My house sits on an acre of land in Whites Creek, just north of Nashville, still sort of Nashville. The houses on my side of the road are all 50s ranch houses with two bedrooms, one bath, all with the same layout, though some have full porches and some have fireplaces and some are mirror images of their neighbors. And over half a century, they have come to take on their own personalities, with additions and coats of paint and the deaths of the original owners.
I bought my house from the nephew of the original owners. His aunt is still alive. His uncle has been dead a while. His shed in the back yard still has his small animal traps, rusted, but hanging on the wall. His work bench still has drill bits and chisels. The cabinet above the sink still had his two white glass mugs. And we found jars of honey from when he used to keep bees.
The nephew told us that, towards the end of his life, his uncle went blind. So they draped ropes and wires all around the back yard so that the uncle could still get outside and walk around and, following the ropes, not get lost. Because he didn’t want to be cooped up in the house. He wanted to be out in the yard that he loved so much.
Often, when people come to visit, they come in the back door and they ask, “Is that your dad out in the hammock?”
And I say, “No. There’s no one here but me.”
But I hope I’m wrong.