Returning Home
Just a few days ago we loaded up the family SUV with our suitcases and headed to Ohio. We strapped in our three feisty young children, brought along a collection of DVD's and began our twelve hour car trip. We were headed to my childhood town, the place where I grew up, for the first time since our youngest was born almost two years ago. It's our first big trip with all our children.
And, it's the first time I've ever realized the importance of showing them where their Mama comes from.
We live in the South and I love it. My husband was born and raised in the South and most of his family still lives in the vicinity. I love the culture, the people, the food, and the values that exist in the South.I love that we can be driving down the street and my husband can point to the park where he used to play baseball or the street where he wrecked his bike. I love that looking at a particular piece of land brings back a flood of memories for him about the days he and his brother spend growing up in Southern country. And, I love that he has the opportunity to share that with his children. But, when they turn and ask about my childhood it isn't always possible to show them my old haunts.
This trip feels different though. I don't know if it's the fact that they're getting more to an age where they can understand what I'm showing them or if I'm more aware of the importance of my history and where I came from. When I was packing and preparing for our adventure North I couldn't help but think of the multitude of things I wanted to show them and the same amount of things I couldn't wait to capture on camera.
I wanted to watch them scurry and play in the basements of my Grandpa's house much the same way I did as a child. I wanted to show them the gigantic jar of pickles he always seems to have hidden in the back of the fridge. And, i wanted to tell them all about how we used to eat them together when I was a child.
I wanted to drive them past my old school and tell them about my adventures on the playground and the boy I kissed on the porch of my old house. I wanted to show them the awful, yet charming, mall that exists on the edge of town and still houses some of the same stores I remember.
I wanted to let them feed the ducks at the same park where my Grandma used to take me. I wanted to watch them savor the food my mother used to cook for me and experience the joys of the kitchen just the way I used to.
But, I also couldn't wait to watch them have new adventures in my home town. I couldn't wait to watch them decorate the tree and laugh at the silly ornaments my brother and I made as a child. I couldn't wait to see their faces light up as we took them to ride horses and pet llamas at a local farm. I couldn't wait to see them lick the beaters when we make Christmas cookies. And, I couldn't wait to watch them feed the fish in the pond and hunt the groundhog under the porch.
It's nice to see them exploring and enjoying many of the same things I did in my youth. I'm glad I have somehow come to realize the importance of them doing just that. I'm also glad that, even though we don't visit often, they'll now have a few of the same memories I do. And maybe, just maybe, they'll recall some of my childhood memories when they're forming their own in the Deep South.
An Original Deep South Moms Blog Post. ChristinaY is a freelance writer and mother of three. In between loads of laundry she's working on a Ph.D. She blogs about her adventures and misadventures at hooey!critic
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