the house(s) that built me

Miranda Lambert has a song, The House that Built Me, that makes me cry every time I hear it. I could play it 12 times in a row and I'd cry 12 times in a row.

I grew up in Albuquerque. My parents are still in the house they bought about a month before I was born. Albuquerque is home, always will be. But it's not my only childhood home. The houses that comprised what we affectionately called "the compound" in Deming are my other home. 75 years ago my great grandparents bought a large brick home on about half an acre - for $1,500. When my grandparents married, my greatgrandparents gave them half their land, and a modest home, the plan for which was advertised in Better Homes & Gardens, was built.

My mom and her 4 siblings lived here, with mom & dad, grandmother & grandfather, Uncle Dick and often Aunt Mary Jane. Can you imagine being raised by so many loving people? Always someone around to help with whatever you needed, listen to your story, read you a book, tease you about your crush.

Anyway, my memories of these houses go throughout my childhood. Playing on the stairs as a little kid, with my older cousin humoring us. In the kitchen in the small house, making cream puffs with my grandma. The swing Grandpa John always hung on the pecan tree out back, and the patch of ground where the grass n olonger grew because we wore it away as we swung.

The neighbor's wisteria that hung over the alley, always in full bloom when Ali and I would spend spring break there without our parents. The spring break of my junior year of high school, making construction paper buttons to campaign for student body vp. Mary Jane's basil for Mary Jane's pesto.

It's where I learned to ride my bike. And where I learned to drive.

Playing 'house' with Ali and my younger cousin, Rebecca, upstairs in the old apartments. Decorating the Thanksgiving table with pilgrim and indian candles - candles that were probably bought for a dime 60 years ago, and that we never, ever light. Wearing over-turned buckets on our heads to protect from falling pecans as we gather the nuts our uncles shake from the trees.

But the front porch, oh the front porch - endless hours playing with Ali and Rebecca. The front porch was a pizzeria. A dance studio. A bakery. An upscale restaurant. An ice cream shop. Mostly, a place for sitting and dreaming and teasing and imagining.

Since I was a kid, I've always cried on the drive out of Deming, hoping that I was going to see everyone again. Driving out of Deming after Dick's service, I cried a more final cry. I didn't know which way to drive out of town - which route to take - because I couldn't decide what I needed one last look at. The large brick home is still in the family, but the smaller one was sold. I don't know how long the brick one will remain, but I'm not sure that it matters - I don't know that I want to start building different memories there. And I think I'm not alone in that thought.

When we went to spread Dick's ashes at the homestead, the same place Mary Jane's ashes were spread in December, I could feel their presence. Not just Dick and Mary Jane, but also Marg and Jimmy, and my Grandpa John who died 4 years ago. They were gathered there, celebrating.

The day after we spread ashes, Sasha was baptized in the church I was baptized in. The church my mom and her siblings were baptized in. The church my grandparents were married in. And I felt their presence there, again. Very powerfully.

I'm sure I'll be in Deming again, if there's anything the family needs to do to finish clearing out the house. But that chapter has effectively ended. No more 4th of July gatherings, fireworks in the driveway. No more Thanksgiving meals prepared in the 2 kitchens, with 30 people bowing their heads as Uncle Dick says prayer. I'm curious where our family is headed. We are incredibly close when we are together, but don't communicate much the rest of the year. Something we are working on.