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Finding Home
by A. Diane Kennedy In December of 1973, a young couple said "I do" and made their home on the groom's family farm in West Tennessee. That first home was the place where they began their life together. The "Home" they shared for the first three years of their marriage and the "home" they brought their first child home to in 1975, a daughter, more specifically, ME. I have only a few memories of my first home. It is strange how certain images imbed themselves into one's mind. I have no memory of what my own room even looked like. However, I can remember Daddy's black chair in front of the bar, and all of his horse show trophies displayed in the living room just as if I had seen it yesterday. I honestly could describe any other part of the interior. I can remember momma's clothesline, the apple trees outside and the sound of Grandpa's walking cane tapping on the aluminum door. But that is the extent of the memories there. In August of 1978, Daddy, Momma, my new little brother and I moved into our new "home." We had spent a few months at a rental house awaiting the completion of our new home. It was three bedroom with yellow siding. Momma proudly displayed our last name in huge wooden letters nailed to siding on the front of the house. We were home. Over the years, that house became filled with memories. I can remember every detail of that house. I knew every dent and scratch on the walls just as my parents did. However, Phil and I knew how the dents and scratches got there, our parents didn't. We scuffled, played, ran Tonka trucks into the drywall, bounced off the beds and almost anything you could imagine two wild little Indians putting a house through. I have moved many times since leaving that house and starting my "adult" life. But I will never forget the sadness I felt that first night away from there. Regardless of how many times, I moved or the number of memories I made that was always the place that I called "home". However, on December 9, 2005 all that changed. It was a Friday night and I was at a place I was renting four miles away. Daddy had gone to a horse show and my son was there with mom. They were in the living room watching a movie when my little "canine brother", Buddy began to act strange. Mom got up and went into the laundry room. The house was on fire. Mom, a grandmother that had been battling cancer since November 1995, tackled that fire with a level of courage that was and still is indescribable. My son, only nine years old at the time, ran next door to my aunt and uncle's to phone me to call for help. I dialed 911 from my cell phone while getting into the truck. In the short time that it took to drive those four miles, mom was forced to give up and get out of the house. We lost almost everything. My last memory of that place as it stood is the image of the smoke and flames in the background as I heard mom telling daddy she was sorry that she couldn't put it out. Dad just hugged her and replied, "It's ok, it was about time we got new stuff anyway". The two days that followed were the days that changed my definition of the word "home" FOREVER! That Friday night, I honestly felt as if the only real home I had ever had was gone. The place that I had always thought would be there was no longer there. My life and career have carried to almost every state in United States giving me a total of thirteen different mailing addresses. However, only one place was ever considered "home". But as I said, all that changed in one weekend. The next day, I was standing outside talking to my father. The smells of the fire was still in the air and the place was packed with family, friends, neighbors and many people that were just residents of Decatur County coming to lend a hand. Several of them, I had only seen in passing and so many faces that belonged to strangers. But it was right there that for the first time in thirty years, looking at my father, that it hit me like a Mack truck. It was never the house that I had always counted on. I had not been coming "home" to that house all these years. It wasn't that house that I had always called "home". When I brought my little boy "home" it had not been to that house. We had lost our house. And in the rumble, I found home. It was my parents. Home is my dad and mom that have always been there. That house had always been the safe haven, because Daddy was there. The food had always tasted better because Momma's kitchen was in that house. The answers always came to me when I was there because Daddy was there to provide sound advise (and jerk the knot out of my chain when needed) and Momma was there praying to God for the answers that Daddy didn't have. Home was not the ashy remains of the structure that I had grew up in. Home was, is and always will be the two people that were always there, my Daddy and Momma, Terry and Marie Kennedy. I have traveled to almost every state in U.S. and met hundreds of people in each one. But the one place that will always stand out is Decaturville, Tennessee. The place where my "home" is and a place that is filled with some of the most amazing people. I may not remember every name that came to our aid that weekend. But I will never forget your face. Thank you. Diane is a former event model and scout with a new book coming out in April of 2010. Diane Kennedy www.dianekennedy.info Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com |