Home Endures Forever
My grandmother’s house was a stone’s throw from the church I grew up in.
While we probably could have walked the distance between the two locations, it never really seemed worth it. No one wants to hike back up the hill in penny loafers and Sunday dresses.
Instead we’d pile into our cars once the service would finish, and we’d either head back to her house for lunch or, on occasion, eat across the street at the old Green Jacket restaurant.
And as much as I loved the Green Jacket, I was a sucker for Nama’s cooking. Somehow this woman found a way to have a full spread ready on hand when we’d get back. We’re talking a main dish with three to four sides, a bread (obviously) and a host of desserts with one of them always being some variation of sherbert.
That little brick house has been a part of my life longer than any other dwelling I can recall. It was where my dad was raised. It was where we gathered for family reunions. It was where I cut grass every summer as an excuse for her to throw her oldest grandchild a little bit of cash.
And it was where our family would come together annually to celebrate Masters Week.
When I was young, prior to Augusta National Golf Club having built a sprawling parking lot adjacent to its grounds, my cousins and I would park cars there. If mowing the lawn was a way to make a few bucks, parking cars at $20 a pop made us regular Rockefellers.
As the course evolved, so did we. Parking cars went by the wayside, replaced with a chance for everyone to simply host some friends, go to the tournament and just enjoy ourselves for the week. We’d do our best to plan out who was doing what meal, what friend was coming into town and who’d be sleeping where, but my grandmother still would always worry that there were enough beds, enough food and enough parking.
Last summer, she passed away, having spent an incredible 103 years on this earth.
It was sad, but it also was time. We grieved. We laughed. We remembered.
And, as it is prone to do, life moved on.
For the better part of 40 years, all I’ve known of Masters Week is her house. This past April, we celebrated what we collectively refer to as the best week of the year one final time.
One tradition we had every year was gathering on her front steps for a family photo. You can track the path of our journeys in each image.
One year, my now wife just showed up as a 20-year college sophomore who couldn’t believe her boyfriend’s family lived that close to Augusta National Golf Club. About 10 photos later, she was holding our daughter, who became the first great-grandchild.
More spouses would come. More great-grandchildren would be born.
To commemorate the final year, my youngest cousin’s wife opted to hire a professional photographer for one final set of pictures from the house.
Three children. Three grandchildren. Six great-grandchildren.
So much family that it spilled from the porch steps and onto the porch itself, all of us politely squinting into the morning sun to make sure we found a way to hold on to this memory.
My cousins and I have already begun planning on how we’ll manage next year. My folks and my uncle live in town, though it means we’ll actually have to get a ride to the course. The idea of an RV stationed in my uncle’s driveway has been tossed out, which, to be fair, I’m fine with since I already have a bed to sleep in.
But, yes, it will be different, and it will be a bit sad.
However, if this year also made one thing clear – a house is not a home.
I loved that old brick house dearly, but it’s merely a place. A home is what makes up the house. It’s the loved ones who fill your life with meaning and purpose, cherishing the stories from the past that make you laugh and pointing to a tomorrow that fills you with hope.
My grandmother’s lasting legacy is that she gave us that home, and it’ll endure no matter where our family comes together.
– Johnathan
