Oh, the Places I have Lived! - Part 3

I asked my mom in recent years how they came to build the house in Corinth. After about 38 years, the details are a little fuzzy, but basically it was just the right person talked to them, it was the right time, the right place and everything happened. Since building has been something we’ve considered, I wish all those pieces would fall in place for us…

 

The house on Wildwood Drive in Corinth is the first house I really remember, but I have lived there twice. And I’ve visited it more times than I can remember. I have a lot of good memories of that house and some hard ones, too. But that’s what a home is, right?

 

I don’t remember my parents building the house or even moving in, but I do remember watching TV in the living room, pretending to be Mary Lou Retton on the swingset in the backyard, playing in the rain with Katey and Fred (the dog) on the driveway, playing in my bedroom, spilling Kool Aid in the kitchen. (I wasn’t even supposed to be pouring Kool Aid and Grandpa shouldn’t have been sleeping when he was supposed to be watching Katey, myself and our friends Aaron, Ryan and Audra while our parents were out; but we were thirsty…and there were clean cups in the dishwasher…and I was FIVE years old…and you get the picture.) I also remember the day we moved out and how much room there was to turn cartwheels in the living room.

 

Later I remembered sleeping in our sleeping bags in the living room, Christmas celebrations, my aunt’s wedding, playing games with my cousins, Sunday lunches, Easter egg hunts, hanging out in the backyard with all my cousins at our grandparent’s 50^thWedding Anniversary, and being momentarily surprised that my cousin didn’t know my parents had built that house and I had lived there until I was five. But, then, why would she? She hadn’t even been born yet. The only way she knew that house was as Grandpa and Grandma’s house. For that matter, it’s the only way six of my siblings knew it, and I’m not sure even Katey remembers living there as she was only two when we left.

 

My parents built the house in Corinth, a tiny town northwest of Dallas, thinking that would be their “forever” home. “Forever” ended up being around two years. At the time they decided to move back to Tennessee, my paternal grandparents (who were living in Iowa) decided to move to Texas. They were going through a hard time, so my parents first rented the house to them and they later bought it. That was in 1985. My grandmother would pass away in 2008, and my grandfather sold the house in 2014. I was a little sad to see it go.

 

For the most part, the house remained unchanged from when my parents built it. My grandparents did knock out the wall of the fourth bedroom to extend the living area sometime before I was in my teens. Some updates were done to the kitchen, bathrooms, and dining area. My grandmother planted so many trees it was a family joke that they lived in the “Texas forest”. The red, blue, white and yellow plaid-ish wallpaper remained on the wall of what had been my bedroom but became an office until I was in my 20s. Then my grandmother, who was colorblind, had a late-life crisis and repainted every room except the kitchen, dining room, and bathrooms in Big Bird Yellow, Fire Truck Red, and Electric Powder Blue. It was a little over the top, but she literally could not see that. And it just seemed to add to the quirks of her hundreds of figurines, plate collection on the wall, and cast iron old fashioned iron collection that sat around the television. 

 

In 2009, when I moved back to Texas, I moved back into that house for thirteen months. I lived in what had been Katey’s bedroom, cooked in the kitchen I knew so well, and cleaned a house I had probably helped clean when I was five. All in all, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time in the house, working every day and filling my off hours with other activities. But I did successfully cook my first Thanksgiving turkey there, I had fun getting to know my youngest cousin (who is over 20 years younger than I and lives not too far) on several occasions, and it was rather fun (at first) to live in the same place I had lived 25 years before. 

 

Even though that house was not an “ancestral” home by any means, I learned a lot about my family in that home. When I was fifteen and spent a month one summer with my grandparents, my grandmother dug out old family slides, the projector, and a sheet. We went through boxes of old black-and-white photos while they told stories. When we lived in Texas again when I was in my teens, we went over one afternoon to meet Grandpa’s first cousin – a man he had never even met although they grew up in the same town because their fathers (brothers) and fought and never spoke to each other. At their 50^thwedding anniversary, Grandma dug out all kinds of old photo albums and scrapbooks which I spent hours pouring over at the dining room table, learning all kinds of things I had never known about my family. And when I lived with Grandpa, he told me things about when he was first married, and a lot of the trials the Lord put him through.

 

Every place I have lived is full of memories, but that house more than most since I spent so much time there on so many different occasions. It really is sad that it’s no longer in the family.

Wildwood Drive, Corinth, Texas - circa 1985 

The house doesn't look very different today, but the landscape does!

Useless Giving

In 1913, a man founded The Santa Claus Association, the purpose of which was to answer all the letters to Santa Claus the US Postal Service received in the state of New York. Eventually there would be many Santa Claus Associations throughout the US and Canada, people volunteering hours of their time throughout the holidays to not only answer the letters but also provide needy children with gifts. Although it would seem the founder of this association created it to line his own pockets, he certainly wasn’t the only person during that time in history to create a “501(c)3” in order to get rich. Just as there are today.

 

The book I read this past year about this man and his association was quite interesting for various reasons. For one, it gave me an idea of just how many such “associations” came into being around the time of World War I until the Great Depression. At the time, America was booming with wealth and prosperity. People felt generous and wanted to donate to causes that would help the less fortunate. So, both sincere and disingenuous people created “associations”. The first helped other, the latter helped themselves.

 

And then there were the associations who arose in order to monitor the first set of associations. You know: people who didn’t want their neighbors being too sincere…or too disingenuous…whichever. It didn’t really matter as long as said people got to tell other people what they could and could not do. 

 

Honestly, times haven’t changed much at all.

 

A lot of these “monitoring associations” were keeping their eye on “Santa Claus” before all was said and done. And I had to stop and read the name of one of them twice. The Society for the Prevention of Useless Giving. Yes, please read that twice.

 

Now if you google this, you will actually come up with a lot of information on this society, and quite a bit of support that it should be revived. Founded in 1912 by a group of wealthy, philanthropic women (including one of J.P. Morgan’s daughters), it’s purpose was to put a stop the unnecessary Christmas-related materialism as well as employees giving gifts to management in exchange for workplace favors. Intended mostly as another arm of the feminist movement (women employees would need to dish out more expensive gifts than their male counterparts for favors), at one point even Theodore Roosevelt became a member. His reason for joining? To point people in a direction of sincere giving vs. materialism or giving in hopes of getting something in return.

 

 The movement wouldn’t last terribly long thanks to the start of World War I and store’s advertising departments turning the movement on it’s head by suggesting flyers full of “useful” gifts in order to prevent “useless” giving. And while women clerks hoping to rise above selling shirtwaists for twelve hours a day made up the bulk of the society’s membership, the leaders were wealthy and eventually had more important things to do. Now the society is nothing more than something fun to google.

 

Despite its questionable foundation, the ridiculous name made me stop and think. Useless Giving? Is there such a thing? Well, certainly there is. As Solomon so wisely proclaims throughout the entire book of Ecclesiastes, life is vain. We do all sort of things that are quite useless. Why should our giving being any different? And yet, shouldn’t it be different? If my giving comes from a sincere desire to be generous and bless someone else, it shouldn’t be useless. I shouldn’t give with a purpose of getting something in return. Nor should I donate to causes that have no real purpose or any desire to help others. And while I certainly give my children (and others) gifts that offer little more than pure enjoyment, I try not to do so to an extreme. Because what I give, just as how I spend my time, should be useful. It should encourage someone else, or help meet a need, or bring someone a little joy. For, in the end, what I have to give comes from my Heavenly Father who generously gave it to me. And He would never give me anything useless.

 

So, when Christmas rolls around again and you’re thinking about giving someone that watermelon slicer because it gets five-star reviews on Amazon and they did buy a watermelon for the 4^thof July picnic…well, you might want to ask yourself if that’s useless or useful. Because, really, the ice cream maker would get a lot more use. I mean, really, how does one even wrangle a watermelon slicer? I have enough trouble with an apple slicer… 

Oh, the Places I have Lived! - Part 2

I was born in Newport, Rhode Island. It’s a place that unless you know about it, you just think, “Oh, yeah, that tiny state. Somewhere on the east coast, right?” But if you know about it, it’s usually a place you’d like to see. And if you’ve been there, well, you’ve probably been there more than once. It’s that kind of place.

 

It’s a beautiful place, steeped in history that goes all the way back to the Vikings. It is primarily known for two things: 1) the Navy, and 2) the Gilded Age. Unfortunately, I was there because my dad was a Naval officer stationed there and not because I was a member of the Gilded Age 400 who spent summers in one of the many “cottages” that dot the landscape along Bellevue Avenue and the Cliff Walk. But I have seen many of the “cottages”, almost all of them more than once.  

 

Although born at the Naval hospital in Newport, my parents owned a little house just over the Newport line in Middletown. As you can see from the picture below, it was much more a cottage than the Breakers, or Rosecliff, or the Marble Mansion. But it was about as old as they were, probably built in the 1890s. I have no memory of my first home, having moved from it at only 20 months of age. And despite all my later trips to Newport, I have never seen it again. We heard a rumor that it wasn’t knocked down but moved to another location as West Main Street became more commercialized. But, who knows. 

 

 

When my dad left the Navy, we moved to Texas. As today, Texas was enjoying an influx of people in the early 1980s and we joined the train. We moved to what had once been wide open cattle land, just as most of the towns located in the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex once were. This one was The Colony. (Yes, for those of you who are wondering at my lack of grammar: the town is incorporated as The Colony.) When we moved in, it was practically brand new as the first homes had been built only eight years previous. Like most families there, my parents were somewhere around the age of 30 with small kids. And, in truth, I don’t remember this house at all and don’t have a picture of it. I have pictures of myself in it or playing outside, but aside from my red-headed friend Desi and the birth of my sister Katey, my memory of the brief time we spent in the The Colony is a blank slate.

 

My next home, though, is one I will never forget…

Oh, the Places I have Lived! - Part 1

As any woman can testify, we can cry over the silliest things. And I’m not just talking about my mother always crying at the end of Pollyanna. (Oh – wait! I do that now, too!) I mean that things bother us. Those things then compound over a certain amount of time, until the dam breaks and the tears flow. Usually over something that may or may not have anything to do with what is actually bothering us. It’s no wonder men find women to be a bit…well, alien.

 

That happened to me recently. The discussion of purchasing a house of our own has been spoken of, even pursued, and then tabled ever since just before Ethan was born. If 2020 hadn’t been as ridiculous as it was, I think the conversation would have been picked up again over a year ago. As it stands, we waited until 2021 to dust it off yet again. Which, if you know anything about the current housing market, is really bad timing. But this time it hasn’t been so easy to table it. Ed has always wanted our own place. For once, I’m not pushing the subject aside or hearing voices in the back of my head telling me not to go there even while we wander about houses with pink bathrooms or walls of drawers. And there’s Emry. Who brings up having a home of our own at least once every day. Granted, she has some ulterior motives. Mostly she wants a dog and a swing set, but we’ve told her that is not possible until we have a home of our own. But if you ask her, it isn’t just the dog or swing set. And she can’t understand why her prayers are not being answered…a lifelong frustration.

 

With all this building over the past couple of months, there was one day when we had asked a question of a lender we were in contact with that brought back a negative answer. And I hit my breaking point. I went into the only somewhat private place in the house (the bathroom), shut the door tight, sat down on the floor, and cried. And while, yes, I was crying because at that moment in time it seemed like we would never own a house and live in a tiny rental that really needs work for the rest of our living days...that wasn’t what kept playing over and over again in my head. At that moment I was crying because we would never have our own home and I couldn’t even purchase my small kids a swing set. Because it will mess up the grass. Grass that isn’t ours.

 

To be honest, that still makes me cry. My kids aren’t going to be small very long. It won’t be too many years before Emry will be too big for a swing set. And if it takes us that long to find our own home? I need to stop there before I start crying again.

 

Having one’s own home is a very American thing. One I shrugged at growing up. Because we never had one. Well, we did have a few, scattered between the rentals we lived in. Added together, they were nearly as transient as the rentals so it almost didn’t seem like we did own them. In the midst of all that, there were moments when I cursed my pilgrimage wanderings and wondered why my parents couldn’t be “normal” and just find a place to settle down and raise a family. Later, though, I didn’t mind. Think of all the things I got to see! People I got to meet! And, yes, even cultures I experienced. (And if you don’t think America has various cultures, you try living most of your childhood in the South and then moving to New England.) By the time I got married and had a family, I really didn’t know which life I wanted. Did I want my kids to have a home and be able to answer the question, “Where are you from?” without a very awkward hesitation? Or did I want them to experience the variety our nation holds? Honestly, I still don’t know.

 

On the other hand, I am now 41 years old. And Ed is 46. And at least Emry, and even Ethan, are hitting the ages when friends, and activities, and familiarity are very important pieces of their lives. And more now than ever before, I really want a place to call my own. I place where I don’t worry about the grass (or lack thereof) under the swing set. A place where I will scold Ethan about pulling down the towel rack, but I don’t have to groan over the holes in the drywall. A place where I can actually hang up all my pictures, unpack all my books, store all my stuff, and take the photo albums out of boxes so I can enjoy them and share them with the kids.  

 

But, I will be honest, I don’t know how that is ever going to happen. It seems like every time a light might glimmer at the end of that tunnel, a landslide creates darkness like midnight. Until I lose hope. Until I wonder why I bother to look, research, pray, anything. Until I think maybe being honest with Emry and just telling her she never having a home, a dog, or a swing set is the more likely scenario. And secretly feel like saying her God is great, but her parents are failures. 

 

Several weeks ago, Emry’s passionate plea for a home began again one evening after Bible time. More afraid of breaking down into tears, I prayed for something to tell her besides my despair. And God brought something to my mind. And then another thing. And then another. Memories of the houses I have lived in. Stories of how God brought each of them to us. And even a wondering of what my parents must have felt during some of those very low moments of our lives. I was able to tell Emry one little story of God’s faithfulness, probably more of an encouragement to me than her. But for the moment, it gave her peace and me a glimmer of hope.

Since then, the subject of a home still comes up at least once daily. And my despair is still usually greater than my hope. But Isaiah 46:9 tells us, “Remember the former days of old: for I am God, and there is none else; I am God, and there is none like me.” And, so I am going to remember. At least here in my blog for the next many weeks. For I’ve lived in a lot of houses. And each one has it’s own little (or big) story. Stories to cry over, laugh at, and tell to my kids. Because in their own way, each of them played  a role in my growing up. Something my kids will roll their eyes at soon enough, but maybe one day they’ll enjoy the memories.

Riding a Bike

For her first birthday, Emry received a Strider bike. If you aren’t familiar with what that is, it’s one of those balance bikes that have no pedals. It was the forerunner in that industry and Ed thought it ingenious: teach a kid to balance and then how to pedal. For Emry, it ended up being ironic. The tiny thing was barely as tall as the handlebars and she wouldn’t learn to walk until she was 18 months old, let alone ride a bike. When she finally grew enough to use it, her sense of caution didn’t allow her to do anything put walk it around. She wouldn’t glide with it, and she wouldn’t go down a hill on it if you paid her! So when she turned four, we bought her a bike with pedals. Which gave Ethan the Strider...

 

After our experience with Emry, I wasn’t all that convinced that the Strider was the end-all of learning to a ride a bike. Granted, my experience was piecemeal. All I had was my dad’s old bike. At first I had to have blocks attached to reach the pedals. Then we had a gravel driveway. I honestly don’t remember learning to ride a bike. I just know I could at some point by the time I was eight, and I got a bike of my own sometime around the age of nine or ten. I can’t Strider would have made any difference in the midst of all that. Emry learned to ride without training wheels a few months after she turned five. It took several days, some tears, and lots of OCD frustration. But with Ethan…

 

Well, by the time Emry learned to ride without training wheels Ethan was doing two things very well: 1) gliding down our driveway and onto the sidewalks with the Strider as fast as he could, and 2) pedaling his little Spider Man bike with training wheels all over the place. But for some reason, meshing those two skills together terrified him. He wouldn’t glide down the drive on his Spider Man bike if we took the training wheels off. And sometimes he just wanted pedals on the Strider. Winter came and we set it all aside. Maybe next year…

 

And now here we are: next year. But the same fear prevailed and he wouldn’t touch his Spider Man bike if we took the training wheels off. But then Emry got a new (bigger) bike for her birthday and, suddenly, he decided that maybehe would give it a try. Only not the way Emry did it. He refused to coast down the driveway. Instead, he’d walk the Spider Man bike down to the sidewalk, attempt to kick off with his feet and start pedaling. It wasn’t going well, Ed’s arguments that he should just coast down the hill did not prevail, and I finally took hold of the back of the seat, told him to put his feet up and pushed. It worked! He only went a few feet before wobbling over into the grass, but flush with success he hopped back up and started again. Emry, who really is a good big sister, came along side to help. And within ten minutes, we had our little man riding up and down the sidewalk as fast as his little legs could pedal. Soon thereafter, he coasted down our drive and off he went.

So, yes, the balance bike can work. What took Emry days took Ethan mere minutes. But it does depend on the child. And if early indicators are right, I think Ellyson will be more like Ethan and throw caution to the wind. I’ll just need to have the Band-Aids ready...