the house that built me

It wasn't a big house or a fancy house. It wasn't a new house, either. Built in 1929,  it only had one bathroom, steam heat, and no central air conditioning. But, it was home. When I picture my childhood, 1581 Oxford is the image I see. It's where we played capture the flag on summer nights.  It's where we sold lemonade for five cents and played school in the basement. It's where I spent many nights grounded for being a bratty teenager.

I haven't lived there for fifteen years; my parents have long since moved away, along with most neighbors. Yet whenever I visit Grosse Pointe, I make sure to drive by "my house." And when I do, I am always struck with a sense of sadness. I'm not sure why.  Maybe there's a part of me that longs for the simplicity of childhood. Maybe it's where I was happiest. I've always wanted to stop and go inside. I want to see if the house still smells the way I remember it, and if, just for one fleeting moment, I can once again feel at home.

Have you heard Miranda Lambert's song "The House that Built Me"?  In it, she sings about going back to her childhood home for a moment, to see if it would help her find herself. It totally resonated with me, especially the part where she sings "You leave home, you move on, you do the best you can / I got lost in this old world and have forgotten who I am."

So, last week, during my Tour d' Grosse Pointe,  I decided to knock on their door. I had a plan:  I was going to explain that I grew up there and ask to take a picture of the hand prints in the back yard, and hope (hint) that the current owners would invite me in. The owner was a lovely lady, and she was happy to let me take some photos of the back yard.

 Before I left, she came outside and said, "I don't mean to make you feel awkward, but would you like to come inside?"  Um, yes please!

So, inside I went. We walked around, chatting about different updates and improvements that have been made in the past 15 years, over the course of three different families. They added central air, painted, and finished the basement. Everything has been modernized and updated.  It looks beautiful. Beautiful and different. In all, there were only a few remaining traces that my family had ever lived there at all.

As I was leaving, the lady's teenage daughter ran downstairs.  I introduced myself.  "Are those your hand prints outside?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Oh. I always wondered who lived in my house," she said. My house. 

And like that, I realized that it wasn't my house, anymore. It never was. We're all just passing through, hoping to leave our mark.

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