Pin It Today was a travel day. After a couple of much needed weeks to decompress after trips to Tennessee, Virginia Beach, and a whirlwind Vacation Bible School, I was finally ready to make the trip down to South Carolina to see Mom. I awoke, finished packing and several hundred other details that needed attending to before we could get on the road, and then...we got on the road.
I love going to Mom's. Essentially I get to veg out while my laundry is done, my supper is cooked, and my kids are watched--guilt-free. I get to be mothered once again. You can't beat that.
I grew up here in Virginia, roughly ten or fifteen miles away from where I currently live. Every now and then I drive by my old house and marvel at both its familiarity and its strangeness. I look at the window and wonder if the room beyond is still pale yellow. When it was my bedroom, there was a print of late summer flowers that hung over the small leaning bookcase, and a desk where I did my homework and wrote my stories. I study the two pines that shelter the left side of the small ranch, curiously smaller now than they were when I stained my hands with sap playing princess and G.I. Jane.
I wonder what the lady of the house would say if I were to take a page from Miranda Lambert's playbook and knock on the door, once blue and now pale cream. "Ma'am...I know you don't know me from Adam, but this is the house that built me...if I could just come in...won't take nothing but a memory" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQYNM6SjD_o
My parents began their various journeys when I started college, finally ending up in Columbia, SC. At one point, since I had chosen to attend school in my hometown and did not live on campus, I was actually living with my husband's (then my boyfriend) family, because my family home had been sold. It was okay, though, because the one thing I learned very quickly was that home was wherever my parents ended up. It wasn't a structure. It wasn't a number on a mailbox. It wasn't a streetname.
It's a quilt on bed that somehow, hasn't changed in the past twenty years. It's the little tray of perfumes that rests on Mom's dresser. (In a moment of curiosity I once spilled an entire bottle of White Shoulders in the bathroom; after that, all perfume was moved to the top of the dresser.) It's the same comfy, falling apart easy chair that I love to sink into, first thing, when I arrive. It's a cabinet full of the same glasses that we used when we were all growing up under the same roof. I think sometimes about buying new drinking glasses for the folks, but then decide: nah. This hodgepodge, ruffian gang of hooligan glasses is all we need.