Because my father’s railroad career meant frequent transfers, I lived in six homes in four states before college. However, the place I truly consider “home’’ is the house I lived in for the shortest time, not even a year.
I was born in Michigan, and then came two rentals in my mother’s hometown of Hinton, W.Va., while my parents spent months negotiating to buy a mountainside parcel of land. When the deal was done, we picnicked there as my mother designed floor plans. From my perch in an oak, I could gaze down into the valley where my grandmother raised five children, taking over her husband’s grocery store after a burst appendix killed him. When my mother was a teenager, my father moved in across the street, and they started courting by staring wistfully at each other from their respective front porches. Family abounded here, and our roots ran deep, just like the roots of my oak.
Once bulldozers began excavating, I could reel off every phase of house construction. I was mesmerized when the foundation was poured; later I zigzagged between the studs, breathing in the scent of fresh lumber — a smell I still relish. As the house neared completion, I transformed a closet underneath the basement stairwell into a clubhouse, holing up to read Casper comics while my parents finalized details like light fixtures.
Finally that December, moving day arrived. By the time the movers unloaded my bed, I lay in my new bedroom shivering, my head pounding. I finally realized that I was sick with a fever, but kept quiet as long as possible, knowing better than to bother my parents on such a monumental day.
For several months, life seemed perfect. Mamaw, Uncle William, Aunt Joyce, and cousins Ann and Bill were always popping in and out. Right down the hill was a street full of kids, one of whom had not only five brothers and sisters, but a triple-decker bunk bed and a trampoline. On snow days we raced down the twisting roads on our sleds, using bars of soap to speed the runners.
And then, suddenly, it was time to leave. My father was being transferred, devastating news that my parents learned before we had even moved into our house on Greenwood Lane — the street my parents not only created but named. This change meant a promotion, but it sure didn’t feel like one.
Dad began working in Richmond, while Mom and I rode trains back and forth in Pullman sleeping compartments, eating in the dining cars and looking at house after house until my parents settled on a Dutch Colonial under construction. There wasn’t one bit of family or mountains there, but nonetheless, things began to suck me in: the creek out back, the neighbors’ three-story treehouse, and the purple shag rug I picked out for my new room.
I don’t remember boxes being packed or the moving van being loaded. What I remember is the moment that our car pulled out of our long, tree-lined driveway one last time. Just as when we had moved in, I knew my role was to stay out of the way and be as quiet as possible. It was dark, and I was nestled in the back seat, feeling like Laura Ingalls Wilder in “Little House on the Prairie.’’ My father steadfastly drove us down that mountain, with the lights of Hinton twinkling below, as my mother sobbed like I had never heard her cry before. She already knew what I couldn’t yet conceive: Lovely places were in our future, but there would never be another home like this one.
Alice Cary, a freelance writer, lives in Groton. Send comments and your 550-word essay to Address@globe.com. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue.
