Memories

We sold my Mother's house yesterday. I hope the new owner receives as much joy as our family did. My Father started building it when he returned from the Korean War. Through the last sixty years it has seen it's share of love and joy, arguments and heartache. News of weddings and divorce, births and deaths, storms and tornadoes.



What it has given up is memories. Memories of good times and bad all shared by family. I helped build the room upstairs, holding the Sheetrock with a long T shaped stick my Father made because I was to short to reach the ceiling, even though it was only six feet high. The broken brick in the living room hearth was my fault. I was pounding on a log trying to make kindling when it broke.



The holes out behind the metal shop were dug by my dog, Smokey. The same one who refused to eat when I was gone one week during the summer. He dug the holes and laid in them until I returned.



Out back we shot fireworks and beside the western side of the house there is a breeze that flows through all summer, a great place to sit while you wait for the stars.



The metal building was where we re-built my first car. A 1953 Chevrolet Bel air convertible that would not shift out of second gear when we purchased it in Knoxville. We drove it home that night in second gear and immediately began tearing it apart. I was only fourteen. We had it completely restored in time for my drivers test.



May it bring you joy and peace.