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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No place like home: My week in pictures

Whenever I tell people that I grew up in Detroit, they give me "the look."  It's a mixture of confusion (Detroit? Are you sure? Gee, you certainly don't look like a gang member )  pity (Awww, you poor thing. Did you live on 8 Mile?) and relief (You survived! You got out! You moved to Ohio, the land of plenty!)

And I get it.  About 90% of the actual city of Detroit is horrible. It is desecrated, burned, and crime filled. What most people don't realize, however, is that Detroit has some beautiful suburbs.  Just a few miles up the river from downtown, on the shores of Lake St. Clair, lies Grosse Pointe. It's picturesque, safe, and filled with country clubs instead of crack houses. It's where I grew up, where I still call home.

After I graduated from college, my parents moved 45 miles away from Grosse Pointe, so when I go "home" to visit them, it's often hard to see my friends all in one visit. Thus, every summer, I spend about four or five days staying with my high school friends in GP. This year, I chronicled it with pics.

Wednesday: The picture above is Lakeshore Drive in Grosse Pointe. In my opinion, it might be one of the most beautuful views in Michigan.  Growing up, I saw this view every day. I wish I could go back in time tell my sixteen-year-old self to appreciate it more. 

Wednesday: Ahhh, Boones. The Kool Aid of the 90s. Have you ever had Boones Farm Wine legally (read: as adults)? We hadn't, either. So, in the spirit of reminiscence, my friend Terri bought a bottle over to Andrea's house and we split it in little plastic cups before going out for the evening. Strawberry Hill, of course.  It smelled and tasted just as we had remembered it: a mixture of rotting fruit, sulfur, and rebellion. 

Thursday: This is my friend Cooper on our lunch date last week. Isn't he the cutest little guy?! He is extra-special for so many reasons, but especially because I love his Momma to pieces. Kelly and I have been dear friends since high school.  To me, Cooper is so much more than  just my friend's baby - he represents hope, faith and determination. 

Thursday evening: This is my adorable mother chasing Davy Jones from the Monkees down the streets of downtown Detroit (post happy hour) after realizing that we'd been standing next to him while waiting for valet.  Poor Davy. I wonder which is scarier: Being chased by gangs in Detroit, or a lady in a pantsuit? 

Saturday: Ahhh, the Fish Flies The sign that summer has arrived in Grosse Pointe. In case you aren't familiar with them, they're flying insects that hatch in Michigan's fresh water lakes every year near the end of June. For three weeks, Grosse Pointe is covered with these rascals, especially near the water. They're harmless, but they reek like rotting fish. Is it weird to say that I miss them?  They remind me of home. Here I am next to an ATM near the lake.

Saturday: On the last night of Summer Bender 2011, my parents dragged invited my brother, sister-in-law, and me to a reunion concert by one of their favorite 1960s bands, the SRC.  Apparently, this band was quite big in Detroit at one time, and they were reuniting for a special concert. Keep in mind, the last concert my family attended together was New Kids on The Block in 1990, where my parents were the oldest people in the audience. We owed them one. Talk about a role reversal - at Saturday's concert, my brother and I were by far the youngest. We went in with an open mind, but it was bad. Really bad. This would be the equivalent of my husband and I taking our kids to a Pearl Jam reunion tour in 2040 and then realizing that Eddie Vedder can no longer sing and sounds like a dying cat. We all left after three songs

So there you have it, my week in random pictures. There's no place like home.