Kim Wilbanks

Not Ours Any More

The day after we returned home from our trip to North Carolina for Thanksgiving, I took my dog Boone for a walk. It wasn’t an unusual thing to do as I take him for walks almost every morning. We left the house and walked to the end of the road. Sometimes we turn to the right and go to the empty lot to take care of some business. Sometimes we turn to the left and walk to my mom’s house for a visit. This particular morning, we went to the left. As we neared the cul-de-sac at the end of the street, my dog began to drift towards the circle drive of my mom’s house. I gently pulled his leash. “No, buddy. We can’t go in. It’s not our house anymore.”

The thought sank in — not our house anymore.

There was evidence to prove the fact that the house now had new owners; a lamp was turned on in one of the windows, Christmas lights were strung along the roof line, a Christmas tree was visible in the bay window and there was a different vehicle parked in the drive way. 

It was a bit disconcerting to say the least.

You see, that house, my mom’s old house has been a part of my memories, a part of my life story for close to sixty years.

The House My Grandparents Built

My grandparents built the ranch style red brick house on the cul-de-sac in 1965 in a neighborhood surrounded by a golf course. There were only a handful of houses on the three streets of the neighborhood when they moved in. Ironically, the house I currently live in was one of those. Within ten years, my parents, two uncles and an aunt built homes one street over from my grandparents. Cousins were like siblings.

I have so many memories connected to this house which first belonged to my grandparents and then my parents. It was a home filled with love, laughter and family — a gathering place.

For many years, my family, along with aunts, uncles and cousins would meet at my grandparents’ house for Sunday lunch. My younger brother, cousins and I would be ushered back to the playroom to eat and give our parents a few minutes of peace and quiet. Sometimes we met on Saturdays after a morning of shopping with my mother and grandmother. The noon meal would be hamburgers cooked in her new-fangled Radar Range. In the summer, my grandfather would churn homemade ice cream or slice huge wedges of ice-cold watermelon to be eaten outside on the driveway.

I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house. I would often stay with them on Sunday afternoons when the lunch dishes were cleaned and the rest of the family left to do other things. I would hang out with them and read while they watched golf on television (or snooze as evidenced by their snoring) then go with them to Sunday night services at our church. I spent the night with them on occasion as well. 

My grandparents’ house was quintessential 1960s. My grandmother loved the color red so the carpet in the family room and kitchen was always a bright red. Portraits of their eight grandchildren lined the wall above the sofa. The living room had white carpet and was divided from the dining room by a wall of gold metal circles. I think Elvis had the same wall divider in Graceland. There was a long hallway from the back door to the family room and we could always tell when Grandaddy came home from work because he would jingle all the way down the hallway; pockets laden with coins, keys and Publix pins.

A Home Full Of Memories

Holidays were always special at my grandparents’ house.  It started off with New Year’s Day. The family would gather for ham, black-eyed peas, rice, greens, hog jowl and cornbread. Grandmommy always made her cornbread like pancakes. They were so good slathered in butter. Everything we ate had a meaning; things to ensure a prosperous and healthy new year.

My family would meet after church on Easter Sunday, all dressed in our Easter finery, baskets and decorated eggs in tow. Easter lunch came with a bounty of food; ham, macaroni and cheese, green peas and deviled eggs. Sometimes my grandfather would make his famous sopping biscuits, turning out the golden concoction on the butcher block with a dish of honey close by. For dessert — my grandmother’s Italian Cream Cake and Pound Cake. After lunch we had the most epic Easter Egg hunts. Their yard was huge, pie-shaped and we almost never found all of the eggs. I spent about forty Easters at the red brick house on the cul-de-sac. I progressed from hunting eggs as a child to hiding them as a teen to watching my own two children enjoying the hunt. 

We did not always celebrate Thanksgiving at my grandparents’ home as the location of the family celebration rotated between my grandmother and her four sisters. But, when we did, the counter was laden with delicious food — ham, turkey, dressing, giblet gravy, macaroni and cheese, peas and casseroles and desserts provided by various relative. After stuffing ourselves there was always a walk on the golf course.

My favorite memories though, are of Christmas. I remember every year, sometime in the early fall, seeing my grandfather sitting at the table signing and addressing Christmas cards. He sent hundreds of cards to friends, family, fellow church members and work associates, always mailing them in time to be received the day after Thanksgiving. For many years he had a life-sized nativity scene in this front yard with the sign Wise Men Seek Him Still.

Our family Christmas celebration was always on Christmas Eve. The food we ate was similar to Thanksgiving. The children ate in the playroom and the adults in the dining room until the children eventually became adults too. After dinner, we opened presents in the living room. It was always pure pandemonium with gifts being tossed to recipients to be opened. It was so much fun. There was so much joy.

I was thinking about this and realized that I have spent fifty-seven Christmases in the red brick house on the cul-de-sac. Fifty-seven! All of my Christmas memories with my grandparents are at that house — every single Christmas Eve, from 1965 to 2007. When my grandmother died and my parents moved into her house, the family Christmas celebrations continued, just not on Christmas Eve. 

The realization that Christmas this year will be very different is beginning to sink in.

Everything Changes

My grandfather died in 1984, the same year I was married, so that was the first major change in our family. My grandmother continued to live in the red brick house on the cul-de-sac until her death in 2007. I visited her several times a week and she would always complain that no one ever came to see her. We continued with our family gatherings at the holidays and other events like birthdays. 

When my parents moved into the house the family gatherings continued but not so much with extended family. I would walk my dogs over in the mornings for coffee — first with my corgi, Higgins then with my labradoodle, Boone. My parents enjoyed having friends around, so their home, the red brick house on the cul-de-sac, has always been a gathering place. We gathered after my dad died last summer.

We gathered as a family one last time on the weekend of my mom’s celebration of life service. When it came time for everyone to leave, we took pictures, to remember. The realization that we would never gather in this beloved home again as a family weighed oh so heavy on our hearts. There were tears that day.

In the weeks following my mom’s memorial service her house was sold and we began cleaning out her personal effects. Wonderful friends, truly angels, helped me in the process. It lightened the load for sure. The day before we left to go to North Carolina to spend Thanksgiving with our children, I walked through the house one last time. The week before I had listened to the soundtrack of Hamilton, so naturally as I walked through the house, I was hearing George Washington sing One Last Time.

I paused at my mom’s chair and remembered all the mornings I stopped by for coffee and a chat. I walked into her bedroom and thought about the weeks spent as she was getting ready to leave this earth. A thousand different memories swirled through my mind like autumn leaves that get swept up into a gust of wind. And I wondered — how do you say goodbye to a place that is so much a part of your life story?