The Place, The End

At 4:00 A.M. on Saturday, March 27th, Aaron closed the carport door for what I am assuming was our final stay at "The Place". It had been a long week. My mother and father were both keepers. Perhaps that was a result of their experience of growing up during the depression. This picture is a sampling of the stuff we had to go through. Every piece had to be handled; every item required a decision. And, while many were void of memories, a lot were saturated with them. Flashes of forgotten experiences came roaring back with the tactile experience of touching and smelling and seeing my parents household goods. Pots, pans, clothes, rings, pictures, aftershave - the list was almost endless and so was the emotional ride attached with them. All in all, it was an exhausting experience. Not only was there the sadness attached to cleaning out their home, there was also the physical exertion of carrying, lugging, moving, burning, stacking, transporting - all sorts of stuff. In the end, I think the decision making process was the hardest. Who gets what and why do they get it. What do we keep, what do we give away, what do we throw away. The truth is, most of the things we wanted most had little intrinsic value. It was a my father's favorite glass, a figurine my mother loved, an old tool often used, an worn out pair of binoculars - those were the priceless goods with which we had to deal.

And, there was the place. Working in the house was like playing old home movies. In the corner of the kitchen I could see my Mom standing and eating out of a bowl, one foot propped on top of the other. My father loved sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette enjoying the cool of the evening. The old barn and shed were work places where we fed chickens and chopped wood and fixed old lawn mowers. The house sits on a hill which slopes down to a pond in the back. It was a place to fish, shoot snakes, and relax. Behind the pond were the woods. A better theme park has never been built. The woods were full of mystery and surprise. You never knew what adventure awaited you when you entered them. It was a great place to play and to allow your imagination to soar. But, the Place could also be lonely. It is remote and quiet. But, for me, that was okay.

The heart of the Place has gone. It lies buried in the cemetery beside Pine Ridge Baptist Church. I could have arranged to have owned the Place. Tried to have kept it in the family. But, without the heart, it was empty. Hold things loosely. Be thankful for the past, relish the memories, trust the Lord for the future. The Place was were I went to visit, to relax, to see family. Home is where I now live and love. The Place will live in my mind in memories - sweet memories of parents and family and friends. Memories of a boy playing army in the woods, of catching fish with grandpa, of feeding chops to chickens and hay to cows. Memories of a mother who loved flowers and a father who loved mowing. Memories of hot summer evenings and cool dips in the creek.

I hope the person who will soon live at the Place will form their own special memories there. I would love to sit with them and tell them the story of the Place. How my father built it, how my mother loved it, how my grandfather worked it, and how my brother and me felt about it. I hope they love it and care for it. But, I would warn them to hold it loosely. To recognize that one day they too will leave the Place for the last time. And, to know that this Place is only a preview of the Place that is to come. No more crying there - that is a permanent address.