There is a small town in Alabama, called Carbon Hill. When I say small, I mean small. As you make a left at the red light by the old Texaco station, you drive along a hilly uneven road until you come to the four way stop. You stop, make sure there is nothing coming and then you proceed on through several stop signs, arriving at the old Elementary school, you follow the sharp curve around and pass the old mine on the left, going all the way till you get to where the interstate has intercepted the quiet country atmosphere and demanded that you show it respect and progress overtakes that small town. There is a road right there called Prospect. You make a right on it and follow it down a couple of miles. You pass old Sis Johnson’s daughter’s house, pass Miss Peggy’s house and then it comes to you. There is the old Berryhill place and across from it is Sis Johnson’s house. You also see there is a road that veers off to the side so you turn to the left and follow it. As you are looking down, past Sis Johnson’s house you see the huge garden area. Then just a little further you look and see there are 3 other houses that join Sis’ on that small little spot. So you proceed just a little further. There are three houses on the left side and a lone trailer on the right.
In the middle of the three houses, a green one sits. It’s a dark green. It has a huge front yard filled with grass that has long since given up the fight to live. It wasn’t made to grow in this area of rural Alabama. But the house is what catches your attention. The porch is typical and takes up the front of the small shotgun house. Instead of steps though, you see two huge rocks. Yes, those are the steps. Cautiously you step up on the first one to find that it is sturdier than you thought it would be. You take the second rock that is a step and you realize it too it strong and doesn’t waiver. As you walk to the door, you see the screen door and the white front door which is such a stark contrast to the green. You open the screen door and then the front door. As you walk in, you see a fair size living room taking up most of the space. You see a small dining room off to your right with that sturdy table that you used to love it sit at. That your grandmother was always sitting at the head of, with her glass of water. To the left you see the room, yellow and complete with the canopy bed. You walk through, admiring the beautiful handmade quilt that lays across the bed instead of the comforters of today. As you walk out, you turn to your left and see another dining area, one that isn’t used. There are cabinets that have stores of homemade preserves, jellies, canned veggies that were from the season. You look to the left and see another bedroom. This one is darker. The wood paneling so dark, it almost looks black. Then you spot the window and turn to your right, walking into a bathroom. The only one in the house. It’s long and narrow instead of wide and big. It emcompasses about 2/3 of the back of the house. As you walk out of the bathroom, out of the bedroom, through the never used dining room, you notice there is a screened in back porch. You keep walking straight and just a couple of steps later you find you are in a bright kitchen. Bright because there are windows infront of the sink and the yellow and white of the kitchen make it so bright and homey.
On the counter is a couple of sweet potato pies- but you don’t know that, you think they are pumpkin pies. You stop and smell them, and then proceed back to the dining room table. Off to the side you see the oxygen machine that your grandmother used when she was alive. Memories assult you, sitting at that table. Mamaw sitting there sneezing, swearing that she says “asshole” instead of the noise that she makes when she sneezes. You laugh, remembering the stubborn woman that she was. The one who loved you with all her heart and soul and that passed away too soon. Suddenly you are drawn else where. So leaving the house you get in the car and go to the end of the road and make a left. You head further down Prospect and find the place you are drawn to.
It’s a little church, one that you’ve never seen anyone at. In the back of the church is a cemetery. So you turn in and wind your way back towards the back. You stop half way down and get out of the car. You walk down to a small plot area that has the grey bricks surrounding it. There are three headstones. One says Tessner and two say Powell. You pay your respects to the Tessner one first, she is the oldest. Mamaw. You miss that woman so much. She helped raise me. Well for the first 11 or so years of my life. Moving on you see the two small Powell headstones. They are for Vicky and Carolyn. The very first two of the 6 Powell children that came from Bobby. Girls that only were destined to live a day each. One that even shares your birthday.
After you pay them the respect they deserve, your eyes are drawn to the last place. It’s not visible now. But there is a hole in the middle between the two girls. One that houses the cremated remains of Daddy. He’s where he wanted to be. With the two little girls that never got to grow up.
After saying your respects and telling him all that is going on, you realize that each of those four have left a sort of legacy for you. Mamaw who you adored and raised you right. Daddy who you took care of when he couldn’t. Vicky who was destined to share a birthday with you and Carolyn who was named after her grandmother. The last two their legacies are sketchier but they were born for a reason.
You can’t help but wonder if those two girls found Logan when he joined them and knew that he was someone special and took him under their wings and showed him the ropes. You can’t help but hope that Mamaw and Daddy met and made peace with each other. So many unanswered questions that are for another day. And now your time is waning, the day is coming to a close. So you get in a car and head back towards the way you came.
As you pass the small road that was off to the side, the one that hid the house that you loved and cherished and felt safe in you realize that that house is gone. Because now you are in the present. Someone bought it and tore it down, made way for a double wide that would eventually go there. Because life goes on.
But you still remember the house and the love and somehow it never leaves you. It is your security blanket. And happy memories sound you when you think about that house.
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