My Southern Heart

The Mamie Road Mystery…

It had been fifty-five years since we had lived in that little house on Mamie Road. It was bound to have changed – together with the neighborhood which had been in the countryside when we lived there. During my recent visit home to the South, Sharon and I both wanted to visit that house again and see the neighborhood. We knew, of course, it wouldn’t be the same, but we still wanted to see it. We wanted to see where we had lived so many years ago…

She reminded me that, now, it isn’t the safest neighborhood – definitely not one we’d visit after dark. I still wanted to go and so did she.

I can’t remember what I bought at the grocery store for supper this week; but, in the recesses of my deepest memory, I found the street address for that little house – 3972. Strange, isn’t it? As we drove down Mamie Road, however, nothing looked right. Time had brought so many changes and none for the better. There was a used car lot on the corner now and the little grocery store on the other corner where we used to walk to get things for Mama was now a rundown business of some sort. All too sad. There was some sort of compound behind an elaborate fence where one of the houses used to be and there was one too many houses.

We finally realized that when we lived in that little house, there was a treed vacant lot next door to us. That’s why we thought we had such a big yard to play in and that’s why there was room for a large garden. Once we realized that, we knew which house was ours. Sharon had a photo (which unfortunately I forgot to scan) that even had the house numbers on it. I was right after all…it was 3972 Mamie Road.
According to the records at the assesor’s office, the house was built in 1947…which meant we either bought it new or not long after. Thankfully, our little house on Mamie Road looked nothing like the current one below. Ours had white clapboard, a dark roof and black shutters. There was no front porch then – just steps. There was no front chain-length fence with a satellite receiver on it. There was an old-fashioned screened door which we’d, no doubt, get in trouble for slamming as we went in and out. There were tall trees and there was grass instead of a front yard of dirt. There was plenty of green grass to do cartwheels on. I do remember that…

 

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  1. It can be so nice stepping back in time and reliving memories. I also recently saw my childhood home but seeing it did things my heart wasn't prepared to deal with at the moment. I'm hoping someday to visit it without being burdened with all the emotions of "what could have been."

  2. Thank you for taking the time to comment. I've just found your blog and can't wait to sit down and read…what a journey you've had. I hope you'll come back often. Blessings to you!

  3. Dianne, I enjoy your writing so much. The houses of our childhood mean so much to us. It doesn't matter how plain or fancy, they were Home. The first house I remember was a tiny stone house in a little town in Arizona. My brother called me a couple of years ago and said he was there on a trip and he wanted to pick my brain. Seems he couldn't find his way to that house. In my mind, I can still see every detail. I led him via phone to that house with the sandy backyard. It was desert country and we had no lawn. We'd swing every evening out back and life was filled with simple family outings that took little money.

    Your music is a beautiful backdrop to this blog, by the way. Soothing!