Take a drive up that winding forested road. Notice the hills and the beauty of the blackened trees. Glance at the burned landscape where the fire broke loose. Come over the last hill, precisely eight miles out of town. There you will see a structure, a grand ranch style home. It rises from the clearing so elegantly. Its pristine white trim and rich taupe siding withhold a piece of me. Pull into the lengthy driveway and park on the concrete pad my father poured. Be welcomed by the little front porch and listen. If you listen close enough you can still here our late-night laughs. See yourself inside, the door is always open. Take in the lofty vaulted ceilings, the wall of windows leading to the back porch, the cherry brown hardwood floors, and the perfect arrangement of furniture that changed every few weeks. Feel the energy that was created here. A child grew up in this spacious home. Waking early to catch the NASCAR race with his grandfather. Being served a bowl of Raisin Bran by his grandmother. This was a childhood home and the whispers of those spirits live on.

 

Take a left and head for the kitchen. Gently trace your hand across the smooth granite countertop, it’s real I swear. Admire the tiles below you. My father laid each one. If you look closely, you may find his blood and sweat still soaked into the grout. No tears however, those come later. As you stroll your way by the walk-in pantry and into the lavish mud room, take note of its shape. Its every detail was deemed appropriate by my grandmother. A secluded space for laundry and muddy shoes as not to throw off the aesthetic in the rest of the house. She worked too hard to let a pair of dirty New Balances get in her way. Before you head downstairs, peak into the garage. Legend says there is still an outline of the racecar panels that hung on the wall. That racecar was fast. Its design was simple, black bodied with white and fluorescent orange lettering. My grandfather’s favorite colors. I remember long nights of him working on that car. He taught the boy how to use every tool in the box here. Don’t look too long or you will see the memory of that young child running head first into the toolbox because he wasn’t paying attention. I’m sure he had a concussion but he never knew for sure. Close the door before those memories escape, they are probably quite lonely by now.

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Open the door to the basement. Count each and every step on your way down. There is a light switch on the right, just around the corner. You should have counted 27. What you may see is an unfinished basement with toys, totes, and trophies scattered along the walls. What I see is a racetrack for an upcoming NASCAR driver. He won every scooter race there was in his training. He challenged friend after friend to race him on that track. In the concrete you may be able to see the wear he put into it, taking corners harder and faster till the wheels of the scooter would slide out from under him.

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Turn off the lights and run up the stairs. I mean it, RUN. You don’t want to meet the monsters he envisioned crawling out of the darkness and chasing after him up each step. Burst through the door, back into the mud room, and return to the main part of the house. I hope you have felt the energy of this house thus far. It is warm, comforting, and kind. Make your way down the hall by the front door. A narrow hall I always thought. Don’t mess up the carpet runner laid perfectly by my grandmother, she is not afraid to take a swing on you, trust me. This is where the family slept. A small guest bathroom on the left, perfectly organized and polished clean. On the right, a midsized office with a large desk and a cheap recliner. My grandmother hated that recliner. Peer in and see the memory of a kid at age ten, clicking on his radio and dialing it to Hits 102.7. Watch him log on to the bulky computer and play building games for hours on end. It was there that he discovered how much he loved to create.

 

Return to the hallway and you are met with two doors. One is bigger than the other. That was intentional. My grandmother asked for an extra wide door in case one of them ended up in a wheelchair. She was always so thoughtful and caring. They thought this house would be forever, but as we have learned, sometimes forever is shorter than we think. We can skip the small bedroom on the right. It is relatively normal. A full-size bed, precisely made. A few wall decorations and a bifold closet door. The room patiently awaits its next guest. Instead, focus your attention to the large door. It leads to their bedroom. See their extravagant bed, arranged with too many pillows. An antique nightstand on each side. A treadmill sits in the corner for when my grandmother would walk and watch crime tv. An oversized walk-in closet to your right. And yes, it really is bigger than the guest bathroom. Turn back around and be greeted by their large flat screen tv, listen close and you can still hear the buzzing sound it made when you turned it on. Lastly in this room, you should see the bathroom. Solid, white French doors lead you in. Again, in case of a wheelchair diagnosis. There are two sinks, his and hers. Two large mirrors, his and hers. A shower big enough to wash a small elephant stands on the right. A bench and a shower head on each side, his and hers. Again, notice the tile. My father laid every slate. I need you to notice his hard work in case no one else does. He made sure their home was perfect. He helped create this special place.

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It is safe now to return to the front door and make your exit. But first, before you go. Look at the closet next to the front door. Not inside just the doors. I must tell you the darkness that lives in this house. This closet door is where he leaned as he sat. It was late at night and his heart decided it was time to alter their perfect narrative. He sat freezing; hand clenched over his chest. My grandmother called the paramedics unsure of the behavior before her. The young boy stumbled out of bed due to the commotion and watched his panicked grandmother speak frantically on the phone. He watched the medics carry his grandfather off into the ambulance as the cracks formed in the pillars of his life. His grandfather would later recover, but the boy would not. He learned after that night; things would never be the same again. That heart attack would become the beginning of the end for him, for them, for this house.

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A few years later this house sold for half a million. The memories made would remain priceless. The energies that lived here would never leave. An auction was held as my grandparents tried to downsize their lifestyle to better fit their aging souls. They moved out and moved on. They left this spacious home behind to start anew. That was over a decade ago. The memories still dance and sing. They laugh and drink. They hoot and they sure do holler. Now that I have brought you into this home please leave. Please leave this behind as a memory. Please leave but never forget. Never forget this landmark in the hills. Its beauty rises tall above the landscape and its legacy lives on forever.