Magic of Place pt. 1

I recently visited home a few weekends ago. I brought two of my best friends back with me for some good music and hometown friends at Roots and Blues Music Fest. I was so excited to share with them the love for my home state, but I was a little anxious because my parents had recently moved to a new house. This would be the first time visiting my family’s new “home.” It’s also the first time my whole family does not live in my actual hometown anymore. Everyone is close, but I knew it would be weird not to cross the bridge into the city for the first time.

I remember going home that Memorial Day weekend knowing this would probably be the last time I would be in this home on Tanglewood. However, I remember having a harder time moving from my childhood home on Greenberry, which was an old house from 1910 complete with a pull-down attic (which was basically my own treehouse) and a very creepy old meat locker. So much life had been lived there. It felt like if we moved the magic of those memories would disappear.

Like the magic of the “bobsled” track we created back in the great snow of ’93. It lasted for WEEKS. Cool Runnings just came out so you bet it was bobsled time all the time. Feel the rhythm? Feel the rhyme? Oh yes, we did.  Then there were the adventure hikes exploring the woods down to the Moreau River, finding frozen waterfalls and Missouri tarantulas.  The magic of taking a break from playing to forage in my Pop’s ginormous garden to eat some lettuce. He would always affectionately holler, “Whatcha doin little rabbit?” We also had this giant sandbox too that was real great until you were old enough to realize those weren’t rocks in the sand. It morphed into more of a giant litter box for our cats. We would play with the neighbors and as some sort of funny game we would make each other walk across it trying not to hit the “landmines.” Winner got to pick the Kool-Aid flavor. And my reading tree. There was this large white oak tree in our side yard that had a big hump on one side. Perfect for sitting. Sitting and reading. Neighbors would often comment to my parents, “Saw Sara at old tree reading!”Oh and the magic of my neighbors. I created my first business plan with my best friend Monica, from across the street.  It was a greeting card business. This was right when stamp markers first appeared. Talk about a style game changer. We also had many prosperous lemonade stands. A thirty-five cents a cup. The “success” of  these businesses propelled me to start my own magazine in middle school, which included a range of topics from “How to jazz up your Pringles can – hold all your Scrunchies” to “Style tips for making your locker look “cool.” Thankful for my mother’s business who let me use one of her typewriters to create and who had color cardstock. The Hershey girls across the street raised baby chicks. A whole hen house full of chicks. We used to cuddle with them for hours only taking breaks to crack open fallen walnuts to eat as a snack.   Then there were the nefarious Allen boys. I’m not sure I would have as many laughs or banged up knees as a child if it was not for them. They taught me how to make bike ramps from firewood and cardboard and how to make concrete from dirt, water, and some mysterious substance they found in their dad’s garage. We rollerbladed through the house, slid down staircases, and definitely played with fire. These boys taught me how to take risks and that dirt was indeed a food group. There were no computers or texting. They would just come over and knock on our front door, “Can Steph and Sara come out and play?” Our parents would wrangle us back in with a yell from the back deck.

The best part was we never feared the dark, that was when it really got good. The lightning bugs came out to play with us. Between our houses was basically a basketball court size field. As the summer sun went down it became filled with the sparkles of these miraculous creatures. All the neighborhood kids would come out for this nightly carnival. Our moms and dads always let us stay out a little later, running barefoot with our plastic butter containers( with holes poked at the top) trying to catch every last one of them. Much to my disappointment, we let them go every time. I couldn’t wait to go back night after night. Still, to this day when I am greeted by one, I think of them as some sort of guardian angel that reminds me to keep shining and to not be afraid of the dark.

The magic did not disappear as we moved into our next house. The old memories found their way to etch on my heart leaving room for new magic in a new place. I write to remember the power of thankfulness and the light I received from my childhood place. I learned although the place shaped me the true magic was in the people. The magic was in our connectedness. I write to remind myself how place can be a powerful catalyst for connection, but it’s ultimately the people who surround me who shape my present.

Easter ’93 in front of our house on Green Berry

Make it beautiful,

 

Sara

 

 

 

 

Magic of Place pt. 2

We had spent the last twenty years in this home. Twenty years of messy joys. Twenty years of holidays and family, first high school parties, getting ready for dances, youth group events, all of it. I loved driving through the narrow one lane road that led to our street. It was lined with large oaks on both sides- what a treat it was to watch the seasons dress up those trees- beautiful. It had become automatic and now I had to learn a new routine. Familiar was no more. I thought I had done enough disruption to familiar with me moving a state way, but my family gave me a taste of my own medicine.
I wasn’t able to make it to the move and the last time I was “home” my mom had prepared the remainder of “my” boxes filled with treasures from childhood. These boxes I would need to go through or take. UGH. Lots of emotional labor was needed and I wasn’t sure I was up for it. I remember my mom and sister sitting down in the basement with me. Saying “we are here for you” as I went through my Pog collection, Hanson memorabilia, and  art masterpieces from my elementary days. If you could only see my watercolor dragon! We laughed over finding leftover lost teeth and my strange collection of porcelain dolls. Dozens of first place handstand contests ribbons. Red ribbons of perfect scores from balance beam routines. It should be noted I had already thrown away the yellow ribbons (not perfect scores) from my routines on bars. I hated bars. Basketball tournament medals. Report cards. Third-grade math tests? I thought about why I had kept all this stuff. I think I kept them because I think it validated something in me that I had worth and value. That if I didn’t keep them there would be no record of me achieving anything. I mean, I kept the ribbon from Girl Scout Camp where I won second place in a hula hoop contest. As I sat there sifting through the boxes of stuff surrounded by people that love me the most, I realized how much I didn’t need any of that. It was indeed just stuff. It felt great to throw most of it away and I took pictures of things of great significance. I knew it wasn’t the literal pile of crap that mirrored back to me who I was. My family created the space that mirrored back to me an example of love, joy, opportunity, and hospitality.

Hospitality runs deep in my family and food is our love language. I remember going to my Granny Opal’s house for many many dinners not just on holidays. She wouldn’t let you bring anything. She made it all. From scratch. Her ROLLS. You could smell them as soon as you turned on the gravel road. She wouldn’t let you lift finger. She opened her arms for hugs and a cup of coffee. This carried through to my Mom and Pops. My Pops loves to cook. And he is real real good at it. BBQ master. Chill Cookoff lifetime achievement winner.  He always says everything tastes better with Paprika.  Growing up there were only four of us, but he would always cook for twelve. He always says you never know who might be coming. Which was true because it was often I had friends over who were always welcome to dinner or my aunts and uncles who would just pop by and there was always enough. Always. My mom always brought out white tablecloths and colorful napkins. I loved (still do)  helping her set the table. They both understand the value of welcoming people to the table. (Even when they “argued” about the thickness of the gravy) We were always the ones to host high school dances. My pops would cook a four-course meal. My mom and sister would help with the decorations. People always felt celebrated and knew they had a place at the table.  When my best friend at the time decided to run away in high school she came to our house. When college friends would come home and visit they’d often leave with another “set of parents.” Even as I have brought my Nashville kin home my parents never fail to say, “you always have a place here.”    I realized I didn’t need a bunch of junk or even a place to remind me of that. That even with a new move the magic of love, joy, opportunity, and hospitality isn’t tied up in stuff or even a place, it’s in the people who surround me.

As we approached the new street of my parent’s new home for the first time, I was giddy but thought there may be some bittersweetness when I arrived. It was almost 1:00 am and I had expected to come home to a dark and still house. Not quite how I had anticipated my first new homecoming. When we pulled in the drive tired and worn from our 6-hour journey, the lights were on and we were welcomed with the door swinging wide open to my mom jubilantly shouting, “You’re HERE!” and giving us all big hugs. My dad was right there too with a kiss on my forehead and a “glad you’re home baby girl.” They waited up for us ready with embraces of love and comfort. My mom couldn’t wait to show us around the new house making sure everyone had what they needed before we crashed into our beds. That weekend we enjoyed quality conversation and lots of good food around the table. I realized that it didn’t matter what home we were in, but the magic was in the togetherness.

I write this because it helps me remember to stay present. It helps me remember to continue to exercise my own passions of hospitality and sacred space. Even when people and places change I look at who and what I am surrounded by and it draws me back into the magic and beauty of now. I press in and give thanks.

 

Make it beautiful,

twenty years on Tanglewood Dr.

 

 

Here is a look back at some “treasures”  I found:

The water color dragon! I painted first and the had to free hand the dragon.

Polly Pockets for hours.

I am proud of my music taste in the 90s;)

These could easily be my resolutions for today. Self Preservation blind anyone?

 

The beginnings of Creative Cards Inc.

I remember going every Saturday to Downtown Book and Toy to spend my allowance on new POGs