That Little Back Bedroom

From the day I was born until I moved into the apartment on Preservation Drive in Fayetteville, I lived in a white brick house on Highway 371 just outside of Prescott. We were actually closer to a little community called Laneburg. And if you want to get really technical, my grandpa always called it Cruise Creek. There was a creek that ran from just south of our house to our farm about 5 miles away called "Little Terre Rouge Creek." This apparently means red earth in French, but we called it "Cruise Creek." I have no explanation for that.

I hope this is not too boring, but I just wanted to reminisce about my youth a little.

I was lucky enough to grow up on a farm. We had cows and donkeys. I named them all. The donkeys started off with Pretzel, Popcorn, Peanut...you get the picture. We had a vegetable garden that I helped plant and tend, and thought was fun until I knew better. I had the quinessential experiences of learning to drive on backwoods gravel roads and getting up at 2:00 a.m. during snowstorms to help birth calves. Okay, I'm not sure I actually helped, but I did have to get wrapped up in a blanket and sleep in the truck while it was being done.

Posted by Picasa

My little handprints are in two or three spots of concrete around the house. I have killed my fair share of snakes and rats. Exploring the woods was a favorite pastime. Don't worry though, I was protected by my fashionable rubber boots that were three sizes too big because they were handed down from my cousins.

I remember my grandpa laying down in the cool spot on the floor between the kitchen and living room when he came home for lunch after working in the sun. I would lay there with him. I thought it was the coolest thing ever that we could lay on the bare floor.

Not to sound too much like a country song, but it is where I learned to love Jesus. I heard my grandma's prayers at night and felt the safety as she asked Him to protect me. I found out the best lessons I would ever learn wouldn't come from college, my peers, or life experiences, but from a little white bible that I got when I was a baby. It taught me all I need to know. Everything important, anyway.

I have slammed doors in anger, stained pillows with my tears from heartbreak, laughed until I cried with happiness, hung my head in shame from guilt, and been so loved that my heart all but burst in that little white brick house on Rosston Road.

When I was growing up, I thought it was the worst place in the world to have to be. I was bigger than that, I had wings to spread and dreams to make come true. Now, I go back as often as I can. It's that sense of peace that you can't explain when you know you are loved and you can be your complete self.

Who says you can't go home?

1 comment:

  1. I, for one, think going home is about the best thing there is.