this is where we used to live.

If you know anything about me (or read the blog/newspaper column), you know that I tell the kids a bedtime story about my childhood each night before bed. Most of the stories circle around my brother, who seemed to enjoy childhood more than I did, therefore war stories about how he stepped on an old pancake in a McDonald's ball pit once or vomited up a purple popscicle in its original form are always at the top of the list.

{And yes. I brought it up. THE PURPLE POPSCICLE. An urban legend that solidified siblings as best friends. I am the only witness to the account of a popscicle laying on the cool bathroom floor, just as it looked before it was consumed. TRUE. STORY. }

So, after we headed to library storytime yesterday only to find out that it was canceled, I decided to burn about a 1/4 tank of gas, turn around and head completely in the opposite direction toward my childhood home. I felt that it would give the kids a visual about how we had secret hideouts in the woods, point out the exact location where my father flattened an unsuspecting squirrel on the ride home, and show them the church parking lot where my father took me to "practice driving" in the silver Dodge Dynasty, only to tell me I was not allowed to "give it gas". That's right, folks. Just let 'ol Betsy roll around in the parking lot for a few. Buckle up for safety!

I really wanted to take a picture of "the old house" and send it to my brother, but since there were two cars in the driveway, I figured that may not be the best idea. So, the only pic I got of this "field trip to the past" was of the street sign:

Most of the houses looked the same, as I showed them the wooden pole that we could not go past on our bikes, and the mailbox flag that shaved a piece of my brother's hair off when he passed it on his bike going toward that marker pole. He had a bald spot for like, ten years.

I reached the beginning of the long, gravel driveway full of ruts where the rainwater would wash the tiny rocks down the road. When we lived there, this old man would angrily bring a shovel the day after a huge rainstorm and dig alternating paths for this water, stating it was flooding his yard. We never knew his real name, but referred to him as Old Man Marley, like from Home Alone.Wonder if he still lives on that street. And digs in other people's driveways...

For whatever reason, I decided to drive up that dead end driveway right to my childhood home. The woods where we spent most of our summers were completely overgrown, and that tree we climbed that seemed so high was completely out of sight. The house looked tired and worn, but with a new garage door. It never shut when we lived there. Glad they were able to get a new one. There were a few riding toys thrown haphazardly in the yard, as evidence that children resided there. I tried several times to turn my van around in that driveway that used to span for miles. It is now a tiny square of pavement.

I wonder if those kids look out those windows and wonder where they will be when they move out of that house. And the stories that house holds that no one will tell. Do they know? Do they still have that old brown shag carpet? Is there a small purple stain on the bathroom linoleum?

I will think about that house for days now. As we coasted back toward home--our home--it made me wonder if my children will drive by our house one day and what they will remember.

It feels good to be home.

(Missed today's daily photo? Click here.)