A Final Visit Home

A Final Visit Home

         

The gravel drive way stretched up the hill past the fields blowing in the autumn breeze. It winded through a section of woods and halted. It was here I sat in my 1996 Ford looking at where I had grown up. Twenty years since I had last seen the place, I couldn’t believe it was still standing. Even dad’s garage still stood, grey siding still attached and green roof looking rather new.

“I guess we did put enough paint to last a life time on it.” I mumbled under my breathe as I thought about the endless hours my cousin and I had spent painting that roof. With this I decided I wanted to see the inside of the garage first. Though I sat here for a while unable to force myself to get out of the car. Finally I found the strength to get out and started toward the garage.

As I walked over I studied the outside more carefully. The door covered in orange spray paint and scratch marks from the dogs hung slightly tilted on its rusty hinges. There were cracks in the siding and a few pieces laid on the ground here and there. The upstairs window was shattered and insulation from the unfinished walls hung out of it. The lean too on the side of the garage lived up to its name. A small pile of wood and an old three-wheeler aged under the leaning structure. But for the most part it was in decent shape after twenty years.

I reached for the door handle but just as I touched it I saw the old sign “Shop Closed,” hanging in the doorway. Dad had put this sign up as a joke back when I was around fifteen. He spent most of his time out here working on cars my cousin, Chris had broken down. After a while we just concluded that Chris could make a vehicle brake down just by looking at it, and this included anything and everything that moved. After fixing what my father claimed as his last project he put the sign up. But dad’s shop had been “closed” for years now since he packed up and left. He left everything as it was, a complete mess. I laughed a bit at the memories, pushed the door open and hit the light switch. But the  lights only came on to reveal the painful memories of the hot summer days spent with my father and his crew. Some papers still laid on the desk and tools scattered on the concrete floor. Out the open, cracked window the old shooting range hadn’t been torn down, or the horse shoe pit. Dad’s prank dip can was still screwed onto the shelf, out of Chris’s reach of course and the double barrel shotgun still rested by the rusted old woodstove.

I could hear the laughter, and see the smiles in the faces of everyone. All the pranks pulled on Chris like taking the bullet out of his gun only to leave the powder and cap. And I could see the angry looks on the workers face when they got pranked. I could remember the jokes, the video games, karaoke, and hanging out upstairs. All the family and friends. The amazing hiding spots and all the times we took shelter from water fights and paintballs out here. All the time spent with dad learning how to draw up blueprints and how to run his business. Most of my childhood was spent between these four walls and now it killed too think of the man how raised them.

Without being able to look at all of his things any longer, I turned, shut off the lights, and walked towards the house. The back porch steps gave a creek with the pressure I put on them. Counting out loud the ones I would step on when sneaking out I reached the top. Knowing the door would be locked I reached up, took the top off of the porch light, and grabbed the spare key. I stood there for a moment thinking back on my childhood. Everything that had taken place here rushed back at once. All the movie nights with friends, hide-and-go-seek, family dinners, birthdays, Christmases, laughter, tears, screaming, fights, all in an instant poured through my mind.

“You can’t take care of them, they are staying with me!” I could hear my dad’s voice raged over his screaming daughters and wife the night he left as that too rushed back. By this time he had caught wind of our mother trying to move to Florida and the meeting with a lawyer and after that nightly fights and become painfully worse.

“You have lost your mind if you think you will keep them from me!” her voice cared back through the house to the room where my little sister laid in her bed crying. My older sister and I however were stuck in the middle trying to get them to opposite sides of the house, or town if at all possible. Mom pushed at us trying to get us out of the way. She screamed for us to go to our rooms and that it had nothing to do with us. After giving up pushing she grabbed my arm, trying to pull me from between them. “If you have a problem why don’t you just pack up and leave? We don’t need you!” Mom turned to dad and screamed, once again speaking for herself. Dad looked at me and the tears running down my face as I pushed mom away from me and broke the grip she had on my arm. A troubled, horrified expression began to out shine the red and anger in his face. He shook his head and walked into his bedroom slamming and locking the door behind him. Silence filled the house other than the quit sobs of my little sister. My heart raced and my trebling knees couldn’t support my body anymore. I knew exactly what he was doing but my mind wouldn’t let my heart believe it. The rest of the night was a blur to me and to this day I hardly remember anything but the harsh words of my father telling me he was leaving and tearing my room to pieces as I heard his truck fly out of the driveway.

The next week we received a notice from the county that there was a lean against the house and that we had twenty-four hours to leave. With this we packed what we could, loaded the vehicles, and headed for the state line.



As I unlocked the back door I felt my knees start to shake. I pushed it open and made my way into the living room and sat in dad’s lazy boy recliner. This to had been left behind after he left and the rest of us tore out of there with the few things we could load on the truck and in the two cars.

The fire place still stood strong, though the mantel where our family pictures used to be had started to deteriorate due to age. Broken glass from the frames still covered the finished wood floors. The orange front door on the far side of the house was still open just like the day we left and the screen down on the maroon door that too hung slightly tilted behind it.

Rolling my eyes, I got up and walked down the hall, with my fingers following along the top of the trim that was now to my waist. At the end of the hall I forced open the white flimsy door to my room. My bed was still pushed between the two windows, mattress flipped onto the floor, phone charger in the wall, and bed side table resting on its side.

“Just the way I left you,” I mumbled. My room was still completely turned upside-down like I had just rearranged it when my dad told me he was leaving. Even my radio and favorite cd still rested in by the door. Only my clothes had been taken in completion. Everything else was scattered on the floor covered in dust. Old pictures the most painful to see. One rested in the center of the floor ripped into a few pieces but I could still make out faces.

Twenty years after everyone high tailed down the road and our house was still as if we had never left. Everything just as I remembered, just all covered in dust.

Twenty years since I had been back to this small town. The bitter sweet memories never let me forget it tough. And after twenty years all I could say was; “I hate this place,” I turned from the room, slamming my door one last time behind me. Relocked the back door and pulled away with no intention of returning.