Friday, April 16, 2004
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Friday, April 16, 2004 |
| Going home one last time By DAVID EPPS I drove by the old home place last week. The new owners had done some yard work and had chopped down the shrubbery that had grown in front of the porch for the last 50-plus years. The big holly tree had been pruned and looked much better and a few other trees in the front yard had received a pruning as well. The house looked good, I thought. As far as I can tell, I had lived in that house from the time I was four years old until I got married, with the exception of a two-year absence for service with the Marine Corps. The house wasn’t big at all, having only two bedrooms and a bath, along with a living room, television room, and kitchen. All the rooms were small. Dad added another bedroom and a dining room during my late teen years, but it would remain a small “mill village” type of house. Over the years, Dad added paneling, carpet, a new ceiling, and a carport. The wood frame house was always painted a sparkling white and was perpetually in good repair. Dad and Mom took pride in their home. When I was in the third grade, Dad announced that he had paid off the home and I would never have to leave home until I was ready. Having lived through very tough economic times, Dad had seen many families evicted from their homes due to non-payment of rent or failure to keep up with their mortgage payments. “You won’t have to leave until you are ready and no one can make you,” he said again. As an eight-year-old, I didn’t understand the significance of his words, since I had no plans to go anywhere. Still, it seemed important to him, so I nodded my acceptance solemnly. Now, as I stood before my home for the last time, before someone else moved in, It seemed impossible that anyone else could ever live there. Before the extra bedroom was added, I had shared my room with my kid brother, who was nine years younger. It didn’t seem crowded at the time, but now I know it was. We took all our meals as a family, at least up until the time that my brother and I began playing sports. We played baseball, then football, in the postage-stamp-size, fenced-in, front yard that once held a swing set and a sandbox. The yard was so tiny that “over the fence” was an automatic out, instead of a home run. The back yard was larger, but sloped, so that the yard wasn’t much good for sports but was wonderful for playing with a succession of family pets, all of them dogs. My first dog, Butch, a rambunctious pit bull, is laid to rest in the back yard, along with several other dogs that became part of the family. I learned to ride a bike on the hilly, gravel-covered, road in front of the house. When I was small, the road was a dirt road. Later, the county came in and spread a thick black oil all over the road. It was supposed to hold down the dust, but it stunk and caused us to have to leave our shoes on the porch. Eventually, gravel covered the road and, while I was away in the military, asphalt brought us into the modern world. Gravel had its benefits; we could throw rocks at boys who invaded our neighborhood and the rocks made a cool sound when we chunked them at the tin roofs on several of the houses in the neighborhood. The gravel was a mortal enemy, however, whenever one had a wreck on a bicycle, or when invading boys chunked rocks back at us. From my front porch, I could see Bays Mountain several miles in the distance and could see the Tennessee Eastman chemical plant where dad and several of my uncles worked. On any Friday night in autumn, I could see the lights of J. Fred Johnson Stadium, some five miles away, and hear the marching band during halftime at Dobyns-Bennett High School football games. Later, I would play on that same field. From that carport, I could also see Steve’s house down the hill. We met when we were five and, as high schoolers, attended the same church. He would become my best man and remains a friend. The new owner bought the house to use it as rental property. The neighborhood has degraded terribly in the years since Dad bought the house and most of the dwellings are now rented out. Even now, however, the house where I grew up is still the best-looking little house on the hill. But I know it won’t stay that way. At least none of the other houses that have not been owner-occupied have remained in good condition. So, I don’t know if I will ever return to the house on the hill. I think I prefer to keep my memories intact. I don’t know if I ever thanked Mom and Dad for providing a home I would never have to leave until I was ready. If not, I wish I had. When I was a teenager, I couldn’t wait to leave, what I saw as, that embarrassingly little house on the hill. In my teen stupidity, there were times when I was ashamed of my folks’ house in the blue-collar neighborhood. Last week, as I drove away, all I could feel was a deep ache, and a palpable sadness, as if some part of me was being left behind. Then I realized; it was. I was raised up and was formed in the house on the hill. And part of me is there still. [Father David Epps is Rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church which meets at 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. Sundays at 4881 Ga. Highway 34. He may be contacted at 770-252-2428, at FatherDavidEpps@aol.com or at www.ctkcec.org.]
[Father David Epps is Rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church which meets at 8:00 and 10:00 a.m. Sundays at 4881 E. Hwy 34. He may be contacted at 770-252-2428, at FatherDavidEpps@aol.com or at www.ctkcec.org.] |