My father and my uncle once owned a piece of property that wasn’t quite smack in the middle of downtown Bolivar, Tennessee, but it was close . . . a vacant lot that for all I knew had always been just that.  It was next door to and across a side street from the Methodist Church and one day the leaders of that congregation came asking whether or not they would be willing to part with the land.  In my ignorance I didn’t see a reason not to, but Dad agonized over the decision.  He finally elected to sell to the church because his mother had been a member there, so it only seemed fitting in his mind that if anyone else was to own the property, it should be them.  But I clearly remember him saying in almost a whisper, “I guess it really doesn’t matter.  The house isn’t there anymore.” So the property sold and the church built a fellowship hall and life continued moving on.

Fast forward several years . . . years that took my father’s voice and stole his brilliant mind . . . meaning I couldn’t ask any questions and expect any answers.  While looking through some old family photos I found one of my dad and his sister outside a white frame house.  His mother was there with them and as I stared at this picture I suddenly understood his hesitancy and his observation from so many years before.  At one time that vacant lot had been far more than an empty piece of property.  It had been the site of their home, the house in which they had spent their earliest years.  I don’t know when or why they moved to the two story red brick farther down Market Street.  That was the house I remembered.  That was the house where we celebrated Christmas and to which we came for random visits.  That was the house with the beautiful floral carpet and the painted white mantel that had the giant, gold framed mirror hanging over it and the upstairs closet that ran from the middle bedroom to the bedroom at the end of the house—kinda like our own personal secret passageway.  I never knew the white frame house that was so close to the main part of town.  So I never knew the meaning of that vacant lot.

But my father did.  And when representatives of the church came calling, they weren’t just asking him to sell a vacant lot.  They were asking for a piece of his history, a place that held memories that were never shared with me.  I’m sure that sharing didn’t seem important at the time.  After all, the house wasn’t there anymore.  But as I stared at that picture I wished I had known.  I wished I could have seen it.  I wished I had asked the questions when there was someone who knew the answers.

When houses become homes they become far more than a mere structure.  They become a place for our memories and experiences to remain, a tangible representation of a particular time in our lives.  For my dad, his early childhood centered around that house.  And even though the house no longer stood, he could still see it when he looked at that lot.  The land held the memories the house no longer could—and when it sold I could see the sadness in his eyes—I could hear it in his whispered words of resignation.

Grief comes in many different forms, from many different directions.  Death, of course, is the biggest culprit, but anytime we lose or let go of something—not necessarily someone—that has been an important part of our life, there will be grief involved.  Pictures may be able to preserve the past; memories may be at our beck and call as the years fade away.  But being able to walk where our ancestors walked . . . to open the doors they opened and stand in the spots where they stood . . . such experiences are on a very short list of things that can provide real joy and contentment—as well as sadness and longing.  And often in the same breath.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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