You Can’t Go Back, one of the homes I lived in as a child, now abandoned, June 2007, Augusta, Georgia, photo © 2007 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.
I spent two weeks on the road in June, researching my book. The second week was a road trip with my mother to Georgia, where I spent much of my childhood. Mom has been working on the family tree for at least five years. We printed out the whole tree (which ended up being about 4 feet wide and 5 feet long), taped it together, rolled it up, and carried it with us to the South.
To spur memories and aid my research, I asked her and my step-dad to drive me around to all the places we lived when I was growing up. I asked questions, took photographs, and taped their memories of love, land, and place. Not only was it a rich time with them, it was healing.
The demographics of the places we lived back then have changed. Many homes where I lived as a newborn, infant, or young girl, now reside in less desirable parts of town. The photograph is one of the homes where I lived with my mother. She said she used to rock me on the little side porch that is now overgrown with weeds.
I knew when I saw the Abandoned topic, I wanted to write about what it was like driving around, experiencing the past (some of which I was too young to consciously remember) through present eyes. I drummed up the memory of seeing this abandoned place, which was once our home, and wrote these haiku like a writing practice. They haven’t been edited.
I learned a lot on that trip. You can go back – but it’s not the same. And the death of one thing is the glorious birth of something else.
You Can’t Go Back – 15 haiku
rocking on the porch
imagining your soft lap
cradling my head
you can’t go back home
but you can peek through the past
as if it was yours
I raised the glass lens
sweat trickled down my armpit
let sleeping dogs lie
home was forsaken
covered with vines and green leaves
I opened the door
earth reclaims the past
memory doesn’t hold me
I am holding it
neighborhoods crumble
our memories are alive
long after we die
unraveling the past
identity cracks open
desolate and white
confederate flag
in the yard across the way
stops, pauses mid-air
the past is the past
never to be abandoned
as long as we live
grandmothers recite,
“go tell your stories, honey”
a dog barks nearby
running through puddles
along the wide Savannah
I dive but no splash
sultry and humid
I remember my last name
forgetting the first
time is elusive
batting flies against the rain
through leaky floor boards
pounding the pavement
emaciated memories
sparkling in the sun
the jewels of the past
backseat drivers one and all
remember, you are
-from Topic post, WRITING TOPIC – “ABANDONED”
-posted on red Ravine Friday, August 17th, 2007
-related to posts: Excavating Memories, Cassie’s Porch – Then & Now, (Geo) Labyrinth Finder, Duck & Cover
redravine.wordpress.com 
The vegetation is something else. At first when I saw it, I thought it was a house someone lived in. It looked like lots of ivy and an orange lilly or two. In NM, plants get that big only if someone is giving them loads of water.
But then upon looking more closely, I see the plants are actually consuming the house. They’re taking over. It must be that with the wet climate of the South, the way to tell if a place is abandoned is if it is overgrown to the point of being eaten alive. Which is opposite here. All the plants die save for a few hardy weeds. Only the tumbleweeds will without water reach the height of my waist.
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Your haiku is haunting, QM. I wanted to tell you I have been thinking about these two terms:
emaciated memories
I remember my last name
forgetting the first
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I remember my last name
forgetting the first
My mouth drops open from these two lines. I want to expound on why, but my explaining words would only cheapen their brilliance.
Family. Roots. Heritage.
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My heart aches as I look at that picture. Would it ache if I didn’t have your words with it, telling of being rocked on that porch as a baby? Why does it ache? I’ve only glimpsed ragged edges of your “story” and you don’t say whether your own heart ached. For some people, seeing an old abode crumble could be a relief!
My heart aches, as it does every fall when the leaves begin to turn and the rich, full, ripeness of summer begins to fade, with the cold, barren months ahead. This house has nearly hit winter, but seems still to harbor the ghosts of happier times within.
I recall standing in abandoned cabins in the Smokey Mountains, bare of all but gray, shrunken boards, a crumbling fireplace, and a few nails for hanging things on the walls. Sun beams pierced cracks in the wall, highlighting motes of dust dancing in the scattered rays. The scent of clover mixed with dust and decay. The sense of a woman stirring a pot hung over the fire while her infant napped in a cradle nearby was strong.
My heart aches to get back in touch with the past.
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These are so evocative of loss, return, remembering and acceptance.
“earth reclaims the past
memory doesn’t hold me
I am holding it” great truth in this! G
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G, I was just looking over the haiku again and thinking if I had edited that one, I might want it to read:
earth reclaims the past
memory doesn’t hold me
I am holding on
And just when I was thinking that, I saw your comment. Holding it, holding on – they are different. But I was struggling with the word it. But then maybe sometimes memory does feel like an It. Like holding an It.
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Ritergal, I don’t know if it was an ache this time. It might have been more of a deeper realization that nothing stands still. People, places, and things keep moving on with or without us. I guess I was feeling a sadness for the impermanence of things.
I have felt that heartache you talk about in the past though. Of having lost some of my past. And not knowing how to fit back into it. This trip, it seemed I was able to reclaim much of that and to heal across generations. I don’t know if I know yet the impact on me. But each time I write a little piece about it or work on the book, I am moving more toward center.
You know, I am completely drawn to abandoned buildings, too. Especially remote cabins. There is something so forlorn looking about them. You can just imagine the person or family that lived there all those years ago. Maybe they were isolated. But they had each other.
It’s as if the floorboards, walls, and windows hold all the stories. And reflect them back to us. Your details were great! Thanks for sharing them
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Sinclair & ybonesy, you plucked some of the same lines from the haiku. Those particular ones struck me later, too. When I was writing the haiku, I didn’t know what I was writing. I was just following the rhythm of the practice.
But later, when I reread them, I really had to think about what I had written. There *is* something kind of haunting about these. What is it?
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Somethng about losing everything but the heritage. Last name stands for roots. First name is your personal manifestation of the roots. I don’t know.
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Yeah, I’m going to sit with it a while. It’s a good practice to sit. 8) There’s so much going on inside that I’m not aware of. The joys of writing.
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earth reclaims the past
memory doesn’t hold me
I am holding it
…remember my last name
forgetting the first.
These seem to have struck the chord with everybody.
They are my favorites, but then that’s like picking a favorite puppy out of the litter.
Been to anuvuestudio today, and there is a great post about the abandoned house there.
http://anuvuestudio.wordpress.com/2007/08/16/abandon-in-iowa/
And by chance came across this. It’s a tough site, but real.
http://www.forgotten-ny.com/index.html
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Thanks QuoinMonkey for the haunting image and poem. It’s perfect that you have a photo of your house being reclaimed by the earth. Even though your childhood home seems out of reach in the past, in some mysterious way you have brought it into the present by visiting it, and writing about it, and posting a picture of it. That’s the paradox of life writing. We think we’re going into the past, but part of the reality we’re seeing is right now. It’s like bending time. And you shared it with us, bending us along with you for the ride.
Jerry
http://www.memorywritersnetwork.com/blog
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Thanks for the links, Leslie. I just went over to anuvue. Some great images there of Iowa. And I had never seen the New York site. Some of those places you’d never think to see in New York City. Amazing photographs of old places in danger of being tossed away.
Jerry, thanks for your comments. It’s true, there are parallels of time going on when writing about the past. It’s all being brought forward. I like the way you put it – bending time. I’ve heard Natalie say we get to live things twice when we write about them. I guess there are pros and cons to that! Still, I’m in it for the long haul.
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Wow! I love the Haiku! I have written a few Haiku, as well=:)
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Am I fortunate to have lived in the same house all my life? Sometimes I think my lack of desire to venture out into the world is because I am so anchored — so comfortable — where I am.
“memory doesn’t hold me
I am holding it”
Have I no memories to hold because I have stayed put? Your Haiku expresses sadness and and a bit of regret but I envy you. One can’t go back to something she has never left.
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I love all of these, but particularly
grandmothers recite,
“go tell your stories, honey”
a dog barks nearby
The juxtaposition is evocative. It’s what I like best in these haiku generally, the way they ask us to connect.
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I think you are fortunate, Liz, to have lived in the same house all your life. Unless you don’t like the house. But it sounds like you do. My brother bought the house we grew up in. I was happy it stayed in the family. It’s a cool house. He changed it to make it his own, and now it’s even better. I grow attached to places. It’s hard for me to move.
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I remember my last name
forgetting the first
These words the ones that I can deep dropping further and further into. They are the last words of a great novel, the opening line of a fabulous movie, the defining words of a great writer.
Don’t lose track of these words, QuoinMonkey. They are that good.
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The poem is a perfect compliment to the photo. First the phot captured my imagination, as well as the road trip. The haiku then took me to a private place of memory.
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lone beader, I just had a chance to read your haiku and wow – I really enjoyed it. I like the Charles River Haiku, the Celtic Woman Haiku and Haiku of the Day. And you were published as well. Really great. I hope people check out the link you provided in your comment above.
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Liz, I think it’s a gift to have lived in the same town all your life. No good or bad. You have plenty of memories to hold. Even though you stayed in the same place, time moved on. And left you with the memories. I bet it’s grounding to have such deep roots.
I set down roots in different places. And have grown from that, too. I think place forms who we are. You are a witness to the history in your area. I have to go back and visit mine if I want the deep past.
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Joe, I agree – that’s what I love about haiku, too. It makes us connect at the most simple level possible. It’s harder sometimes to write with fewer words. But haiku teaches me how to do that in my other writing, too. Close. Only what is necessary.
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Sinclair, thanks for the encouragement. I can’t see these things myself sometimes. We write – and don’t always know what will strike people. Or what stands out. I respect your opinion, too. So thank you.
mariacristina, you also offered insight into the process of the writing. And the way I structured the post. I find the structure sometimes comes after the writing. In this case, it came first. The photograph really strikes me each time I look at it. I think it’s going to have a significant place in the writing of the memoir.
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The past-a time of learning, growing, loving-remembering.!!
A little insite to this home. Quionmonkey was just born therefore probably doesn’t retain much of her life here. The main part of the house was her great grandmother’s home. ON her father’s side.
I was 16 and very mature for my age. We lived on the little right side, hidden by the bushes, a two room apt. a guess you would call it. The bathroom was on the back porch between the main house and the attached part.
The front room was the bedroom and the back the kitchen.
Aah yes, the kitchen!! What an experience that was!!
We had a kerasene stove, two burners and an oven that sat on one of them. We had a real ice box with ice delivered by an ice truck . Sometimes it was hard to keep Quionmonkey’s milk from spoiling.
Before she was born I went to school in the morning , then caught the bus to work at the boyscout office in the afternoon, then home to cook supper and do home work.
I washed clothes in the sink on a scrub board.
Then they made me quit my job because cub scouts couldn’t see a pregnant woman when they should happen to come in. Yes I’m that old. !! Then I had to Quit school because even though I was married, a pregnant woman couldn’t go to school. BOY how far we have come.
I do have fond memories of this home though. Quionmonkey being the best. She was a beartiful baby and I loved being a Mom, holding and taking care of her was the best part. I learned a lot about life and living in those years. Also, how strong I was. You learn to appreciate what you have as you grow older along with missing what was!!!
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Amelia, I’m so glad you came by and gave these recollections of the house. Wow, boy scouts couldn’t see a pregnant woman! My goodness, what an era to experience! And you’re still young! To think that was the convention not that long ago. It’s mind-boggling.
But what I also want to say is, you’re a peach of a mother. QM is lucky.
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Amelia (Mom), thanks so much for writing about this home we shared (when we were both very young). I have this photograph of me as an infant and can imagine what I looked like when we lived there. But no thinking memories.
I feel so lucky to be able to ask you about your memories and to fill in the gaps. All these pieces of history are part of who I am. And excavating all these details provides strong bones to stand on when I’m writing memoir.
And as ybonesy said, thanks for being my Mom. You are definitely a Georgia Peach of a mother. How could I be any luckier?
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Hi Quoinmonkey (and Amelia!)
I wrote an essay about growing older inspired by this passage. Here’s the link.
http://memorywritersnetwork.com/blog/wisdom-evolves-as-you-live-your-memoir/
If the link doesn’t work, look for the article called:
Wisdom Evolves as you live your memoir
Best wishes,
Jerry Waxler
http:/www.memorywritersnetwork.com/blog
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Jerry, thanks so much for the nod and the link. I read your post and the pieces about Adam & Eve are a new and thinking twist to an old story. Wisdom *does* evolve. And thank goodness for that! Writing memoir really wakes me up. Going back “Home” this year taught me so much about myself. There is much to learn.
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sweat trickled down your armpit???
i would have said neck or face
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Nah, not me. I like that it was real. Sweat trickled down the armpit. What an uncomfortable feeling that is as compared to the neck or face.
But this is a good example of how writers make those decisions with their words. What was real? and do you change it to make it more acceptable or appetizing?
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Hey Q, well done, you hit a note, opened a door where i am.
I went back, after 25 years, smelled the grass and cried, everyone gone. Spent a couple summers there, walking, remembering, peeking through windows of my old high school,seeing, smelling, hearing the past. I took pictures of tress i had climbed, old tree forts,old paths that led to school.
I’m not sure it was so good to go back, but i had to.
I think there’s a hole there, that will always be felt if i continue to open that door.
New doors await us, but for me i must remember to close the old one, and throw away the key forever. Because……
One day i took all of my notes and pictures, and put them in a trash can far away down in mexico. I imagined someone finding them, who wouldn’t understand it all, and it felt right.
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Jamez, thanks so much for stopping by, leaving your comment, and leading me to reread this post and the haiku. They seem so alive to me now.
Your point is well taken, about remembering to close the old door when we go back and revisit the past. A lot has changed since I wrote this post almost exactly two years ago to the day. I am still writing, still working on the memoir. But I have also needed breaks from it. I’m in one of those break periods at the moment.
It’s risky to go back and drudge up the past. But also rewarding. I was thinking this week about how much healing went on when I opened all those old doors to my childhood. And yet there is a lingering sadness — that’s where you have to eventually close the door. And live in this moment.
I’m fascinated that you dropped all of your notes and photos in a trash can in Mexico and left them there. Your journey to take that action could be a story in and of itself.
I know writers who also burn all their journals or toss them out. They say it’s cleansing. I have held on to mine. I’m not always sure why.
Your statement about imagining someone finding all of your notes and photos reminds me of a show Liz and I once watched, I think it was a documentary, about people who go to these big warehouse shows containing snapshots that people have thrown out or that have gotten tossed out by the family in estate sales. There are tons of people who collect snapshots that others have tossed away. I guess they put their own stories to them. Much like you imagine happening to your photos.
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Update: when my aunt and I were going to the Halloween party in Augusta, it was only a few streets from Eve Street where this photo was taken. My aunt showed me the other houses on the block that our the paternal side of my family owned back in the 40’s and 50’s. But this one is gone. They’ve torn it down. Now I really can’t go back. It’s good that I am documenting as I go Down South each time. Things change. New buildings rise; others fall. History is left to those of us who write about it.
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