The House That Built Me

Having succumbed after fifty-eight years of needless denial to what a friend exquisitely characterized as "the most benign of vices" -- particularly the Starbucks variety: tall, bold, no room -- and embraced the pleasures of coffee with an enthusiasm bordering on the addictive, I should hardly be surprised by another recently acquired taste, although my readers' reaction will most likely echo that of my dental technician, whose skeptical response to my water-boarded expostulation featured a heavy emphasis on the personal pronoun: "You like country music?"

 Well, I wouldn't buy an i-pod or go out of my way to listen to it -- or any kind of music for that matter -- but, dismayed by the news, which is not very interesting these days and never good, except for a mysteriously ascendant stock market, disgusted by the caustic commentary of Messrs. O'Reilly, Limbaugh, Hannity, et. al., whose entertainment value I find severely diminished by the resolution of the health care and tax cut controversies, and disenchanted with sports talk, to which only Dan Patrick's measured, resonant voice on Fox between 9:00 AM and 12 Noon lends any credibility, I now have my XM Satellite radio locked onto Channel 16, The Highway, for the majority of the long hours I spend motoring to the far reaches of the Schewel Furniture mini-empire. 

 

Although some may question whether jettisoning my former favorites, Love and The Blend and their soporific repertoires of 60's, 70's and 80's soft rock and going Country represents progress, at least, in the words of my son Matthew, "It's new music you're listening to, not oldies." 

 

Unlike my stumbling upon coffee in a desperate attempt to stay awake during the tedious afternoon hours of an all-day Randolph-Macon Woman's College board meeting, this discovery wasn't entirely accidental. When a sixty-year-old male suitor (or one of any age) is seeking to garner the affection of an elusive female and she says she likes country music, he suppresses his sophisticated prejudices and changes the channel. And when I saw "that black dress hit the floor" in Chris Young's sultry video of the song "Gettin You Home," I was hooked. 

 

Contrary to my own general perception that this is an industry defined by the youth market -- each generation wistful for the genres and artists of its adolescence -- country music, or at least what I like -- organic power ballads and pop, as opposed to bluegrass, honky-tonk, or rockabilly -- seems to appeal to one's adult sensibilities and evoke the rock-and-roll sounds of my past. While including in this category current chart-toppers like "The Breath You Take," (George Strait) "Anything Like Me," (Brad Paisley) "Need You Now," (Lady Antebellum) and "She Won't Be Lonely Long," (Clay Walker) I must also confess a grudging admiration for the mindless redneck jingles "Farmer's Daughter," (Rodney Atkins) "Big Green Tractor," (Jason Aldean) and "Pretty Good at Drinkin' Beer." (Billy Currington) 

 

Lately I've been captivated by a haunting, melancholy tale of disillusionment and longing, the smash hit, "The House That Built Me," by Miranda Lambert. The soulful Texas soprano -- having pursued her dreams in some far-off place, perhaps north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and suffered a psyche-shattering setback -- journeys to her childhood home seeking renewal, even as she laments: "I know they say you can't go home again. I just had to come back one last time." Announcing herself to the new owner, she opens her heart to share poignant memories of a simpler time and the persistent despair of a troubled present in four minutes of searing melody and artful language. She sings:

 

Ma'am, I know you don't know me from Adam,

But these hand prints on the front steps are mine. 

And up those stairs in that little back bedroom 

Is where I did my homework and learned to play guitar. 

And I bet you didn't know under that live oak 

My favorite dog is buried in the yard.

 

Independence, maturity, and wanderlust have not been kind to the weary traveler. 

 

You leave home, you move on, 

And you do the best you can.

I got lost in this whole world 

And forgot who I am.

 

But her old house offers an anchor in the storm and and hope for the future, as she gives voice to a universal nostalgia. 

 

If I could walk around I swear I'll leave, 

Won't take nothing but a memory

From the house that built me.

 

A few weeks ago I went back to the house that built me. Since I'm a provincial, lifelong resident of Lynchburg -- where I was born and grew up -- it wasn't far from where I live now, at least in distance, about three miles. In appearance, however, thanks to the current owner's architectural eye, hefty pocketbook (or good credit), and Lambert-like yearning to return to her hometown, it's come a long way from the matchbox my father, a newlywed World War II veteran entering his family's fifty-year-old furniture business, purchased in 1946. 

 

My mother says it was not their first choice, which was located in the City, not in Bedford County, as this one was -- oh, how my life would have been different -- but, as Jews, they were barred from the neighborhood. My father says at $12,000 it was a steal, costing less than the swimming pool he installed in its successor twenty-five years later. It was a basic two-story brick Cape Cod with green shutters planted at 1226 Greenway Court, a charming circular street which loops off Boonsboro Road. Heading west, one turned right at the second entrance opposite the Cosby property, later the site of the Church of the Covenant and Camp Kum-Ba-Yah, and coasted downhill to the first house on the right. 

 

While the structure was minimalist by today's standards, the lot was grand, a veritable playground. Bordered by a deserted intersecting street, Greenway Place, the north side yard fell off sharply to a second level which, while roomy enough for a swing set, presented a topographical invitation to roll, jump, slide, hide, and crawl. Behind that, on the eastern edge, stood a decrepit, unattached garage, never destined to shelter either of my parents' two cars, but quite serviceable as a glorified playhouse. How tempting it was to emulate my favorite television superhero, George Reeve's Superman, and take a flying leap from its steeply-pitched roof, trusting in my red and blue tights, flowing cape, and outstretched arms to propel me to greater heights and then guide me gently back to earth. 

 

Even more enticing was the forbidden territory that surrounded us on two sides, its boundaries defined by post-and-rail fencing and dense foliage, behind which I glimpsed secret gardens, a shaded pool, and the commanding white house fronting Boonsboro Road, occupied by the mysterious Kaiser family, or so I assumed, since I never saw anyone come or go. 

 

While not a cul-de-sac, Greenway Court -- bisected by Greenway Place -- was, for the most part, a road infrequently traveled and thus an ideal bicycle course, and its downhills an even better sledding run on those glorious days when I reveled in the six-inch snowfalls I now despise. Once old enough to master the more congested Boonsboro Road I could cross over to Spottswood Place where two of my friends lived. A small universe it was for this preschooler (unless one counts two years at Randolph-Macon's Nursery School, beginning at three, succeeded by the First Presbyterian Kindergarten -- an ominous foreshadowing of instablity) yet expansive enough to accommodate his preliterate lust for adventure. 

 

Across the street, in a fanciful, brown-and-white European-style villa perched on a hill, lived my best friend, Jerry W., whose family unit mirrored my own -- father, mother, boy, girl, two years younger -- and with whom I laughed, wept, slept, masqueraded, and matched wits and arm strength. It was a union we both thought would last forever until his Catholic parents dispatched him to parochial school for first grade. (Tragically, his father, only in his forties, collapsed and died from a heart attack one morning after having come to our house the night before.) 

 

I learned another lesson in the vagaries of friendship when about the same time I suffered a thorough whipping at the hands of another neighbor, whom I later of course reconciled with. He was younger but somehow tougher, more skilled at brawling, and impervious to pain -- his and mine. Perhaps he had picked up a few pointers from the local "hood," a bully named Hobart H., who lived between the two of us and whose fearsome reputation made my parents' warnings totally unnecessary. Skulking home, I determined henceforth to seek conflict resolution through discussion and negotiation rather than violence as if, weakling that I was, I had any choice. 

 

I realize that there are millions of people who never want to look back to where they came from, but for me entering my old house was like reconnecting to a college friend after a forty-year hiatus. Time compressed, and the memories flooded me like a rising tide. Approaching the front door that wintry evening conjured up a decades-old photograph of father, mother, and child standing before me bundled in long, woolen overcoats against a similar chill. 

 

While the house has metamorphosed like a living organism -- most recently with the current owner's addition of a first floor master bedroom on the north side (swallowing up my old playground) and a modern kitchen on the opposite side -- its original configuration is easily discernible. In a world of abundant space, not only in my own home but in almost every other one I visit -- multiple bedrooms, walk-in closets and bathrooms, dining rooms, living rooms, great rooms, porches, libraries, family rooms, hallways, and, of course, grand circular kitchens with center islands, counter tops, a surfeit of cabinets, and bar seating (all of which need, thank heavens, furniture) -- I was struck at once by the overwhelming smallness of the place. 

 

The original house probably had no more than 1500 sq. ft. on two floors. An entrance hall divided the living room and the dining room, and led back to a kitchen barely large enough for a stove and refrigerator, much less four occupants. Upstairs were two bedrooms, one for me, one for my parents, and a bathroom. When my sister came along in 1950 two years after me, my parents added a second bedroom atop a screened-in porch (I guess that saved money) and a half bathroom under the stairs on the first floor. That is the house I remember. 

 

Of course even in this country, the richest in the world, millions of families live in squalid conditions and one-room apartments much smaller than the 1800 sq. ft. (after the addition) I so cavalierly dismiss, embarrassed by my own elitism. But to those of us accustomed to interior vastness -- like the friend who said, in response to my question, "It's 10,000 sq. ft., but we use every inch" -- it's remarkable how well four persons functioned in those confined quarters and how happy they were, at least in the jaundiced view of an eight-year-old. (My father may have found those walls too claustrophobic for comfort; he spent many long hours at work, including evenings and weekends -- although the pattern didn't change much when we moved to a larger house.) 

 

The 13x22 living room was aptly named; it was where the entire family congregated when we weren't eating or sleeping -- although I suspect I may have retreated to my bedroom when reading became my favorite avocation. The only piece of furniture I remember was a large overstuffed ottoman upholstered in gray vinyl, which one would jump on or turn on its side and ride like a cowboy on a horse. Since our Schewel store sold them, I assume we always had a television, in front of which my sister and I camped out every Saturday morning to watch four hours of kids' programming: The Cisco Kid, Sky King, Lassie, Fury, My Friend Flicka. And once tv dinners were invented -- those metallic trays neatly divided into three sections, one each for turkey with gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans -- if my parents were going out (most likely to Oakwood Country Club, the only place one could get a drink, provided he brought his own bottle ) we were accorded a special treat of setting them up on folding tables and justifying their name. 

 

My upstairs bedroom had a dormer window, from which I gazed out in shock and awe during the most frightening night I ever spent in that house, huddled in terror with my sister in October 1954 as Hurricane Hazel, an alliterative avenger, tore through Virginia. In more quiet times, it was my refuge during childhood attacks of chicken pox and measles. Warm weather lured us out to the back porch -- it's now a glass-enclosed den -- where I practiced my entrepreneurship in marathon Monopoly games spread out on the floor and luxuriated in stacks of comic books while rocking away lazy afternoons in a rope hammock. Even during the hottest days it was always the coolest place, since the only air-conditioned room in the house was my parents' bedroom and that was off limits. 

 

A pleasant neighborhood, a model household, plenty of friends nearby, a stay-at-home mother (when she wasn't on the golf course) on call to transport me anywhere I needed to go in her wood-sided Country Squire station wagon -- it was all so '50's idyllic, saccharine, and typical, even the smoke from my parents' Lucky Strikes and Pall Malls wafted harmlessly overhead. 

 

A minor problem pricked this tranquil bubble when I entered the first grade. Since 1226 Greenway Court was in Bedford County, I was consigned to Boonsboro Elementary School, even though, at five miles, it was further from my house than two city schools, a journey my protective mother made twice a day, loath to subject me to the beastly school bus and its raucous riders. After six weeks, however, my intellectual precocity had apparently outstripped both the capabilities of my peers and the imagination of my teacher; I came home complaining of boredom. 

 

After rejecting the only private school option, the Catholic one where my former running mate was enrolled and where the catechism was part of the curriculum, my panic-stricken parents turned to the Lynchburg City Schools to offer me a more a challenging education. As county residents they could pay tuition and send me to a school that had an opening. How that was determined I have no idea; every classroom seemed to bulge at the seams. Nevertheless, I was allocated a desk at the old Garland-Rodes School on Rivermont Avenue -- another two-a-day five-mile trek in the opposite direction and, ironically, directly across the street from where my grandparents were living. An early mid-season transfer, I was summarily uprooted and replanted. 

 

The operative word here is "opening." Just because Garland-Rodes had one that year, when I was a first-grader, didn't mean it would have one the next year. Like an army brat moving with his father to a new post or the Queen of Spades in a game of Hearts being handed off, I was shuffled over to Peakland Elementary School on Oak Lane, long ago torn down and now the site of Centra Health child care.

 

It was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, shouldn't I have welcomed the opportunity to meet all the "03" kids in the city (in the days before there was an "03")? On the other, being the new kid in town can be a little disturbing; just about the time I had a made a few "best friends," I had to say good-by and start all over again. And being tagged as one of the smartest -- but least athletically inclined -- kids in the class didn't help. For the third grade, deja vu, I was passed back to Garland-Rodes; at least I didn't have to break new ground, only renew old acquaintances. 

 

The next year the Baby Boom struck with a vengeance; there was no City School opening for this juvenile nomad. My parents knew the fourth grade teacher at Boonsboro Elementary School, and deemed her professional enough to stretch the scholars without neglecting the laggards. Her imperious manner struck fear in the hearts of all her students, and silenced any rebels even when they weren't occupied solving her endless stream of multiplication grids. Either exhausted or prescient and probably anticipating another one-year station, I shirked my socialization duties and preferred to associate with a Jewish friend who was one-year ahead of me and a Boonsboro veteran. During recess he would tutor me in advanced academics, an exercise which was to bear fruition in good time. 

 

As it turned out, my Boonsboro stay ran true to form, but this time I had lots of company. In 1958 the City of Lynchburg annexed a huge swath of Bedford County including the house that built me. To accommodate this new population -- I for one knew there were no "openings" in the existing schools -- it built Bedford Hills Elementary School; it was only one mile from Greenway Court and a boon for my frenzied mother after all those years of shuttling me to my designated school. How delighted I was to recognize some my old Peakland cronies among my fifth-grade classmates -- for about six weeks. No, I didn't transfer; I skipped, as in the hopscotch games I used to play on the street in front of the house. 

 

Apparently, a standardized test buttressed by my near perfect report cards confirmed reading and mathematical skills at least one grade above my age-appropriate level, and the educational authorities decided to accelerate me -- after, I'm sure, a consultation with my parents. For someone who hadn't settled in one school long enough to put down roots, another transplant was hardly novel. But looking back, I wouldn't recommend grade skipping, no matter how brilliant the child is. (In fact, I believe the practice has been largely discontinued.) No doubt I was academically and intellectually qualified to succeed among students one year my senior, and I did, continuing to earn straight A's in every subject but Phys. Ed. Socially, however, demotion to a lower grade would have better suited this cerebral, insecure introvert. 

 

Miranda Lambert's home has another meaning for her, which brings me to a postscript. She sings: "

 

Mama cut out pictures of houses for years 

From Better Homes and Gardens Magazines. 

Plans were drawn, concrete poured, 

And nail by nail and board by board 

Daddy gave life to Mama's dream. 

 

It was a bittersweet sight that I'll never forget, juxtaposing the excitement of moving to a new place with bidding farewell to an old friend and to the attendant memories: the huge tractor trailer grinding to a halt, the side doors opening, the ramp laid down, two burly men making their way up the front walkway, later emerging with chairs and tables strapped to their backs. 

 

Because 1226 Greenway Court wasn't my mother's dream house. That came later, in 1958, when with the birth of my brother my parents decided they had outgrown that starter, bought a half-acre lot at the corner of Elk Street and Belfield Place off Langhorne Road, and built a 3000 sq. ft. 1960's ranch -- replete with four bedrooms, living room, dining room, den, modern kitchen, and a half-finished basement with utility and family rooms. 

 

With the help of her architect, my mother paid attention to every detail, "nail by nail and board by board," while I suspect my father was mostly oblivious to the construction process. Other than requiring a few basic amenities, I don't think he really cared where he lived, as long as it wasn't too far from his beloved Downtown Store and Oakwood Country Club, both of which, incidentally, this new house was closer to. It wasn't very close to Bedford Hills Elementary School; in fact, it was in a different district altogether, necessitating, of course, my enrolling in another school for the seventh grade. At least it was one I was familiar with -- Peakland -- although my former second-grade friends were now a year behind me. 

 

But my peripatetic education wasn't over. Back then, before desegregation and the re-engineering of the school system, all white eighth graders in the city attended the old Robert E. Lee High School on Park Avenue. For the select four hundred it was a glorious year; we had the whole place to ourselves, free of any obnoxious underclassmen or overbearing superiors before advancing to four years at E. C. Glass, which would become my eighth different institution in eight years. 

 

Ultimately, who can say what determines our development as human beings? The factors that influence character and personality are so numerous and varied -- genes, parents, teachers, coaches, peers, socioeconomic status, opportunity, luck -- that no single one can be assigned primacy. Would I have been different had I grown up in another town, in another house, in a classroom in which my mates were not passing me by like commuters on a highway? Surely. Because whenever I think about it, I cannot avoid the conclusion that in some demonstrable way I am the product of the house that built me.