I love Miranda Lambert’s song “The House That Built Me”. It pierced right through my heart the first time I heard it. I'm guessing it must have touched so many others, too, because it was named the Country Music Awards Song of the Year a few months ago. I first heard the song about a year after I made a trip back home with my family in 2009. I’ve lived in Florida for so long that I feel like I have no connection to my hometown of Cleveland, Mississippi. The older I get, the more I think about how blessed I was as a child.
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I can truly relate to the woman in the song as she makes a plea to the current owner of her childhood house to just come inside and reconnect with her past. I feel that way sometimes. When life gets crazy and nothing seems to be going right, I wish I could just go back to a more simple time and place – like home.
Ironically, my mom sparked it all. We were on our way home from a family cookout when she started recalling her childhood. We were close to where she grew up as a young girl. She wanted to show me, my husband, James and her grandchildren, Austin (14) and Kingston (9), where she grew up. We drove down Highway One towards Beulah, MS. My mom pointed out an area in a cotton field where her family’s bungalow once stood. Back then, the cotton fields were on the left and houses were on the right. They were divided by a dirt road. My mom remembered the exact spot where her house used to be. She would wake up in the mornings and go to work in the fields from sunrise to sunset. She remembered living there with her aunt and uncle and a host of younger cousins. When she wasn’t working in the fields, she was taking care of them.
It had been over 4 decades since she lived in Beulah, but she remembered it like it was yesterday. I’m sure if the house was still standing, we would’ve stopped and looked inside – just like in the song:
Read more below...
I can truly relate to the woman in the song as she makes a plea to the current owner of her childhood house to just come inside and reconnect with her past. I feel that way sometimes. When life gets crazy and nothing seems to be going right, I wish I could just go back to a more simple time and place – like home.
Ironically, my mom sparked it all. We were on our way home from a family cookout when she started recalling her childhood. We were close to where she grew up as a young girl. She wanted to show me, my husband, James and her grandchildren, Austin (14) and Kingston (9), where she grew up. We drove down Highway One towards Beulah, MS. My mom pointed out an area in a cotton field where her family’s bungalow once stood. Back then, the cotton fields were on the left and houses were on the right. They were divided by a dirt road. My mom remembered the exact spot where her house used to be. She would wake up in the mornings and go to work in the fields from sunrise to sunset. She remembered living there with her aunt and uncle and a host of younger cousins. When she wasn’t working in the fields, she was taking care of them.
It had been over 4 decades since she lived in Beulah, but she remembered it like it was yesterday. I’m sure if the house was still standing, we would’ve stopped and looked inside – just like in the song:
"I thought if I could touch this place or feel it, this brokenness inside me might start healing. Out here it’s like I’m someone else. I thought that maybe I could find myself. If I could just come in, I swear I’ll leave. Won’t take nothing but a memory…of the house that built me.”
These lyrics are so powerful and soft, yet sang with a since of urgency and a desperate plea to be home again. My mom’s trip down memory lane led me to follow Highway One down farther to the small town of Rosedale, MS. It’s where I spent the first 11 years of my life. I only remember living in one house, although we had lived in another house when I was born. It was in a place called Paradise, which was anything but. I had spent some time in Paradise, but my childhood home was on Kennedy Drive.
I had shown my husband where I grew up some years ago, but I wanted the Burney Brats, as they are affectionately called, to see it. The memories of my childhood in the small town were as vivid as if it were yesterday. I could see myself running out the front metal and screen door to the yard that was surrounded by bushes along the driveway and the length of the yard along the asphalt road. There were two tall thin oak trees in the front yard with about ten feet of space between them.
As we turned on to Kennedy Cove from First Street, I could see the only park in town where everything happened. We would go there during the summer to watch my older brother’s baseball games or to swim at the community pool where he was also a lifeguard. It was a pretty nice life. We never knew we didn’t have much.
Our house was right in the curve on Kennedy Cove. At night, car lights would shine directly into our double living room windows. It was where my little brother and I would sit at the window seal waiting for my mom to come home from night school or her second job. We’d watched the car lights so much, that we knew exactly which car was our mom’s and exactly when to start watching for her to pull into the uncovered driveway. Every now and then we would turn our attention back to the black and white television where my older brother and sister would be watching the Brady Bunch or Good Times.
As we drove into the curve, the car lights reflected off a stop sign, taking me back to sitting in that window with my little brother. So many memories came back that I was eager to share with my kids. The closer we got, the more I could hear the country songstress say:
These lyrics are so powerful and soft, yet sang with a since of urgency and a desperate plea to be home again. My mom’s trip down memory lane led me to follow Highway One down farther to the small town of Rosedale, MS. It’s where I spent the first 11 years of my life. I only remember living in one house, although we had lived in another house when I was born. It was in a place called Paradise, which was anything but. I had spent some time in Paradise, but my childhood home was on Kennedy Drive.
I had shown my husband where I grew up some years ago, but I wanted the Burney Brats, as they are affectionately called, to see it. The memories of my childhood in the small town were as vivid as if it were yesterday. I could see myself running out the front metal and screen door to the yard that was surrounded by bushes along the driveway and the length of the yard along the asphalt road. There were two tall thin oak trees in the front yard with about ten feet of space between them.
As we turned on to Kennedy Cove from First Street, I could see the only park in town where everything happened. We would go there during the summer to watch my older brother’s baseball games or to swim at the community pool where he was also a lifeguard. It was a pretty nice life. We never knew we didn’t have much.
Our house was right in the curve on Kennedy Cove. At night, car lights would shine directly into our double living room windows. It was where my little brother and I would sit at the window seal waiting for my mom to come home from night school or her second job. We’d watched the car lights so much, that we knew exactly which car was our mom’s and exactly when to start watching for her to pull into the uncovered driveway. Every now and then we would turn our attention back to the black and white television where my older brother and sister would be watching the Brady Bunch or Good Times.
As we drove into the curve, the car lights reflected off a stop sign, taking me back to sitting in that window with my little brother. So many memories came back that I was eager to share with my kids. The closer we got, the more I could hear the country songstress say:
“Up those stairs in that little back bedroom is where I did my homework and learned the guitar. And I bet you didn’t know under that live oak my favorite dog is buried in the yard.”
There were no guitar lessons or family pets, but every part of that house had some special meaning to me. There were so many things I could show Austin and King just by standing in the backyard. For starters, the right-side back corner of the house was where my best friend, Cynthia and I had dug a hole in the dirt to make mudpies. We would fill it with water from the faucet on the side of the house until we got caught, then we would sneak it from at her house next door, getting soak and wet in the process. We had to have the right consistency to make good mudpies. That poor spot never grew grass again.
Another spot in the backyard that was pivotal in my childhood was the ditch. It separated our backyard from the neighbors behind us. I’m sure it also had something to do with flooding, but it was small enough for my siblings and I to leap across it to meet up with our friends. Most times, I was hot on my older sister’s trail following her every footstep. The ditch also led to the big open field where all the kids in the neighborhood would meet to play anything from a game of kickball to freeze tag.
It was truly a carefree life, but what would childhood be without chores. Another memorable area of my old house was the storage room. It was a room on the back of the house where we kept the washing machine. A clothes line, better known today as the dryer, stood about 20 feet away in the backyard. Back then, my sister and I were the manual dryers. Somehow, it didn’t bother us too much because we would see all our friends on either side of the ditch hanging clothes on the lines.
Times were so much simpler back then. I wanted the Burney brats to have a vivid picture of the work ethic we had in those days. They don’t realize how easy they have it today. They huff and puff if you ask them to take clothes out of the washer and transfer them into the dryer right next to it.
I had a great childhood and I knew if they could just stand in my old place, they would feel it, but also see how it shaped the childhood they have today. So imagine my disbelief as we drove closer to the house. The car lights shone on the spot where my brother and I kept watch, but there was nothing there. The house that built me no longer stood. Every house on the block was as I remembered. I made my husband stop the car so I could count the houses. We were the fourth house on the block. I counted twice – no three times, but I got the same result. Yes, that is the definition of insanity and at that moment I thought I was going crazy. How does a house just disappear? The foundation is all that was left of 41 Kennedy Drive.
My heart sank. I immediately felt like a part of me had vanished off the face of the earth. I hadn’t lived in the little pale brick house for over 25 years, but seeing it gone ripped my heart out. If there was any place to shed a tear on Ms. Lambert’s powerful lyrics, it would be when she says:
There were no guitar lessons or family pets, but every part of that house had some special meaning to me. There were so many things I could show Austin and King just by standing in the backyard. For starters, the right-side back corner of the house was where my best friend, Cynthia and I had dug a hole in the dirt to make mudpies. We would fill it with water from the faucet on the side of the house until we got caught, then we would sneak it from at her house next door, getting soak and wet in the process. We had to have the right consistency to make good mudpies. That poor spot never grew grass again.
Another spot in the backyard that was pivotal in my childhood was the ditch. It separated our backyard from the neighbors behind us. I’m sure it also had something to do with flooding, but it was small enough for my siblings and I to leap across it to meet up with our friends. Most times, I was hot on my older sister’s trail following her every footstep. The ditch also led to the big open field where all the kids in the neighborhood would meet to play anything from a game of kickball to freeze tag.
It was truly a carefree life, but what would childhood be without chores. Another memorable area of my old house was the storage room. It was a room on the back of the house where we kept the washing machine. A clothes line, better known today as the dryer, stood about 20 feet away in the backyard. Back then, my sister and I were the manual dryers. Somehow, it didn’t bother us too much because we would see all our friends on either side of the ditch hanging clothes on the lines.
Times were so much simpler back then. I wanted the Burney brats to have a vivid picture of the work ethic we had in those days. They don’t realize how easy they have it today. They huff and puff if you ask them to take clothes out of the washer and transfer them into the dryer right next to it.
I had a great childhood and I knew if they could just stand in my old place, they would feel it, but also see how it shaped the childhood they have today. So imagine my disbelief as we drove closer to the house. The car lights shone on the spot where my brother and I kept watch, but there was nothing there. The house that built me no longer stood. Every house on the block was as I remembered. I made my husband stop the car so I could count the houses. We were the fourth house on the block. I counted twice – no three times, but I got the same result. Yes, that is the definition of insanity and at that moment I thought I was going crazy. How does a house just disappear? The foundation is all that was left of 41 Kennedy Drive.
My heart sank. I immediately felt like a part of me had vanished off the face of the earth. I hadn’t lived in the little pale brick house for over 25 years, but seeing it gone ripped my heart out. If there was any place to shed a tear on Ms. Lambert’s powerful lyrics, it would be when she says:
“You leave home, move on and you do the best you can. I got lost in this whole world and forgot who I am.”
Those words brought tears to my eyes, even though it had been over a year since my devastating discovery. I guess I had not dealt with my feelings from that night. My husband always says I cry about everything, but somehow this time I think he understood. His words to me hit home maybe even more than this amazing song. He held me in his arm and said, “Even though the house is gone, the foundation is still there. Your mom gave you a strong foundation in that house. You have to just take the memories and move on with your life. No one can ever take that away from you.”
He was right. The foundation was still there. And being the sentimental person that I am, I could see plenty of things that small square foundation represented. First and foremost, it was a symbol of my mom’s strength and her courage in raising five children on her own. She was and still is the rock of our family. She made sure we had everything we needed and sometimes the things we wanted. As a pre-school teacher, she taught us the importance of a good education. We were also in church every time the doors opened because nothing was more important to my mom than us knowing the Word of God.
All of that has stayed with me to this day. The same foundation that shaped my life is the same solid ground on which James and I are raising our children. The Burney Brats may not have had the chance to see the house that built me, but I have plenty of memories of my childhood to share with them. They still have their beautiful grandmother and aunts and uncles to backup or refute the stories I tell them.
And I guess it’s true that writing is therapy. I feel ten times better now that I’ve put my feeling on paper. It’s amazing that it took a song to bring it out of me. I’ve come to grips with my childhood house being demolished, but just like the foundation, the memories of my life in Rosedale, MS will always be a part of me.
In case you're not one of the 5,535,642 people who've already seen the video for "The House That Built Me", see it here:
Those words brought tears to my eyes, even though it had been over a year since my devastating discovery. I guess I had not dealt with my feelings from that night. My husband always says I cry about everything, but somehow this time I think he understood. His words to me hit home maybe even more than this amazing song. He held me in his arm and said, “Even though the house is gone, the foundation is still there. Your mom gave you a strong foundation in that house. You have to just take the memories and move on with your life. No one can ever take that away from you.”
He was right. The foundation was still there. And being the sentimental person that I am, I could see plenty of things that small square foundation represented. First and foremost, it was a symbol of my mom’s strength and her courage in raising five children on her own. She was and still is the rock of our family. She made sure we had everything we needed and sometimes the things we wanted. As a pre-school teacher, she taught us the importance of a good education. We were also in church every time the doors opened because nothing was more important to my mom than us knowing the Word of God.
All of that has stayed with me to this day. The same foundation that shaped my life is the same solid ground on which James and I are raising our children. The Burney Brats may not have had the chance to see the house that built me, but I have plenty of memories of my childhood to share with them. They still have their beautiful grandmother and aunts and uncles to backup or refute the stories I tell them.
And I guess it’s true that writing is therapy. I feel ten times better now that I’ve put my feeling on paper. It’s amazing that it took a song to bring it out of me. I’ve come to grips with my childhood house being demolished, but just like the foundation, the memories of my life in Rosedale, MS will always be a part of me.
In case you're not one of the 5,535,642 people who've already seen the video for "The House That Built Me", see it here:
WOW - now I'm crying... Good stuff, sis!
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