, and, for the first time in many years, single. My sister and cousins are all married or in serious relationships. I no longer can escape to the boyfriend’s when I am back home. As I approach the holidays, I now dread the, although well-intended, but often probing, “So are you seeing anybody?” question that is
inevitably asked by every aunt, uncle or cousin at least ten times before and after dinner. Just this past Christmas, I spent a few nights frustrated and feeling sorry for myself, only to return to my house in Raleigh a day early. I just did not want to face that old farmhouse or answer anymore questions about my relationship status. (By now, both of my grandmother’s even have Facebook—can’t my family just seek out their inquires concerning my love life via my online profile?)
***
Only running a few minutes late, I pulled into my Aunt and Uncle’s driveway in Asheboro for the shrimp broil. I strapped on Chewie’s collar and leash and made my way up the sidewalk. Inside, my dad’s girlfriend was making her chicken salad, my cousins were out back swimming in the pool, and my uncle was under his NC State football tent grilling shrimp and clams with a Corona Light in hand. Bluegrass music was blaring over the stereo system and Chewie began to fall in with the three Shelties and the Yorkie begging for scraps of chicken in the kitchen. Everyone was very happy to see I’d given up my “booming” social life in Raleigh to come and spend a Saturday afternoon with them. My Dad arrived not much later than I, and quickly cooled himself from the heat of the golf course with a dip in the pool. As we sipped on some “fruity summer drinks”, as my aunt called them, I enjoyed laughing amongst my cousins about how entertaining our three hillbilly fathers were with their pot-bellies and mustaches. My dad’s brother’s get-up consisted of a straw hat, no shirt, swim trunks, velcro sandals, and big rubber gloves to avoid burning his hands on the shrimp broil. For the next few hours, I was grinning ear to ear… I truly loved being with my family.
After stuffing myself to the max with an assortment of foods, I was relaxing on the porch contemplating a nap. Before I could even begin to plot which couch I was going to claim, in walks a very tall man with a long, white beard and a tie died “Joe’s Crab Shack” T-shirt. I was surprised to see my father was the first person who went up to greet him. He offered the man some food and then they came over and sat not far from me.
“Abby,” my Dad said, “I’ve got this fella here working on the house in Seagrove. He’s puttin’ up new siding and adding new installation…” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his digital camera to show me some pictures of his new project. I glanced at the images and was amazed to see the sides of the old farmhouse all torn and tethered. I don’t really remember how the rest of the conversation went. I was not upset, disappointed, or really even concerned with what my Dad’s plans with the house may be- I was, more than anything, relieved. This change was good.
In no time it was eight o’ clock. I had plans to stay at my grandmother’s in Seagrove and attend church with her the following morning. After being sure to hug each and everyone’s neck, my little Chewie and I once again loaded up in the Honda. During my short drive back to Seagrove, I felt a strange sense of relaxation and self-assurance that I normally didn’t feel when heading down 220 South. It was more than just my grandmother’s homemade biscuits I was looking forward to…
By the time I arrived in Seagrove, it was too late to make any pit-stops. I headed straight for my grandmother’s log cabin. Her white fluffy Bichon Frise greeted us yelping at the screen door. My grandmother and I enjoyed one another’s company for a while and I then retired to bed much earlier than I normally would on a Saturday night. The following morning, I felt so at peace as I sat in the church pew and listened to the scripture. This was partially due to the fact that I had arrived prepared with a cool, yet tasteful, summer dress, but mostly because I was beginning to see light through my once cloulded vision.
Following church, my grandmother prepared some black bean salad, breaded chicken, potato salad, ripe tomatoes, and buttery biscuits. We played a few hands of the card game “Spite and Malice”, after which I decided it was about time to make my trip back to Raleigh…
I needed to make one stop on my way out. As I loaded things into my car, my grandmother assembled a care-package for me which included fresh peaches and her copy of the book
Eat, Pray, Love. (
after all- I must read it before I watch the new Julia Roberts movie!).
On my way out of town, I stopped at the old farmhouse to say my good byes. I walked through the back door, and, unlike in the recent years past, I did not feel overcome with despair and loss. Instead, I could feel all the happy memories putting me back together one-by-one, piece by piece. I brought myself 13 years back. Bubba Kitty was begging for food by the refrigerator and the dishwasher was clanging old pottery glasses together. The sound of the television echoed from the living room and I knew my father was in there sitting in his recliner, sound asleep, with the remote in his hand. My mother was working at the dining room table quietly painting the image of a magnolia with her water colors. By the front door, I could hear my dog Blue scratching and begging to come inside. As I climbed the stairs, the sound of my sister laughing on the phone with a friend made me smile. Then, there I was, in my bedroom, sorting through all the blue ribbons and trophies earned at horseshows. I glanced at my old antique mirror, likely wandering if my braces would look better with pink or purple brackets or if I should wear a headband or a hair bow to school the following day. These were serious questions.
***
After making my rounds, I slowly exited the garage door and took one last look back. I was leaving that day with all the memories, good and bad, that had somehow each been forgotten. Prior to this, I was too worried about the memories I thought I was missing out on to even remember the ones that molded who I am today. Suddenly, I could hear Miranda’s voice again, "
You leave home, you move on and you do the best you can. I got lost in this whole world and forgot who I am..."
Having closure with my old house was a life changing experience. It was not just that old house that built me, but also the lessons I learned while I was in it- and even the lessons learned while I was trying so desparetely to stay away from it. That may not have been the last time I'd ever walk through that kitchen, and I'm sure the next time I'm enjoying some pecan pie with one of my aunts, she is bound to ask about my love life. Now, I'm okay with those questions. I am okay with who I was and who I am today. Most importantly, I'm okay with everything that old 1800s farmhouse represents- it's part of me and I will always love it. It no longer sits unused and aging, but is taking on a new form just as I am in my own life. Next time I arrive home, I will ride past that house and smile, because, for the first time in many years, I can honestly say, I can’t
wait to go home again…
