Growing up, we moved around a lot. My dad got transferred to Michigan by his job, then started his own company, which allowed us to move back home to Kentucky. Then my mom began her career in real estate, which contributed a lot to my parent's "moving bug." By the time I was 18, I had lived in 7 different homes, not counting the few months we lived with my grandparents while we searched for a house. I went to 9 different schools: 5 elementary schools, 3 middle schools, and 1 high school. I never really minded it though, I got used to making new friends, and I always adapted fine to the new places. But once my brother and I got in high school, my parents promised to stay put in one place, and they did. We stayed in our house on Worthington Lane for 7 years. Seven years might not sounds like a long time to you, but it was for me. And when I think about home, and growing up, I think about that house. We moved there when I was 11, and stayed until I was 18. So many of my best memories are inside that home, in that yard, in that neighborhood. It's where my friends would come to hang out in the basement, where I had my first kiss, where I climbed in my closet to talk on the phone late at night so my dad couldn't hear, where I learned to drive, where I got ready for prom, and where I cried over all of the boys who broke my heart. I still drive past the house and try to peek inside. The curtains that hung in my room are still there. The pine trees that my dad planted in the back yard are taller than the house now, and my brother's basketball goal stands faithfully in the driveway. I'd love to see inside, to see what remains of my home. It might seem silly to be so sentimental about a house, especially one that we didn't live in long. I guess it's not really about the house, it's about the memories. It's where I come from.
"If I could just come in, I swear I'll leave. Won't take nothing but a memory, of the house that built me."
This song makes me cry every time. I sure have become a softy in my old age!