It’s Just a House

 It’s just a house.

His hands touched the lumber that framed it out. 

He purposefully built rooms and corners knowing the family that came before him and after him would fill its crevices with both laughter and tears. 

The doors he framed out welcomed siblings, cousins, in laws, grandchildren, great grandchildren… and unknowingly said goodbye to his wife, his sons and his brothers.

There are jackets hung in the garage hall that have watched him, his wife, his children and grandchildren do thousands of loads of laundry and I’m sure have overheard just as many secrets passed between lips to ears across the room and across phone lines from one coiled phone cord to another.

Prayers and pleas made to a watchful God, hymns sung at the kitchen sink beneath a carefully placed window so songbirds inside and out can call to each other. He knew what he was doing when he chose this blueprint.

Hours upon hours have been spent rocking and swinging from chairs and porch swings with their own stories to tell. Babies and old men alike observing the lay of his land, watching for deer and bunnies, witnessing the passing of time as fruit trees bloom and blossoms fall.

Stairs and railing, down to the basement where the sounds of drums, high hats, cymbals threatened to deafen those who dared to sneak down the steps and listen. 

Giggles from mischievous little girls haunt the basement stairwell as pranks were played upon their youngest teenaged uncle, much to his disapproval.

Stories of real, fictional and biblical snakes were told under the roof of this house he built. From snakes keeping time swaying in the windows of the basement windows to cable lines snaked through walls, scaring and scarring the biggest of grandchildren (everyone, including her, laughs about this now).

Deep into the basement is a cellar, cool and dark lined with hundreds of dusty jars. The fruits of his labor from hours upon hours of tending to his garden. Tomatoes, pole beans, blackberries, bacon grease, peppers… all lovingly dated in her handwriting as beads of sweat from the blistering Georgia summer collected across her brow.

His boots dutifully trudged through the red Georgia clay as he tilled and conditioned the soil every summer for well over 30 years… vines of muscadines lay thick next to whatever playground equipment he’d rescued. Beside the muscadines were rows of prickly raspberry and blackberry vines. So many summers were spent hosting granddaughters with pigtails and curls sneaking between those rows to sneak deep purple and red berries straight from their vines.

Little legs chased puppies and chickens through dirt paths in the backyard. This same backyard watched as his son took his last breath. So much life grew and perished beneath the canopy of pine and sweet gum trees.

It’s just a house, but it hosts memories of birth, life, death and everything in between. 

It’s just a house, but nearly all of us have descended from it and contribute our own blood, sweat and tears. 

It’s just a house, never mind that it echoes with love, laughter, joy and sorrow.

It’s just a house, but it’s now a part of all of us and one day we will have to say goodbye to it and only visit from the road as we pass.

It’s just a house, but it is a living testament of my grandfather and every last hope he had for his family.