Falling golden leaves turned the crisp fall afternoon into massive autumn ticker-tape parade. A red minivan drove down the curvy mountain road, framed by the colorful hills surrounding it. A white-water stream flowed next to the road, keeping it company as the two raced toward the horizon. Gerry Crowder could have closed his eyes and not run off the road. This was the road to his childhood. This was the road to his grandmother’s house.
“Are we there yet?” Gerry’s oldest son Austin asked. It was a question kids had been asking since the Pilgrims crossed the stormy Atlantic on the Mayflower.
“Almost.”
“Why are we going here first?” Gerry’s 15-year-old daughter Elizabeth, better known as Lizzy, asked.
“Just because.”
Gerry’s wife Susan looked at her husband. It had been a rough year for the family and she knew her husband needed something he could anchor his soul to. His grandmother had been the rock in his childhood. He had lost her this year, too. Alzheimer’s had stolen first her mind and then her body. Susan rubbed his back in a knowing, caring way.
Gerry slowed the van and put on its turn signal. No one would see it — it was just a habit he had picked up living in Atlanta. No one else in that city used their turn signals. Gerry liked to be different. (And wanted to avoid being killed.)
The gravel road was the first sign things had changed. Deep ruts ran down the middle of it, showing the lack of maintenance. Gerry’s grandfather, Big Ben, would have never allowed that. Cancer took Big Ben from his grandmother 15 years ago. The little tiny Missionary Baptist church was overflowing on that day. His death ripped a huge hole in the mountain community.
“We’re here.” Gerry said in a sarcastic tone aimed at Austin.
In front of the van was an old wooden farm house. Weeds had grown up around it and a couple of windows were now broken. Gerry’s Uncle had inherited the property yet had done nothing with it. It, like his grandmother’s mind, was in a slow state of decline.
Gerry turned off the ignition and just sat. Everyone else looked at him, waiting for the cue to unbuckle and get out. “Let’s go check it out.” All the doors opened at once as the family stretched after a long journey.
A hawk flew above and broke the morning’s silence with a cry. A sudden breeze kicked up, turning scattering fallen leaves into a leaf tornado in front of the house. The pines began to whisper. Gerry’s grandmother said that was the voice of the Native Americans who used to live on this land. He remembered how he and his grandmother used to look for arrowheads. There was something magical about that time.
Leaves crunched under his feet has he walked up the steps to the front door. He put his hand on the cold handle and tried it to see if it was open.
It was.
Inside was dusty and musty. Furniture, what his greedy uncle hadn’t taken, was covered with sheets. Gerry looked at the floor in the living room. That’s where he used to lie as a child, watching the Macy’s Day Thanksgiving parade. He walked into the kitchen and could almost smell the turkey cooking in the oven. He turned back around and saw his Great-Uncle Frank. Uncle Frank, a life-long bachelor, loved Gerry and his sisters. He’d always give them the biggest hugs. And in his coat pocket was their favorite flavors of gum. To a child, Frank knew how to make an entrance.
The kids started to head into the house, too, but their mom simply held up her hand. “Give him a moment.”
Gerry walked to the staircase and walked upstairs slowly. The old wood creaked with ever step. Even though it had run down, the house was still solid – much like his memories of all those Thanksgiving mornings. He saw the old bunkbeds where he used to sleep. And on the nightstand next to the beds was a handful of the arrowheads he and his grandmother had found so many years ago. He carefully picked them up and placed them next to his heart. The hawk cried again as something magical happened.
Gerry opened his eyes and smelled turkey. The must and the dust were gone as he heard voices floating up from downstairs. He looked around and saw that the sheets were gone, too. The grayness of the house was replaced with the vibrant colors he remembered from his youth. He got up and noticed the world seemed much taller. Gerry caught his reflection in an old mirror at the head of the staircase.
He was once again a nine-year-boy.
He ran downstairs and saw Big Ben holding court on the back porch. Frank and Arthur and Lynn all were telling stories from the war. Gerry ran into the kitchen where he saw his mom and his grandmother cooking, baking and grilling. The turkey was easily 20 lbs. He saw a much younger version of his uncle talking to his dad. Gerry continued to clutch the arrowheads close to his heart as he took in the whole scene. The Macy’s Day parade blared from the TV. All his responsibilities of adulthood were good. The peace of a Thanksgiving Day with his family wrapped their loving arms around his soul.
He gripped the arrowheads tightly, never wanting to let go.
But Jerry knew he had to. As seductive as it was, he knew he couldn’t live in the past. He ran up to his grandmother and gave her a hug. “I love you grandma.” The older lady turned and kissed the little boy on the cheek, “I will always love you, too.” And Jerry opened his fist and dropped the arrowheads.
When the stones hit the floor, the world faded away. Jerry left in a dusty kitchen, alone.
“You in here?” Susan’s voice echoed through the near-empty house.
“Yeah,” Jerry said weakly. “Just had a strange dream.” He looked down at the floor at the arrowheads. He slowly bent over and picked them up. “You know, our lives have gotten out of hand. Atlanta has gotten out of hand. We need to make a change.”
Susan knew what he was thinking before he even said it. “But the kids.”
“We’ll talk to them. I’d like to buy this old house from my uncle and restore it. I want to spend more time with you and the kids. I’m tired of this hectic life we live. We have so much to be thankful for. But today what we truly should be thankful for is our family.”
Susan rubbed her husband’s back in a knowing, caring way. “C’mon. Let’s go see our folks and have a great Thanksgiving. We have memories to make for our kids.”
And as the family thought of gorging themselves with turkey, the hawk landed on the roof of the old farmhouse and watched them drive away.
