I have to admit, I have been completely smitten with the idea of driving to Jacksonville, NC and finding this woman who gave birth to me. It wouldn't be hard to locate her with my handy dandy little GPS Psycho Tracker app that I downloaded. I'm joking about the app, but I am fully confident that I could find her purdy easily. But the question is, do I really want to be that girl who just shows up unannounced?
Sure. I just did that exact same thing yesterday when I showed up at 2550 Valencia Terrace. The new occupants/owners just so happened to be unloading their minivan with their beautiful 1 and 3 year olds, who undoubtedly adorn initial engraved jumpers for Easter to the country club.
The house that we just crept up on like I was reenacting a drive-by shooting, the one where I shamelessly waved my pointer finger in the air, while hanging my neck slightly under the passenger side window so I could see what I was pointing at was the house that I grew up in. The two little girls, cousins in fact, giggling uncontrollably in the backseat probably gave it away that we were not there to shoot up the place, but nevertheless, when I saw the man lugging the carseat up the side steps, and he locked eyes with me over a hundred feet away, I immediately let the cat out of the bag. "I grew up in this house," I shouted out of the rolled-down window to the stranger who was looking at me with such puzzlement. Why is this strange lady pointing at my house, and stopped in front of my driveway, I'm sure he was wondering.
Part of me hoped that he would invite us in.
I had done it before with Wanda, a previous owner of my home that I live in today. She showed up on my front porch one Saturday, introduced herself, and had a story that her brother had accidentally sent her a Christmas card to her old address (mine), and it had cash in it. Who sends cash money these days? It's odd if you think about all the ways that you can transfer money today, but there is just something exciting about opening a card and finding a crisp bill laid nicely across the inseam of a card. She was telling the truth because I had just received the card in mention the day before. It was sitting on my kitchen counter ready to be returned to sender. Lucky for her, I was there, and lucky for me I was saved the trip to the post office. I don't trust the mailbox. My mom scared me into that idea quite early on. It still stuck.
When Wanda came in, waltzing through the downstairs in shock and amazement, as if she was immediately flooded with fond memories, I was happy I could play a small part in her stroll down memory lane. She obviously had wonderful times there, and was feeling very nostalgic, and might have even shed a few tears, in which case, I most assuredly shared a few in return. If you cry, you better believe I'm gonna cry with you. After the nickel tour of our modest house and a cup of coffee later, she informed me while siting next to me on the couch, that she had lost her first husband, and father of her children there. He died in the house of a heart attack in his thirties- a freak accident. I knew what that was like. Never having lost a husband myself, I still know what it's like to lose someone special at a young age to a heart attack, and in your own house. It wasn't easy. It's still isn't.
My wish came true, because Parker, I believe that was his name, waved for us to come in after he put the baby carrier down as he unlocked the side door- the side door that we always went in, the side door where your best friends enter and exit, and rarely knocked if you were coming to the Fairley household, the side door that I had mastered opening with only a slight creaking at 2am when I was coming or going.
I pulled in the driveway, which even felt slightly unfamiliar after the 15 years it's been since I pulled in on a regular basis. It felt so long- the driveway. I felt so small, my enormous Buick barreling through. It was odd- like I was entering uncharted territory. This wasn't mine anymore. I had to pull in slowly now, avoiding the grass.
We got out, Sarah, MacKenzie and I. MacKenzie is Sarah's best pal ever, and cousin who is a year older, and with insightful curiosity, like Sarah, she seemed genuinely interested in seeing the place where I grew up. Kids care so much more than adults about matters of the heart I'm learning. They blindly invest, whereas we want to know what we are always getting out of any relationship before we shake hands on much of anything.
The young good looking couple both introduced themselves, probably shocked that someone would even have the audacity to intrude on their home just to see what it would look like these days. Although, we all knew when we were introducing ourselves that they were giving me something that no one else could provide, and I was sharing some history with them- with total strangers. They could ask me questions about the house, which they did, and I could give them stories about missing awnings, and one raging party that took place there that will go down in the history books of high school parties. People still to this day bring that up. As shameful as it was, it was fun. Something reminiscent of the movie Weird Science. Abbey, the wife, had even heard about it. She is cousins with a childhood friend of mine, and neighbor, whose family still lives in the neighborhood to this day. Small world or small town? I'm not sure. Either way, it was nice to be welcomed into their home. They didn't have to invite us in. Most people wouldn't probably. But they didn't hesitate, and it was nearing bedtime for the kids- the first day of daylight savings. Spring was in the air.
It didn't feel like 1998 anymore. Nope still 2013.
As we walked up those side brick steps that I had walked up and down thousands of times in my childhood, I didn't feel anything. I didn't take in any sadness or joy. There was no, OMG, I haven't been here in forever feeling. And the feelings continued, or should I say didn't continue as Abbey showed me around the house, which looked absolutely NOTHING like the house I grew up in. It was really nice. It was shiny and new, completely gutted. It was born again. It was beautiful.
Not my 2550 Valencia. Not the house that I celebrated my 16th birthday in, surprised my parents for their anniversaries in with cheesecake and candles and ugly sweaters I bought for mom with the money I earned from working at Kenny Roger's Roasters on the corner or Gloria Jeans Coffee Shop in SouthPark mall. I couldn't see the desk in the kitchen that held the rotary phone with the extremely long cord that Wilson chewed on incessantly while he was on it. I couldn't see the Christmas tree in the living room- that God-awful tree that had more gaps in it than Jodi Arias's alibi. There was no ugly flowered couch that could sleep a small army, no small round blue and red plastic table that we drew our love notes to Mom on, no front door that swung open at the slightest breeze allowing Hershey to tear out of whenever he felt like it. I didn't see any of those memories in that new house. They might have as well changed the damn address number, because that house, though beautiful in its entirety, though marvelous and granite laden with gorgeous Brazilian hardwoods dancing across your feet, that house was not my house- anymore.
I didn't get that lump in my throat that I fully expected to have. There was no, OHHHH and look at that- that's where that happened. There was just, Wow, this doesn't even look like the same house. The only thing that remained original to my 2550 Valencia Terrace was the ugly chandelier with the crystal droplets that I never liked to begin with. Isn't that funny? The new owner said she loved it, and wasn't going to change it, but she had doctored it up with her own flair. She had put mini lamp shades on the bulbs- something my mom had never done on any of her chandeliers. Incidentally, both of mine wear them.
We walked out to the back porch. The bushes my dad had planted were all gone. All of them. The trees in the front that he planted were all gone too. He had planted probably 25 pine trees in the front yard. At the time, I hated them because that meant I had to mow around 25 trees. After we were gone, I loved those trees. They represented something that a tree most always represents-the test of time. They represented my Dad, his existence, our existence together, our rich history, and hard work. He might not be remembered for being a hard worker, but the one thing in this world that my dad loved doing was planting things. He enjoyed planting to propagating to actually digging up wild plants in the woods, which I found odd, until I caught myself doing it. I'm not sure if planting seeds or trees, whatever it was that he put into the ground, was what he enjoyed most, or if it was seeing the change and growth in something you put forth effort into- watching things evolve.
After my brother died a very sudden death of a heart attack at 20, my Dad mentioned a few times that what he felt he missed most about Wilson was the opportunity to see him evolve into the man that he was becoming. This is what he liked about planting. Seeds don't always have to be physical. So I don't know why I got so hung up on the fact that 2550 Valencia Terrace was not what I remembered it to be. The seeds that were planted are left to grow in my mind. The memories that I have are left to be written about in stories like this one, and there is no amount of Spackle or Sherwin Williams Oceanic Blue paint that can smear them. I am left with treasure chests full of them, as I am of my family who I spent my life getting to know, and still getting to know, even in death.
I didn't intend on this story having this ending, but I guess things don't always end the way we intend for them to. All together, I felt I had closure when I pulled out of the driveway. That was something that I needed evidently. We all need closure no matter how hard we try to just move on. It's part of living and I guess it's part of dying.
I'm glad I stopped by and was received with such grace. As I was driving home this afternoon, and I was telling a close friend this same story, I realized in that moment that it's not about reliving my childhood anymore. It's time to live Sarah's. That was my time, and now it's hers. I have all the power to make hers just as memorable as mine, and that's my plan.
I took a number of lessons from this experience, with one that particularly struck a chord. People might not always receive you the way you think they will, and it's easy to change your mind. I'm not sure how much impact all of this will have on my quest, but there are no circumstances in life that ignore perspective.
Sure. I just did that exact same thing yesterday when I showed up at 2550 Valencia Terrace. The new occupants/owners just so happened to be unloading their minivan with their beautiful 1 and 3 year olds, who undoubtedly adorn initial engraved jumpers for Easter to the country club.
The house that we just crept up on like I was reenacting a drive-by shooting, the one where I shamelessly waved my pointer finger in the air, while hanging my neck slightly under the passenger side window so I could see what I was pointing at was the house that I grew up in. The two little girls, cousins in fact, giggling uncontrollably in the backseat probably gave it away that we were not there to shoot up the place, but nevertheless, when I saw the man lugging the carseat up the side steps, and he locked eyes with me over a hundred feet away, I immediately let the cat out of the bag. "I grew up in this house," I shouted out of the rolled-down window to the stranger who was looking at me with such puzzlement. Why is this strange lady pointing at my house, and stopped in front of my driveway, I'm sure he was wondering.
Part of me hoped that he would invite us in.
I had done it before with Wanda, a previous owner of my home that I live in today. She showed up on my front porch one Saturday, introduced herself, and had a story that her brother had accidentally sent her a Christmas card to her old address (mine), and it had cash in it. Who sends cash money these days? It's odd if you think about all the ways that you can transfer money today, but there is just something exciting about opening a card and finding a crisp bill laid nicely across the inseam of a card. She was telling the truth because I had just received the card in mention the day before. It was sitting on my kitchen counter ready to be returned to sender. Lucky for her, I was there, and lucky for me I was saved the trip to the post office. I don't trust the mailbox. My mom scared me into that idea quite early on. It still stuck.
When Wanda came in, waltzing through the downstairs in shock and amazement, as if she was immediately flooded with fond memories, I was happy I could play a small part in her stroll down memory lane. She obviously had wonderful times there, and was feeling very nostalgic, and might have even shed a few tears, in which case, I most assuredly shared a few in return. If you cry, you better believe I'm gonna cry with you. After the nickel tour of our modest house and a cup of coffee later, she informed me while siting next to me on the couch, that she had lost her first husband, and father of her children there. He died in the house of a heart attack in his thirties- a freak accident. I knew what that was like. Never having lost a husband myself, I still know what it's like to lose someone special at a young age to a heart attack, and in your own house. It wasn't easy. It's still isn't.
My wish came true, because Parker, I believe that was his name, waved for us to come in after he put the baby carrier down as he unlocked the side door- the side door that we always went in, the side door where your best friends enter and exit, and rarely knocked if you were coming to the Fairley household, the side door that I had mastered opening with only a slight creaking at 2am when I was coming or going.
I pulled in the driveway, which even felt slightly unfamiliar after the 15 years it's been since I pulled in on a regular basis. It felt so long- the driveway. I felt so small, my enormous Buick barreling through. It was odd- like I was entering uncharted territory. This wasn't mine anymore. I had to pull in slowly now, avoiding the grass.
We got out, Sarah, MacKenzie and I. MacKenzie is Sarah's best pal ever, and cousin who is a year older, and with insightful curiosity, like Sarah, she seemed genuinely interested in seeing the place where I grew up. Kids care so much more than adults about matters of the heart I'm learning. They blindly invest, whereas we want to know what we are always getting out of any relationship before we shake hands on much of anything.
The young good looking couple both introduced themselves, probably shocked that someone would even have the audacity to intrude on their home just to see what it would look like these days. Although, we all knew when we were introducing ourselves that they were giving me something that no one else could provide, and I was sharing some history with them- with total strangers. They could ask me questions about the house, which they did, and I could give them stories about missing awnings, and one raging party that took place there that will go down in the history books of high school parties. People still to this day bring that up. As shameful as it was, it was fun. Something reminiscent of the movie Weird Science. Abbey, the wife, had even heard about it. She is cousins with a childhood friend of mine, and neighbor, whose family still lives in the neighborhood to this day. Small world or small town? I'm not sure. Either way, it was nice to be welcomed into their home. They didn't have to invite us in. Most people wouldn't probably. But they didn't hesitate, and it was nearing bedtime for the kids- the first day of daylight savings. Spring was in the air.
It didn't feel like 1998 anymore. Nope still 2013.
As we walked up those side brick steps that I had walked up and down thousands of times in my childhood, I didn't feel anything. I didn't take in any sadness or joy. There was no, OMG, I haven't been here in forever feeling. And the feelings continued, or should I say didn't continue as Abbey showed me around the house, which looked absolutely NOTHING like the house I grew up in. It was really nice. It was shiny and new, completely gutted. It was born again. It was beautiful.
Not my 2550 Valencia. Not the house that I celebrated my 16th birthday in, surprised my parents for their anniversaries in with cheesecake and candles and ugly sweaters I bought for mom with the money I earned from working at Kenny Roger's Roasters on the corner or Gloria Jeans Coffee Shop in SouthPark mall. I couldn't see the desk in the kitchen that held the rotary phone with the extremely long cord that Wilson chewed on incessantly while he was on it. I couldn't see the Christmas tree in the living room- that God-awful tree that had more gaps in it than Jodi Arias's alibi. There was no ugly flowered couch that could sleep a small army, no small round blue and red plastic table that we drew our love notes to Mom on, no front door that swung open at the slightest breeze allowing Hershey to tear out of whenever he felt like it. I didn't see any of those memories in that new house. They might have as well changed the damn address number, because that house, though beautiful in its entirety, though marvelous and granite laden with gorgeous Brazilian hardwoods dancing across your feet, that house was not my house- anymore.
I didn't get that lump in my throat that I fully expected to have. There was no, OHHHH and look at that- that's where that happened. There was just, Wow, this doesn't even look like the same house. The only thing that remained original to my 2550 Valencia Terrace was the ugly chandelier with the crystal droplets that I never liked to begin with. Isn't that funny? The new owner said she loved it, and wasn't going to change it, but she had doctored it up with her own flair. She had put mini lamp shades on the bulbs- something my mom had never done on any of her chandeliers. Incidentally, both of mine wear them.
We walked out to the back porch. The bushes my dad had planted were all gone. All of them. The trees in the front that he planted were all gone too. He had planted probably 25 pine trees in the front yard. At the time, I hated them because that meant I had to mow around 25 trees. After we were gone, I loved those trees. They represented something that a tree most always represents-the test of time. They represented my Dad, his existence, our existence together, our rich history, and hard work. He might not be remembered for being a hard worker, but the one thing in this world that my dad loved doing was planting things. He enjoyed planting to propagating to actually digging up wild plants in the woods, which I found odd, until I caught myself doing it. I'm not sure if planting seeds or trees, whatever it was that he put into the ground, was what he enjoyed most, or if it was seeing the change and growth in something you put forth effort into- watching things evolve.
After my brother died a very sudden death of a heart attack at 20, my Dad mentioned a few times that what he felt he missed most about Wilson was the opportunity to see him evolve into the man that he was becoming. This is what he liked about planting. Seeds don't always have to be physical. So I don't know why I got so hung up on the fact that 2550 Valencia Terrace was not what I remembered it to be. The seeds that were planted are left to grow in my mind. The memories that I have are left to be written about in stories like this one, and there is no amount of Spackle or Sherwin Williams Oceanic Blue paint that can smear them. I am left with treasure chests full of them, as I am of my family who I spent my life getting to know, and still getting to know, even in death.
I didn't intend on this story having this ending, but I guess things don't always end the way we intend for them to. All together, I felt I had closure when I pulled out of the driveway. That was something that I needed evidently. We all need closure no matter how hard we try to just move on. It's part of living and I guess it's part of dying.
I'm glad I stopped by and was received with such grace. As I was driving home this afternoon, and I was telling a close friend this same story, I realized in that moment that it's not about reliving my childhood anymore. It's time to live Sarah's. That was my time, and now it's hers. I have all the power to make hers just as memorable as mine, and that's my plan.
I took a number of lessons from this experience, with one that particularly struck a chord. People might not always receive you the way you think they will, and it's easy to change your mind. I'm not sure how much impact all of this will have on my quest, but there are no circumstances in life that ignore perspective.
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