I grew up in this house in Hooper, Nebraska. The town is what we used to call “the metroplex” – 860 people. Now we call it “Poopyville North.” Dh’s town is Chester, Nebraska — “Poopyville South.” The house is what is we used to call a “bungalow.” When I was growing up, it seemed so BIG!
Dh had to pass by Hooper on a business trip a few weeks ago. He knew I wanted to go and take a picture of my old house, but I had other commitments. When he got home, he had me download his photos, and there it was! I thought that was very sweet of him.
It’s odd — the house in the picture doesn’t seem as real as the house in my memories. I can’t say I was happy there, and I left as soon as I could get away to college, but the history is mine. That old house was filled with vivid color, people who were bona-fide characters, loud chatter, holidays, music, drunken fights, overwrought emotions, food. Flashbacks of scenes, both heart-warming and horrendous, come and go in my mind like lightning, when I think of that old house.
The house in this photo seems cold, colorless, lived in by strangers. Is that why they say “you can’t go home again”? I wouldn’t want to. Let the old house of my memories live on.