Where I was from

Dogs playing in river

My three dogs swimming in the Carson River, circa 1988. This photo was taken when I was about 6. The dog on the left, Timmy, lived until I was a freshman in college.

“I am always drawn back to the places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods.” — Truman Capote

“There is no real way to deal with everything we lose.” — Joan Didion

My childhood home is destroyed. Abandoned. Most of the back fence has blown down, and where a gazebo once stood sits a pile of garbage. A foreclosure notice is taped to the door, and peering through the grimy front window, I can see an array of junk lying on the ripped-up carpet. Where the couch should be is — quite inexplicably — a canoe left behind by the previous owners.

The surrounding homes are gorgeous, with fresh coats of paint and well-trimmed yards. The sad irony is that growing up, I always thought my house was the most beautiful. My parents landscaped both the front and back yards themselves, molding the tough clay dirt into our own little oasis in the desert.

Now that oasis has vanished, and the desert is reaching in through the loose fence boards to reclaim the yard. Weeds and sagebrush are scattered about, as if there was never a lush yard here — and, by extension, never a happy home, and never a young family.

I’ve always had a penchant for the past — a yearning for the way things used to be. I’m not sure if it’s healthy. For me, innocent nostalgia often transforms into wistful reminiscence, as I think about the way things were and how much simpler life seemed to be.

As I drive through my hometown, all I can see are the buildings that no longer stand, the boarded-up storefronts where nobody shops. The small town I grew up in is mutating into an impersonal hodgepodge of parking lots and gas stations — yet to the well-trained eye, it’s brimming with memories and the outlines of ghosts. Driving past a concrete pad in a vacant lot, I can still see the pizza place that burned down nearly 20 years ago. I used to play Paperboy in the arcade there, feeding quarters into the slot, the controllers slathered with grease.

child haunting Easter eggs.

Me hunting Easter eggs in 1988. Our house and yard were brand-new. My three puppies are in the background, along with the dog house my father built.

overgrown yard

The yard as it looks in 2016. The dog run is gone, and the dog house was dragged to a different corner. The lawn is dead, almost as if it never existed.

Seeing my childhood home in this condition, I wish I’d never come back. It’s hard to see past the dirt to the warm memories of my youth. The lawn where I kicked my soccer ball around is gone. The gazebo where I splashed in my wading pool is gone. The sign marking my pet turtle’s grave is gone; the combination swing set and slide that my grandparents bought me, gone.

It’s not as if another family has moved in to live their own lives and make their own memories. It’s worse. It’s as if all that warmth, joy and love never existed. Of course, I have my photographs and memories, where the warmth will forever remain alive, but seeing the trampled-on ground with the overgrown weeds and the gnarled sagebrush, it’s as if an aching emptiness is trying to gnaw away at the core of my being, grasping for my happiness the way the desert is reaching for — and reclaiming — the once-beautiful yard.

So many things are running through my mind as I step over a broken fence post, ambling through the litter-strewn lot. I think of that scene in Annie Hall, when Woody Allen takes Diane Keaton and Tony Robbins to his childhood apartment, and the present-day adults watch and comment on Allen’s long-ago family. In the same way, gazing past the dilapidated house, I can almost see my 8-year-old self bounding down the back stairs to try out the pogo stick Santa Claus brought him for Christmas.

A friend is with me, and through the weeds I point to the spot where one of my dogs is buried, and where the neighbor across the street once shot a firecracker over the house and set the sagebrush on fire. (Needless to say, he wasn’t the most responsible adult.)

Of course, my friend can’t see what I’m seeing in my head. I wish I could walk her through time — the way Woody Allen did with Diane Keaton — to take her beyond the trash and the dirt to the whimsical impressions unspooling in my mind. Every nook and cranny I look at brings back another memory.

To me, the yard is like one of those 3-D Magic Eye posters, where if you let your eyes unfocus, images from the past will come tumbling into shape. But once you shake yourself away, the past dissolves like a fleck of water evaporating off a hot sidewalk. It’s here one moment, and the next — just like that — it’s gone.

For the most part, I’m able to keep my composure. Sure, seeing the home in its present state roils up a list of emotions, but I’m not so nostalgic or connected to the past that I’m feeling overly sentimental. The past is the past, I remind myself. It was a part of my life that I enjoyed at the time, but now it’s time to leave the old behind and to embrace the new. You can never reclaim what you once had because life not only moves forward — it progresses and evolves. That’s why high-school reunions are always so awkward and disappointing (not that I’ve ever been to one). It was a time and a place that made sense at the time, but now it no longer does.

So, despite this trying trudge down memory lane, I’m not feeling wistful or overly emotional. Like I said, I’m keeping my composure … at least, that is, until I see the dog house my dad built tucked away in a corner, crammed against the front gate.

a brand-new dog house

My dad built this state-of-the-art dog house in 1988 for our three new puppies. I never imaged that it would still exist in 2016, nearly 30 years later.

A weather-beaten dog house

The dog house in 2016, stained by weather and time. I think that’s my old swing set in the foreground.

That’s what sets me off: the dog house. Although I don’t cry, an overwhelming sense of sadness drapes over my heart, and my intestines knot with a deep-seated aching for days gone by.

My dad built that dog house in the 1980s, and more than 25 years later it’s still here, though stained by weather and scarred by time. When I was a child, I wanted a dog so much. We took a camping trip in the hills, and out of nowhere seven puppies scampered into our camp, their little bellies concave from starvation. Someone had dumped them for dead, and we happened to be there to find them.

We kept three of the dogs and gave away the other four to happy families. One died at age 2 (it was the runt), another when I was in high school, and the third saw me through my freshman year at college. When they were puppies, my dad built them an insulated dog house with a window for ventilation and a doorway covered by a flap.

Seeing it here in the yard, abandoned with my childhood home, I’m flooded with memories of walking the dogs, rubbing their bellies, throwing sticks in the river for them to fetch. (Or not — sometimes the current carried the sticks away too quickly, so the dogs clambered onto shore and shook off next to me, so that I was flecked with dirt and smelled like wet fur.)

It occurs to me that unlike my family and I, that dog house has never left my childhood yard. When I graduated from high school, it was here. When I graduated from college, it was here. When I got my first professional job, it was here. While I grew up and carried on with my life, that dog house never left.

But what does it matter? I tell myself. It’s not a living thing. It doesn’t care. It’s not like the dog house misses me or was waiting with hope for me to return. It’s not The Brave Little Toaster. It’s a bunch of lumber hammered together with nails — that’s all.

Yet looking at it, I can’t see the wood or the shingles or the general structure. All I can see is the past in its water-color clarity, and all I can hear is the patter of paws clicking excitedly across the wooden floor.

“Come on,” someone says, tugging my sleeve. “It’s time to go.”

I look up, startled. It’s not my friend summoning me. Rather, it’s the present, with its harshly defined edges framing the dreary lot that used to be my backyard.

Used to be. It’s not anymore. I don’t belong here. Although I have many happy memories here, those moments can’t be rekindled into reality, no matter how tightly I close my eyes against the onslaught of tears.

I realize that I don’t want to forgo the present by living in the past. Life is a natural progression. Like a river carrying a stick, it flows toward unseen curves and bends. And although it’s murkier and choppy in some places, so many of the stretches are serene and beautiful, and the entire ride is worth taking.

So I take one last look at the dog house, as if saying a formal goodbye, and then I turn and leave, stepping over weeds and empty bottles of Crown Royal, to return to the car. I walk down the driveway where I used to ride my bike, stepping past the corner where the neighborhood kids once waited for the bus (perhaps they still do).

And I leave then, my chest feeling taut, my heart heavy and sad. Memories of my dogs replay in my mind, as well as birthdays parties gone by, and lazy summer days on the swing set.

I turn for one last glimpse, and looking past the torn-down fence and the brush-scattered sand, I can still see that oasis in the desert … as well as three exhausted dogs lying atop a lush carpet of lawn, resting and panting from their walk to the river.

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13 thoughts on “Where I was from

  1. lnr03

    Sounds like you had some really great memories in that home. It is so sad to see your childhood home gone like that. I guess seeing the doghouse still intact was pretty awesome though. I remember being a kid and we lived in Long Island and then Queens. My parents are from the Bronx and so were their parents. On weekends we would drive in and visit. I would remember hearing my Dad, say look I grew up there and now they ate it, that was his description of how run down and boarded up the neighborhood was. I guess the good thing is we have our memories. Have a great day!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Colane Conundrum Post author

      I’m definitely glad to have my photos and memories. It’s hard to imagine that houses — and sometimes entire neighborhoods — can simply deteriorate from neglect. They change from happy places to sad, run-down places, and if it weren’t for our memories, we would never know how warm and inviting they used to be.

      I like how your dad described his old neighborhood. It really sums it up. Life is all about change, but it’s sad when the things we used to know fade away. That’s life, I guess.

      Thank you for reading, and you have a great day, too!

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    1. Colane Conundrum Post author

      Thank you, Gail! I’ve always enjoyed returning to places I used to know. Oftentimes it’s sad to see how much has changed, but reflecting on the past helps me to appreciate the present all the more.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Colane Conundrum Post author

      Thank you, Jay. 😀 It was a difficult experience. I’ve seen places I used to live where the owners made changes, and it didn’t really affect me. But seeing my childhood home in such disrepair … it really was quite a shock.

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  2. Sheila Moss

    I’ve not been back to my hometown in years and years. Last time I was there the house where I lived was gone and a building of some sort was there. Since then I have looked at the town with virtual reality through Google maps. Too sad… nothing is the same and it is all so small like the city shrank. Thomas Wolfe was right, “You Can’t Go Home Again.”

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Colane Conundrum Post author

      You definitely can never go home again. It’s weird how that’s true for people, as well as places. Change is a natural part of life, and when you’re in the thick of it, you don’t notice it. But when you come back to a place after not having been there, the changes are often dramatic.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. sportsattitudes

    I can identify with you on seeing a prior childhood home in disrepair. It is a very strange feeling indeed. Drive by it on occasion. Weird feeling. I spent a great deal of my childhood at my grandparents’ house. It was really unsettling when it got demolished several years ago to make way for a “new and improved” house. Not to me. The better house was the one no longer there.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Colane Conundrum Post author

      It’s always disheartening when things get torn down to make way for the “new and improved.” The area seems to lose something irreplaceable. I guess sometimes you need to make way for the new, but it’s like a piece of you gets torn away with it.

      I visited my alma mater recently, and they had torn down the library to make way for a “new and improved” building of some sort. (The library itself was moved to a different location.)

      Frankly, I miss the old library.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. Colane Conundrum Post author

    Posting the below comment from my friend, Elizabeth, because she doesn’t have a WordPress login:

    Recently I went to look at a couple of houses in my past because my Aunt is dying and one of the houses was her childhood farmhouse (of which I have a single memory everyone tells me I am too young to have, but I do nonetheless); and this was razed and resurrected as a McMansion. So I looked up my own childhood home which had tremendous potential as a colonial antique and it falls into the category of the story you wrote. The tree my father planted over my mother’s ashes is gone, the patio he built with flat flagstones hand-gathered one by one from his walks in the woods is gone… the house looks like crap, as it did when I turned down the offer to buy it from my dad. The owner in between put a lot of work into the place and finally put horses on it (as I would have, of course), but now I just wish I could rescue it from its current owner and restore the soul of it.

    I know how you feel… but you will own the memory and make it a permanent part of who you are. And if you did not return to own the memory, you would be a little bit less of the soul who fills your skin.

    EE

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  5. mistermuse

    When I was a boy many moons ago, I had childhood homes in three different cities, including the city where I was born and live now. Oddly enough, the out-of-state boyhood homes are the ones still standing and being lived in (at least they were when I went back on nostalgia trips like yours over a decade ago). It’s hard to put into words the feelings that come over you when you go back, but you did a beautiful job of it.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Colane Conundrum Post author

      Thank you very much. I always enjoy visiting places I used to know, even if just to relive the memories they bring. It’s amazing how much a home and a town can change over the course of a lifetime. I’m just glad to have photos and memories!

      Liked by 1 person

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