The little house before the prairie.... between Half-pint and Didder.

My brother went by our (very) old house yesterday afternoon and sent me this picture. (And then, proceeded to call).

Now, this house isn’t where I consider “my home” to be, but it is the very first house that I remember living in as a child. I was very young when we moved from here to the middle of nowhere and I was raised in the holler (my actual home and I wouldn’t have my raising any other way), but there are things that I remember about this “first house.” 

This was the house that I learned to read in. 

Where I had my vicious bout with a nasty case of the chicken pox (or as I liked to call them “chicky pops”), leading to one of my very favorite stories of Momma having to duct tape oven mittens to my hands. 

The giant tree that used to stand in this backyard (that is no longer there) was where I first picked up my love for climbing trees (and where the beginning of my nickname “spider monkey” began). 

This is the house where I threw my first right hook.... because the little boy next door was picking on my brother and at four-years-old I wasn’t having it. The tiny room inside on the back wall was where I stuck my sticker on the window that the fireman gave me when he came to my school (and it’s apparently still there over two decades later). Where my faithful companion Howard (my teddy bear of 28 years) used to look youthful just like me. It’s where I got my first dog and made my first friend. 

It’s also where I convinced my Momma that painting the porch that ugly green color was a good idea.... leading to it being the last time anyone let me decorate anything. 

This living room is where I got hurt bad enough for the very first time to get stitches (in my head.... go big or go home). And I’m pretty sure that I’ve had sass hidden under the floorboards for all these years. Where I learned fairly quickly that while I tried to play softball, I was terrible at it and where I watched “The Thief and the Cobbler” fifteen times while I had strep throat. 

I love Tennessee, it’s my home, my roots, my way to me. But, we all start somewhere. And I guess, I started right here. 

This coming July, having condemned it, they plan on tearing this house down for good. Leaving the lot bare and it’s future unknown. And for some odd reason, unknown exactly to me, that too feels fitting.