Yesterday I went out to my mailbox, as I do most days, and inside I found a package. Removing it I discovered it was quite heavy and I didn't recognize the return address. A bit of intrigue. Bringing it inside I opened it to find a brick! That's correct, a red brick and I smiled. I was instantly transported back in time. This was no ordinary brick, this was no joke, this was a piece of my past.
About a week ago I got news from a friend that my childhood home was going to be demolished. The years had extracted their payment from the old girl. Naturally I was sad to hear about that. I understand the reasoning, everything has a lifespan. But this friend offered to save a small piece of that home for me. We talked about various things and it was mentioned that the knotty pine in the living room would make a great memento. I got a little emotional about it, in a manly way though so don't get any ideas, and I was reassured.
Our childhood homes are special places. Well I should say my childhood home was a special place I can't speak for others. I was about five when Dad purchased that three bedroom, one bath, rancher on a dirt lane in northwest woods. There were three other houses on that lane but ours was the first on the right. It's the only home I knew growing up and the home I left in 1971 when I joined the Navy. I grew up in that house and the house grew with me! You see, my father was a jack of all trades, a regular Renaissance man. Over the years that house was transformed from a three bedroom one bath rancher, to a two story, three bedroom, two and a half bathroom home. And that home had a fireplace! Yes, a red brick fireplace that Dad built and I helped him with that. Granted I was just a kid, all I did was mix mortar and haul the bricks, but I remember that time. I remember the pride of accomplishment when we lit the first fire in that fireplace. I remember every year placing my Christmas stocking on the hearth of the fireplace in anticipation of Santa.
There is a family story told about those bricks. My father was friends with a man that owned some property. On this property was an old well. The well had been lined with brick. The bricks were not cemented in place, just stacked one upon the other from bottom to top. This man told my father he could have the bricks for the taking. So, Dad set out to do just that. Every day after work he would put a ladder into that well and start removing bricks. Some days he took Mom with him and she would carry the bricks from the well to the trailer behind the car. That was when Dad was getting near the bottom of the well. Climbing up that ladder holding a few bricks at a time, over and over, was exhausting work. Put Dad persisted. On one trip back up the ladder he pops up and Mom starts screaming and running for the car. As she is running to the car, she does manage to holler one intelligible word, bat! There was a bat sitting on Dad's shoulder. Well, he scooted it away and climbed out of the well. He walks over to the car to check on Mom. Reaching down he tried to open the car door only to find it locked. Mom had gotten in the car and locked the doors. Dad thought it was hilarious, asking her if she thought the bat could open the car door. Mom was naturally scared by the bat and Dad was just laughing. I'm sure you know what happens when a wife is afraid and the husband is laughing. Let's just say the story was told many times, especially if someone came over to the house and saw that fireplace for the first time.
And so when I opened that package, and held that brick, that is one memory that came flooding back. I could hear Dad telling the story, he always did Mom remained silent, and the laughter that would follow. It is one of those stories that is funnier when told rather than read. That brick is a reminder, a memento I will add to my collection of memories. I haven't figured out a way to properly present it but the old gray matter is churning. My first thought is that brick is a part of Hearth and Home. literally. Well maybe the brick didn't come from the hearth per se, I don't know, but I'm saying it did. Our memories aren't always what we remember, but what we choose to believe. They are, after all, our memories. I am so pleased to have this little piece, just one brick, and it is enough. I am fortunate indeed to have people that understood and cared enough to do this for me.
Thank You Jenny Briand! Although we have never met one another you took the time and effort to do this kindness. I really appreciate it. Thank You again and God Bless you.
About a week ago I got news from a friend that my childhood home was going to be demolished. The years had extracted their payment from the old girl. Naturally I was sad to hear about that. I understand the reasoning, everything has a lifespan. But this friend offered to save a small piece of that home for me. We talked about various things and it was mentioned that the knotty pine in the living room would make a great memento. I got a little emotional about it, in a manly way though so don't get any ideas, and I was reassured.
Our childhood homes are special places. Well I should say my childhood home was a special place I can't speak for others. I was about five when Dad purchased that three bedroom, one bath, rancher on a dirt lane in northwest woods. There were three other houses on that lane but ours was the first on the right. It's the only home I knew growing up and the home I left in 1971 when I joined the Navy. I grew up in that house and the house grew with me! You see, my father was a jack of all trades, a regular Renaissance man. Over the years that house was transformed from a three bedroom one bath rancher, to a two story, three bedroom, two and a half bathroom home. And that home had a fireplace! Yes, a red brick fireplace that Dad built and I helped him with that. Granted I was just a kid, all I did was mix mortar and haul the bricks, but I remember that time. I remember the pride of accomplishment when we lit the first fire in that fireplace. I remember every year placing my Christmas stocking on the hearth of the fireplace in anticipation of Santa.
There is a family story told about those bricks. My father was friends with a man that owned some property. On this property was an old well. The well had been lined with brick. The bricks were not cemented in place, just stacked one upon the other from bottom to top. This man told my father he could have the bricks for the taking. So, Dad set out to do just that. Every day after work he would put a ladder into that well and start removing bricks. Some days he took Mom with him and she would carry the bricks from the well to the trailer behind the car. That was when Dad was getting near the bottom of the well. Climbing up that ladder holding a few bricks at a time, over and over, was exhausting work. Put Dad persisted. On one trip back up the ladder he pops up and Mom starts screaming and running for the car. As she is running to the car, she does manage to holler one intelligible word, bat! There was a bat sitting on Dad's shoulder. Well, he scooted it away and climbed out of the well. He walks over to the car to check on Mom. Reaching down he tried to open the car door only to find it locked. Mom had gotten in the car and locked the doors. Dad thought it was hilarious, asking her if she thought the bat could open the car door. Mom was naturally scared by the bat and Dad was just laughing. I'm sure you know what happens when a wife is afraid and the husband is laughing. Let's just say the story was told many times, especially if someone came over to the house and saw that fireplace for the first time.
And so when I opened that package, and held that brick, that is one memory that came flooding back. I could hear Dad telling the story, he always did Mom remained silent, and the laughter that would follow. It is one of those stories that is funnier when told rather than read. That brick is a reminder, a memento I will add to my collection of memories. I haven't figured out a way to properly present it but the old gray matter is churning. My first thought is that brick is a part of Hearth and Home. literally. Well maybe the brick didn't come from the hearth per se, I don't know, but I'm saying it did. Our memories aren't always what we remember, but what we choose to believe. They are, after all, our memories. I am so pleased to have this little piece, just one brick, and it is enough. I am fortunate indeed to have people that understood and cared enough to do this for me.
Thank You Jenny Briand! Although we have never met one another you took the time and effort to do this kindness. I really appreciate it. Thank You again and God Bless you.
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