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It Wasn't Our House But It Was Our House
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Published: March 22, 2009
Our house burned down.
Not the one in which we currently reside. And it didn't actually burn down, but it burned badly enough to level it and replace it with something that isn't our house.
And it really wasn't our house anymore, but it was for 14 years. It was where we began to be a family.
My wife and I, still very much in the extended newlywed stage, bought the old farm house in the middle of nowhere for less than the price of a new Chevy Silverado. I stood in the living room and saw the scrub pines outside through the cracks in the bead board walls, but it was an upgrade from the rented single-wide trailer we first called home.
The porch sagged, the roof leaked and the furnace growled, but it was ours.
It had stood there since 1902 or 1912, depending on which document you held in your hand, and it came with a colorful history. An old deputy sheriff with enough tales to fill 10 books told me about the spinster sisters who lived there back in the day and about the wine they made, and how the law didn't much venture into that neck the woods because some folks would take pot shots at the patrol cars.
I figured I would fit right in.
I patched the walls, someone with more skill than I patched the roof, and we began to make memories in that old house.
It was where I stood in the yard and split countless truckloads of firewood to feed the stove that supplemented the furnace that could not keep up with the cold, until that furnace blew up and was replaced by a new furnace that also blew up.
I've never had much luck with furnaces.
It was where I shot holes in a broken washing machine with a .22 pistol just because I could and it was fun.
They've got ordinances against that here in town, I've come to learn.
It was where I buried the greatest and most loyal mongrel dog ever rescued from a drainage ditch as a pup and, right beside her, the most trifling beagle dog to repeatedly gnaw his way through a chain link fence and chase rabbits at four o'clock in the morning.
I cried both times.
It was where I sucked in my belly and inched my way into a red-dirt crawlspace that I was convinced held several nests of black widow spiders to wire in a C-band satellite dish so I could watch ballgames and dirty movies.
Lightning hit the dish. Twice. I still enjoyed the programming.
It was where I was bitten by a snake in my bedroom, settling once and for all the question of whether I was quick enough to catch with my bare hand a small snake that had slithered into our house.
I was not.
It was where my wife, 10 minutes into an episode of "E.R." on a Thursday night, announced, "This baby wants out," and, a day or so later, we brought home a pink and wrinkly addition to the family.
It was the most frightened I'd ever been, eclipsing even my time in the crawlspace.
I don't regret the move to town. Neither does my wife. It's closer to our jobs and our daughter's junior high school. The neighbors are good people. Our current house has a colorful history as well, thanks to the wonderfully cantankerous former owner. There are memories being made here as each day goes by.
No one, thankfully, was hurt in the fire at our old house. The current property owner tells me she's making plans for something else out there in the middle of nowhere.
I tell myself not to feel so melancholy. It wasn't our house anymore.
But, in a way, it was.
Our house burned down.
Not the one in which we currently reside. And it didn't actually burn down, but it burned badly enough to level it and replace it with something that isn't our house.
And it really wasn't our house anymore, but it was for 14 years. It was where we began to be a family.
My wife and I, still very much in the extended newlywed stage, bought the old farm house in the middle of nowhere for less than the price of a new Chevy Silverado. I stood in the living room and saw the scrub pines outside through the cracks in the bead board walls, but it was an upgrade from the rented single-wide trailer we first called home.
The porch sagged, the roof leaked and the furnace growled, but it was ours.
It had stood there since 1902 or 1912, depending on which document you held in your hand, and it came with a colorful history. An old deputy sheriff with enough tales to fill 10 books told me about the spinster sisters who lived there back in the day and about the wine they made, and how the law didn't much venture into that neck the woods because some folks would take pot shots at the patrol cars.
I figured I would fit right in.
I patched the walls, someone with more skill than I patched the roof, and we began to make memories in that old house.
It was where I stood in the yard and split countless truckloads of firewood to feed the stove that supplemented the furnace that could not keep up with the cold, until that furnace blew up and was replaced by a new furnace that also blew up.
I've never had much luck with furnaces.
It was where I shot holes in a broken washing machine with a .22 pistol just because I could and it was fun.
They've got ordinances against that here in town, I've come to learn.
It was where I buried the greatest and most loyal mongrel dog ever rescued from a drainage ditch as a pup and, right beside her, the most trifling beagle dog to repeatedly gnaw his way through a chain link fence and chase rabbits at four o'clock in the morning.
I cried both times.
It was where I sucked in my belly and inched my way into a red-dirt crawlspace that I was convinced held several nests of black widow spiders to wire in a C-band satellite dish so I could watch ballgames and dirty movies.
Lightning hit the dish. Twice. I still enjoyed the programming.
It was where I was bitten by a snake in my bedroom, settling once and for all the question of whether I was quick enough to catch with my bare hand a small snake that had slithered into our house.
I was not.
It was where my wife, 10 minutes into an episode of "E.R." on a Thursday night, announced, "This baby wants out," and, a day or so later, we brought home a pink and wrinkly addition to the family.
It was the most frightened I'd ever been, eclipsing even my time in the crawlspace.
I don't regret the move to town. Neither does my wife. It's closer to our jobs and our daughter's junior high school. The neighbors are good people. Our current house has a colorful history as well, thanks to the wonderfully cantankerous former owner. There are memories being made here as each day goes by.
No one, thankfully, was hurt in the fire at our old house. The current property owner tells me she's making plans for something else out there in the middle of nowhere.
I tell myself not to feel so melancholy. It wasn't our house anymore.
But, in a way, it was.
Scott Hollifield is editor/general manager of The McDowell News in Marion, N.C. Contact him at 652-3313, ext. 3401 or e-mail rhollifield@mcdowellnews.com.
Scott Hollifield is editor/general manager of The McDowell News in Marion, N.C. Contact him at 652-3313, ext. 3401 or e-mail rhollifield@mcdowellnews.com.
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