There were times when I longed for home, and after an especially wide gap from the time I had been able to travel to Alamosa, I went in and literally hugged the walls to our sacred home. It made my dad cry...So many memories abide in those walls. It will forever be relegated to memory at this point. My dad passed away in 2001, seven years after this was written, and mom followed in 2018.
I stayed at home after mom passed and when everyone else had gone home, I was there to finish some tasks, get the carpet cleaned and close it out to be sold. In the otherwise silence of that big empty house, I played music from the sentimental playlist I had made for mom years ago, songs that she and dad liked. Songs that tugged at my heart as I pictured dad teaching me how to dance to the song, "Put Your Little Foot", memories of times around our dinner table, Christmas mornings, mom in the kitchen cooking for her large family, and the hum of the routine days that fill my heart and memory bank to capacity.
I went home in May 2019, to put flowers on the graves of our parents. Mike and I drove separately as he parted ways with me on his way to work a project in Phoenix. I went to church on Sunday, saw some old familiar faces and enjoyed visiting with people I had known most of my life. As church ended, I had the strangest and saddest feelings come over me. I had nowhere to go. We had checked out of the hotel, my mom's house now belonged to someone else, yet I drove out to the house. I sat like a little homeless girl at the end of our lane, sobbing. Sobbing for what had been, and sobbing for what was no longer there.
If there is any wisdom in this post, it is to say that the day to day things we do in our homes and families become sacred as time goes by. The feelings of stability and the sanctuary that home provides cannot be replicated. The need for belonging to a place and to a community and to a family are innate, and I am grateful for my parents who created such a place for me; and for the many sweet memories of those days now past.
Long introduction - but following is the short story from 1994.
The
Lane to Grandma’s House
Mickie
Ortiz
November
1994
“No!”, Erin protested. “They can’t pave Grandma’s lane! It won’t be
the same!”
“Erin, think of Granny’s allergies,” I said with a
factual tone of voice. “It will prevent the dust from getting in her house and
be so much better for her altogether!”
“I don’t want it to change. I remember that road so
well…it just won’t be the same if they put asphalt on it.” She wailed…
(As if from Erin’s perspective)
The gentle rhythm of the car rocked me to sleep after
the excitement of going to Grandma’s house had worn me out. The anticipation that only a child can sense
had filled me to the brim. I had staked out my spot in the car, close to the
window so I could see all the familiar sights on this trip homeward. Of course, this spot also guaranteed that I
would be the first one in Grandma’s house when we arrived! The six-hour drive was never-ending, but it
was worth it to be going “home”.
It’s funny how I always refer to it as home. I was two months old when I left that area, I couldn’t possibly remember anything from those first days of my life. My memory bank is full of the many visits we’ve made, however; the times I was able to go and stay without my Mom and Dad, the days of parades and rodeos, swimming at the Sand Dunes, riding horses (and discovering my own allergy to them), playing with cousins, and seeing my mother as a sister to her own siblings. There were many times around the piano, singing and feeling connected to something bigger than just my own small family of six. Something that was lasting and unchangeable permeated this wonderful place.
Those feelings are sweet and tender to me,
especially now that I am an adult. When
I look back on those days, I sometimes wish I was a still a little girl. The safety and freedom that it represents is
forever embedded in my soul. The hum of
the motor and the security that comes with your whole family being nestled in
the car, mobiling your way to this wonderful place where everything felt better
and even more secure, is something I will always cherish.
Drifting off to sleep, I could hear my parents talking and I sensed a lightness in their tone of voice. They must have similar feelings, maybe in a more adult fashion, but they were going home too. Home to the place where they spent their childhood days – days that have been replaced by adult worries and concerns. It seemed somehow that their burdens were lightened by the fact that they were going back to this magical, unchanged place.
Fading in and out of the sleep-state, I am only
vaguely aware of the car, and that I am not safely tucked into my own bed. We rambled down the road for hours, rarely
slowing or stopping until we finally got
to grandma’s lane. The miles of asphalt
had rolled us along until we reached this point, and then as if to greet us,
the rocks on the gravel road jumped and leaped underneath the car. This signaled me awake, and my stomach
whirled with excitement as I caught a glimpse of the lights at grandma’s
house.
I was the first one inside. The smells, the sights and feelings were
unchanged as Granny and Gramps sat in their easy chairs, dozing and waiting for
their family to come home.
