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
make it beautiful 