This Old Country House
by Sam Crenshaw
Recently, I was walking to the cafeteria in the huge VA complex in Dublin when I spotted a man looking at a huge mural of an old house, reminiscent of one we purchased many years ago near the "Chicken Road." I asked the gentleman if the picture brought back memories, to which he responded, "Yes, it sure does. I grew up in an old house like that." He then began to explain to me about the front of the house being built separate from the kitchen in the rear of the structure of the old house in the mural. As I listened to him for a couple of minutes, my own memories began to rush through the confines of my mind.
In 1972, we lived in Warner Robins. We had begun talking a lot lately about finding a place in the country near a small town to finish raising our swelling family. Returning from work one day, I immediately found Sheila in an excited state. "Don’t take your jacket off," she said, "Alvin has a house for us to look at near Hawkinsville."
Only moments later, we were headed south for the countryside near an area that had been home for me during my childhood. At the time we had five children, and they were in every nook and cranny of the old Chevy. Soon we met our old friend, Alvin Arnold, who somehow managed to squeeze into the car with us. We drove approximately seven miles to the country and pulled up to an old house that had never seen a coat of paint, and it was surrounded by dog fennel. "Oops!" I thought to myself, "We did not give him enough guidelines about what kind of house we were looking for."
Over the next half hour, we saw ceilings that were 12 feet high, each room with a single wire hanging down for a light bulb, floors with cracks in between the boards where the ground was visible, enough dust to give a herd of elephants allergies, very little closet space, and only one bathroom. I thought to myself again, "He can’t be serious!"
"How long since anybody has lived in this old house, Alvin?"

"I’m not sure," he said. "Maybe a year."
I thought, not said, "Maybe a century!"

The strangest thing happened! Suddenly, Sheila was transformed into the mother of the Waltons. "I just love it," she exclaimed.

I nearly fell out!
"Look at all the possibilities," I heard her say.

The entire house would have trouble qualifying for a "possibility."

I heard my fourteen year old daughter say, "I’m not going to live here!"

I heard Sheila say something about chickens, cows, gardens, dogs, cats horses….I heard myself say, "Chickens? Gardens? Uhh, I think we will have to think about it and let you know, Alvin."
Once again, the newly transformed "Mother Walton" spoke from Sheila’s mouth, "How much and can we get it financed, Alvin?"

That was over thirty years ago. The old house in the country still has never seen a coat of paint, still has a tin roof, and most of the changes we ever made were to the inside. All of our children have grown up and moved away. This is the home they remember from their youth. Today it is bent with age, now approaching its 150th birthday, but it is our little piece of Heaven. I sure am glad I talked Sheila into buying it.
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© 2006 Sam Crenshaw contact Sam at sam@samcrenshaw.com
If you liked this story, you should read Those Were the Times