A House Full Of Memories

 

                       “Our house is a very, very, very fine house.”

                                                                       “Our House” 

                                           Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Like so many kids my age, I grew up in a suburban neighborhood. We lived in a red brick house that sat on a large lot, peppered with pines and hardwoods. My parents bought the place on the eastern side of Birmingham when I was about six years old. At first glance, it appeared to be just another house on another street in another subdivision. However, it was much more than that to me. So many of my childhood memories were infused in its brick and mortar that it seemed to have a soul of its own. It wasn’t just a house, it was a home. My home.

I just discovered that, once again, it’s up for sale. Naturally,  I went to the listing, looked at the photos, and was instantly, pleasantly carried back in time.

The home sat on Hickory Drive - an appropriate name for a street built in the fifties. It was a straight, hilly road that connected to Hickory Circle, like the stem on the letter P. Hilly roads meant fast bike rides in the summer and, if we were fortunate, fast sledding in the winter.

Seeing the driveway reminded me of the time I rode down it on my toy tractor, dragging the plaster cast on my foot as a makeshift brake.

The cast was a result of  a broken ankle I received  the first day we moved in. We hadn’t even opened any boxes before I made friends with Alan, the boy  down the street. It wasn’t long before we decided to tandem jump off their backyard picnic table. On the initial leap, my foot landed on a rock. I’ll never forget the noise; it sounded like a Styrofoam cup being crunched. A trip to the emergency room immediately ensued. That’s one way to meet your new neighbors.

The current home owners have cut down all the shrubbery in the front yard, including the large cedar I hid behind when we shot my neighbor’s truck window out with my BB gun. However, the infamous yellow bell bush at the corner of our lot still remains. That’s where I occasionally picked my own switch before it was used on me. It still seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

Even though every room in the house has been remodeled, each click of the mouse brought up a new photo, and with it, dozens of old stories flashed through my mind.

The entire house now has new flooring, which is certainly an upgrade from the checkerboard linoleum we had in the den. That room, surprisingly, still has the original pine paneling and crank-out windows. Seeing it made me smile. It reminded me of the time we got our first color television, how my father got so angry watching Alabama football games, how we spent almost every Masters Sunday there, and how I was the channel changer. Thank heavens there were only three channels.

My mom used to sit on the den couch and snap green beans or shell peas that we bought by the bushel at the farmers market. I can still see her in the adjoining kitchen, cooking fried chicken, making homemade mashed potatoes, biscuits, or those fresh green beans flavored with pieces of fatback. When I thought she wasn’t looking, I’d swipe a piece of biscuit dough. She knew, of course, but never let on to my petty thievery.

Our stove had a small vent fan, but even so, the smell of her cooking wafted through the house. Oh, to be able to smell those smells again. Unlike many families today, supper was a proper sit-down meal. There was a place setting for each of us, the food was on large plates in the middle of the table, and we passed it boarding-house style - after the blessing, of course. A true Mayberry moment.

Directly off the kitchen was the master bedroom. Since my father had to get up early for his job as a chemist at a steel mill, he was probably in bed by 8:30. However, he wouldn’t doze off without calling me in to sit on the side of the bed and listen to the incredible, hilarious, R-rated children’s stories he made up on the spot. Our entire family still talks about them to this day.

The photo of the living room reminded me of the first time I brought my wife Carol to meet my parents. She got a definite initiation into the Hobby family. After dinner, we were talking in the living room, which shared a wall with the master bedroom. Naturally, my father’s loud, rhythmic snoring was almost part of our conversation. Then unexpectedly, it stopped. We both looked at each other and wondered if Dad had stopped breathing. That’s when a thunderous sound erupted. My dad didn’t just break wind, he broke the sound barrier.

We lived right on the flight path to the Birmingham airport, and it was louder than any jet plane I’d ever heard. Carol had time to ask, “What in the world is that?”, and it hadn’t stopped when she finished the question. Welcome to the family.

The photo of the basement looked surprisingly good. It was obvious that someone had poured and properly finished a layer of concrete over the chalky mess that once passed as a floor when I played down there. The floor had been so soft I dug a hole in the back corner to hide a bottle of wine I bought from a friend. I took one sip and put it back in the hole. It tasted terrible. 

Since my father was a chemist, I decided I needed a laboratory too. A couple of sawhorses and an old door in the back of the basement served the purpose quite well. I stocked it with flasks, beakers, and all kinds of chemicals Dad brought me from work. Looking back, it’s amazing I didn’t blow the house up - especially the time I heated up a large quantity of ammonium nitrate to try to make laughing gas. All I can say now is thank the good Lord I didn’t have YouTube.

Another unofficial member of our family spent time in the basement. Ella, a sweet black lady, came every Friday to iron clothes for mom. My sister and I would sit at the top of the steps to spy on her, and listen to her sing beautiful African-American spirituals while she worked. What a voice.

Years went by, and I, along with my brothers and sisters, grew up and moved out. Eventually, my parents sold the house and downsized to a one-level garden home, as older folks often do. Still, I have no doubt the memories remained there.

And now it’s being sold again. Soon my old house will belong to yet another new owner who will, like us, have experiences of their own to add to the ones we left behind. I’m sure the house will sit quietly, watching and absorbing everything that goes on within its walls, eager to give up its memories to those who want to recall them.

I can only hope they are as rich as mine.