Your reminisces can almost make a grown man shed a tear for remembrance(almost).

Unfortunately, a lot of these homes were abandoned for a reason. My great-grandparent’s house was finally abandoned a few years back, which is right next to *their* parent’s house abandoned long ago to fall in on itself. It’s not for lack of family interest, but there’s no opportunity in Eastern Maine, which STILL never really made it out of the Great Depression. The fishing and logging that sustained the old settlers has been regulated out of existence, and so has the sustenance farming which occupied the off-seasons. So they are left to be reclaimed by the forrest and the two inches of lichen on the front porch.

Fortuantely, my grandfather’s home built in the 50s is closer to what’s left of civilization here in Maine, leaving my dad and his brother to fight over it, and me and my brother after them. I look forward to keeping that around.

“Vanity of Vanities, All is Vanity!” -Ecclesiates

It is hard to top Solomon in issues such as these, don’t you think? In the end, all we leave behind is rust (remember, you know, “..store up your treasure in heaven where things DON’T rust…”). We spend our lives manipulating dead matter, in the vain hope that, somehow, we influence the living. Maybe we will, maybe we won’t.

The fact is, though, that we’ve created an entire culture that enrobes itself in the pursuit of happiness (or property), notable only in that we don’t accentuate the actual capture of happiness (or property). So, we witness the constant shuttling about, the endless travel, the up-and-out and on-the-go is of paramountcy. Happiness, it often seems, is in the “pursuit”.

The Good Old Days weren’t always good (as Billy Joel once penned), and this is especially true for me. My childhood was spent in the late sixties, and the patina of happiness and innocence I’ve draped over that period is in direct contrast to my older brothers (and the nation’s) angst over Vietnam and the unrelenting violence just about everywhere you cared to look. When I think of Detroit in 1967, I think not about the riots, but about the Algiers Motel Trial that took place the next year in our hometown, and watching my mom regale my dad with the latest headlines about it in our sun-lit family room.

But, Achance, just as you regret, at whiles, the tearing down of your old homestead, your kids will regret the fact they didn’t buy yours. But, in a much broader sense, the home they loved as children long ago ceased to exist because they, as children, ceased to exist. It remains now, just as you yourself once day will, exist only in their hearts.

And that’s all that really matters. All else is just rust.

Similar story here; I’m still in the same house I bought 36 years ago, kids grown up and out. Not sure Vassar’s credo refers to the physical house itself, but the mentality of owning, building, maintaining one’s residence, whether or not the address changes over the generations. Both my kids have stayed close, in town, one still in the immediate neighborhood; his house is nicer than mine, but similar. I’m sure neither of them would want their childhood home if I gave it up, they have their own. But both of them, brother & sister, build, maintain, expand & improve their places, mostly with their own two hands; apples don’t fall far from the tree, right?

Good luck with your property listing, and cheers!

The house in which I was born and raised is next door to my home. Hubby and I built the house in what was once the hog pen. When we were kids, we put the hogs as far from the house as we could, and when I grew up, we put our house a good distance from the parents, but still walking distance.

From our yard, you can see the roof of my parents’ house over the tree tops and the kids have worn a trail between our house and theirs. There is a gate in four different fences that separate us, all of which lead one direction, home. In the other direction, there is no gate of any kind. That fence is solid.

On the other side of my parents’ house is my grandparents’ house. From my mom’s yard, you can see the roof of their house. When I was young, there was a well worn path between our house and theirs.

My grandparents planted their roots there in the 1920s and stayed, though they came from farther away. My grandma came from Racine, which is about 10 miles and my Grandpa came from CarlJunction, which is about 15 miles.

On memorial day, we put flowers on grandparents (and aunts/uncles) graves back to not just my grandparents and great-grandparents, but my great greats. On both sides. All within 20 miles of my house.

Some day, when my parents are gone, I hope one of my kids inhabit their house. If my parents die before the kids are grown, we have said we will sell both homes and move to OK, because we like the taxes there better, and because we don’t want to live where we can see our neighbors unless they’re related by blood, but…moving might kill me.

I hope I die before anyone tears down Grandma and Grandpa’s house or Mom and Dad’s house. They are part of my life, my history, me. They are a large part of my sense of belonging. Of being. I can’t imagine watching their loss.

At some point, things are too deep to uproot without destroying them. I may be there.

OTOH, OK is only about 2 miles from the house, so maybe I can make it.

And Art, I loved this diary. Memory diaries make me happy, even when the memories are sad. Or in this case, poignant.

Proper grammar saves lives.

Let’s eat Grandma.
Let’s eat, Grandma.

---

Activists Taking Action: Unified Patriots

We moved there when I was 2 or around there. It had a big pondthat was about an acre,and eventually dug out because it was silted up so much.
It was an old Club House, and we added on another house, because when we moved there it was only a bar.

I remember the days we would canoe across the lake and camp out over the weekend , catch and clean our fish to eat. The long hours of moving the leaves out. It was pretty much a 3 month job. And the hockey games on the pond,we lost so many nets.

I really do miss it a lot. But life moves on, parents get divorced.

And do not get me started about my grand parents house.

Do not get too discouraged, there are still some of those sentimental fools out there.

before I could deal with the old house. She wasn’t always with us in her waning days, but the thought of her riding by and seeing that the house was no longer there was more than I could bear. It was in such disrepair that the City was all over me about doing something about it; it wasn’t worth fixing, but I just couldn’t tear it down as long as she was alive. I just took the “so sue me” line and they blinked and let it go for a few years. Finally, after Mama was gone and the City was out of patience, I went on with it.

And I know what you mean; tearing the roots out here is just about the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

That’s what matters. I love it when you go and get all sentimental. I read this twice, first time, straight up. Second time; Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto. (I had it handy) Bet you didn’t know you could be set to music.

You and LadyP (among others) have a way to making people turn inward at just the right time. We need those reminiscences, and the self-reflection. Thanks

GRO & STA.

I made up a little joke about it, one I always thought applied more to the girls. I said those were the two things the kids in that area didn’t want to do, grow and stay.

That observation always made me a little sad then, more so now. My country cousin didn’t want to grow and stay; she wanted to move to the city, and did. Her brother stayed, however, building a cabin on the piece of land his granddad cut out for him.

So many of these little towns have lost the vibrancy I remember from my days traveling around the state moving pianos (fishing all the while), then working in the oil patch. Driving through some of them now, I see the dilapidated buildings, with empty on-street parking, and it hurts me. Isn’t that part of somebody’s House also?

As for me, I live in the house in which I was raised. I am doing a major remodel of this place, so often I am taken back to some of the improvements I helped my dad with. I raised my son here, and he lives nearby.Thankfully, he comes over when I need some extra hands. He is much more willing than he was when he was a minor living at home! Maybe he is beginning to understand the House.

Anyway, maybe your last statement is not entirely true, Art. We build the House for ourselves and our posterity. We just cannot ordain that they preserve it.

Your last line to Texasgalt, caught my eye. “Hopefully, home will continue to exist in my children’s heads.”
Growing up, I didn’t have the family home nor house background. But the dream of it can be instilled in a person, whether they have memories or create their own dream. Though it seems like the brick and mortar is unimportant to your children now, the true value and message of what you gave them, is in their hearts.

Still, it is grief that you rightfully feel; but know that there is much more to what you have passed on, to not only them, but I am sure others, including many of us here at RS.

…but I am. Maybe it is a Southern thing – my friends from up north would marvel at how important the old home place was to me and how I needed to get back “home” almost as much as I needed food and water. I really can’t explain it, but it is surely there.

I grew up in a similar situation in Virginia. My granddads on both sides were “big men”, but they left their children to make their own way. Of course, there was always the roll of cash in an emergency but it was rare and always to be avoided if possible.

Looking back on it, we were poor but God, I was free. Maybe that freedom elicits the fond memories – thousands of acres of land I could roam and hunt and fish, friends to play with on endless summer days, the good food that came from the farm with abundance. I had no use for clothes other than red tag Levis and t-shirts, and wore overalls every now and then to class in college just for the hell of it.

My parents and all my Aunts and Uncles were born at home, My generation was the first to be born in hospitals. Grandad was born prematurely, and they put him in a shoebox, sat him beside the wood stove, nursed him as well as they could and waited for him to die. He didn’t. Sadly, those homes have been torn down, although my childhood home survives. What looked like a mansion back then is really little more than a shack, but I will always love it.

Good read, Art. It took me back.

I am relatively new to RedState. As such, I have read a few diaries/comments by Achance which showed a much different demeanor. I’m not saying bad (maybe a little bad ass…….) but not, at least to me, reflective of a sentimental personality. More of the guy who I’d want to cover my back in a foxhole than a guy versed in classical music. I guess that just shows either my ignorance or lack of perception or judgemental ability. Your diary, Achance, truly hit home with me. Reading it, and the following comments which in many ways also elegantly reflected your meme, brought back many memories of my own life, some good, some not so good. Vietnam, college, motorcycles, marriage, children, divorce, work, current unemployment…..like I said, some good, some bad. But the best memories were of my childhood growing up prior to Vietnam, growing up on a farm with all its attendant hard work, and living in a neighborhood of relatives’ farms; visiting my maternal grandparent’s farm 80 miles nw of our home. The freedom to walk out my back door to go pheasant hunting: I can still, to this day, remember some of those occasions of 45 years ago. It wasn’t necessarily what my parents, siblings, or relatives said or did that burnished these cherished memories in my heart, for we were truly dirt poor but not truly wanting in anything (which I recognize now from afar.) It was just the spontaneous combustion of the moment: sheer chance and recognition that I was born into this situation. It was a lot of hard work at the time without seemingly sentient reward, but I told my kids many times over the years while they were growing up that I regretted I was not able to give them that same chance. The farms are all gone now, so my kids grew up a different way, the best way I and my ex could do for them, and they are happy and express no regrets about it.

I guess this is a long winded way of repeating what Dorothy said: “There’s no place like home.” But where or what is this “home,” an actual physical presence or a state of mind within? Home, as I have come to realize, is in the heart of the beholder.

My great-grand parents original soddy homestead in Kansas is still owned and tended to by a cousin. Land and various farmhouses have been passed down since the 1850s.

1st chair Second Violin here. Wasn’t allowed to learn wind or brass due to a lot of expensive dental work.
A slow sax reminds me of old heartbreaks and future possibilities. But it has to be Coltrane.

There are days when I wonder what will be in store for my children and their progeny. Will the little bit of land still be available to build futures upon through hard work and time well spent.

A good remembrance Achance. Well done Sir.

This republic was not established by cowards; and cowards will not preserve it. ~~Elmer Davis

I am stone forged from the fires of creation into flesh ~~Pamela1631

The greatest civilization is one where all citizens are equally armed and can only be persuaded, never forced.~~Maj. L. Caudill, USMC (Ret.)

The Concord Project: Fighting for Freedom in the Fall

Every time I start to get a little ticked at you for your comment tone and reflexive trashing of “that woman”, you spin out one of these “social gems” about life, trains, your son’s military service, etc, etc. I know you are working on a book about political inner-workings. But seriously, I think you should publish a series of essays about American culture, life, and so on. You have an uncanny knack for getting at the essence of our country’s lost culture. Every time we go back to southern Indiana where my parents grew up and where I spent so much time at my grandparents homes, it saddens me to drive by where my grandpa’s barber shop/soda store used to stand. My folks moved away from the home I grew up in in 1984, but I think often of the 17 (from 4 to 21) years we lived there and all the great memories of friends and family. There are literally millions, maybe tens of millions, of Americans who have similar stories. It didn’t used to be that way. We have become such a mobile society. This has many advantages, but I believe that many of the societal problems we have today are due to a deep-seated insecurity that many of us carry because we are no longer anchored.

Great job again!

In my late 20’s I started construction on my first REAL house. Rough cut lumber to save money because I had more time than money. I did about 75 percent of the labor myself. I ran every single stud through a planer at least 3 or 4 times. My brother and a neighborhood kid were my primary help. (Don’t tell OSHA about the kid)
Took about 4 years to get it ready to move in; it never did get quite finished. A few more trim boards needed here and there. Never move in thinking you’ll finish it later.
Landscape never got touched. Two of my kids were born in that house. But life changes. Sometimes rapidly. After only a couple of years I moved south and then back and then built a larger house on a bigger piece of land so the kids could have horses and goats and chickens and cows and one acre just wasn’t going to do it.

Two years standing empty was starting to show. I just sold it to a cousin for a song because I think she and her husband will take good care of it. Her grandfather and mine was born and raised on that property. The house he was raised in long gone when I bought the place. He had moved down state for work. HIS grandparents sold the place out of the family but after he retired he had the chance to buy it and did.

While I was building my house I started noticing the older houses around. Unkempt; falling in on themselves. Once you’ve done the labor you can’t help but appreciate what others have done. And sometimes you wonder; what are/were the kids thinking.

My favorite is a stately old brick house built like a tank. Slate roof, solid foundation. Sitting right next to it; a nice new singlewide. Couldn’t be troubled to fix things up or even keep things up. Do they not realize how hard their grandfather and grandmother worked to provide a place like that for their parents and themselves to live? Nope. Just move in a singlewide next to a mansion because you can’t be bothered.

(That is actually a bit of a metaphor for life down here. Our Father has a mansion waiting for us but we insist on the singlewide.)

Two hundred fifty years ago our forefathers undertook to build a house. Blisters were nothing, they sacrificed in blood. They studied houses from around the world and they built the best house they could figure out how. It was a marvel of architecture for its time and it was built to stand the test of time. With just a little maintenance.

But what with one thing and another, the kids and the grandkids got distracted with opportunities and wars and the million other things life is made of. At first if the roof leaked a little they patched it. If a window got knocked out they replaced it. And then they got a little more distracted.

You really didn’t need to pay attention to her. The place was built so well. It was a battleship of a house and little dings and dents meant nothing to her. Then it became a quaint old house. Then for a while it was used as a storage shed for animal fodder. It could be ignored if you held your head at just the right angle.
The landscape began to move back in (From Europe) and soon enough you couldn’t see it unless you were really looking. There it sat for a few years nearly forgotten. And then it became something of a myth. People made up fanciful things about what was in it. Some people said it was haunted and we shouldn’t go near it.

A few of the grandkids stumbled across it recently. And did they begin to hollerin. They were just sure everyone would be amazed at this wonder of the ancient world.

What they found instead was a divided lot.
Some were excited at the discovery. They wanted to dig in and set things too right. These were the conservatives.

Some went into patient explanation mode. “They” had known about the house all along. “They” understood her, “They” could explain her, “They” dissected her and put her behind glass. But to actually live in her? That was asking too much. Besides there was no building permit on file so they said it might not be safe. Better to keep her at a little distance and live in a simulacrum of her. Take no notice that the fake had no windows or doors and the roof leaked terribly in the rain. This group was known as the RINO’s. But for all of their talk they quietly teamed up with the LEFT and took out a mortgage on her and then a second.

Others showed up one night (the LEFT) with a wrecking ball. It isn’t worth fixing they said. The thing was a public menace don’t you know? KIDS could come across it and not understanding her might get the wrong ideas about how to build houses. It must come down before somebody gets hurt. Do it for the children. Don’t worry they do have a nice new shiny FEMA singlewide to put in its place.

That really is where we are today.

One group loving the old house, promising fidelity and maybe a new coat of paint.

Another paying lip service but finding the whole thing slightly quaint and slightly distasteful and taking their lead from Wall Street. Nostalgia mixed with nausea, call it a derivative.

The final group can’t wait to knock her down, burn her and bury whatever remains so they can get on with the business of living in the singlewide with its modern marvels.

In less than two months we vote.

I really was just being melancholly. This is a big change in my life and it is compounded by the fact that I’m living alone these days, well, except for the cats anyway. I’ve not done that in a very long time either, never really; home to dorms, dorms to apartments/houses with friends and girlfriends, apts. and houses with Wife 1.0 and then daughter too. Then Wife 2.0 and her kids for all these years.

We’re not together but we’re not apart. The 22nd is our 20th Anniversary and I’m flying up to Anchorage for a couple of days with her. I’ll get it cleaned up and sold, but it ain’t easy.

I believe carry the same blood, Achance – there is nothing in the world sadder to me than to be in an empty house in which my life has played out. But if I may offer a thought.

Not too many years ago, my wife – Maltese by birth and Canadian by emigration – became an American citizen. At the swearing-in ceremony, I watched as 700 men and women took the Oath to become Americans. The judge, prior to administering the oath, read off the the names of the 65-70 countries represented there that day, and with the name of each country, the emigres from that country stood.

Most developed nations had one or two representatives in the group. Others, such as Vietnam, had scores.

It struck me then – these people left behind their homes… their heritage… in some cases, their family… all for the freedom of the soul our country represents. They left behind their hovels and came to live, in many cases without knowing anyone here, in this mansion of freedom we call America.

Imagine pulling up roots from the other side of the globe… as Americans-to-be have always done… and deciding that your “true home” is simply to be here in a blessed land. I cannot fathom it. Yet it has been happening for generation after generation.

I know that story cannot soothe the ache at the changes in your own life. However, perhaps it can tamp down some of the emotional loneliness it would be quite natural for any of us to feel.

All of us… we live in the same house, with you, and it still stands.

comments, but I can relate. I believe we can say we grew up in a wonderful, naive childhood which was ALSO poor white trash.

In any event, it stands the test of time as I remember it being a great age in which to live. The old home place holds a lot of memories, too.

But, it is ultimately chimeric. As Thomas Woolf said, “You can’t go home again.” The memories are in our heads and that’s where they’ll stay, wherever our mortal vessels may roam.

right. I will read them, I just wanted to comment & reco before your diary scrolled off…