second year evan lasseter

Just the other day, I was counting how many houses I have lived in so far. Excluding my dorm and current collegiate house, I counted ten different places. Even though we bounced around a lot, looking back I see one constant, singular place in my memory bank of movie memories from ages six to sixteen: my grandma’s house.

In our family, we call the owner of this charming house Annie (she is probably reading this, so shout out to her). Each holiday season when we all come together in small town Perry, Georgia, the same classic family tale finds a way to the conversation table. In the midst of some imaginary game I was playing with my cousins Emily and Elizabeth, I dialed 911 on a phone I thought was not in service, asked for help, and then I hung-up. Some would say I prank-called the police — I call it an accident.

I’m fascinated with how places can hold memories. While the 911 story always produces warm grins and chuckles, more than anything it taps into my memory bank and presses play on recollections I can watch like movies. Each one is in the same setting, and occasionally there will be a few different characters in the background, but nothing is more present on my heart than that sense of home.

Annie and Poppy no longer live there, they graduated to a lush retirement community. However, when I drive by that old house on spring break, it will still feel the same.

Grandma's House