There was a point, approximately a lifetime ago, when I routinely made trips to Jackson (as in Tennessee, not Mississippi). If it wasn’t doctors’ appointments for the kids it was shopping for the kids or something else for the kids. It was always an adventure of some description, especially since I had one that became car sick at the mere thought of motion. A roll of paper towels and a box of Ziplock baggies and we didn’t even have to stop—most of the time—which was good since I was usually the only adult present and the thought of stopping on a lonely country road did not appeal to me in the least.

Back then the preferred route (at least my preferred route) was the winding road that ran through Milledgeville, Morris Chapel, Enville, and on to Jacks Creek before hitting the big city of Henderson—which was big compared to Milledgeville, Morris Chapel, Enville, and Jacks Creek. It was usually a nice drive, minus the throwing up, and I would find myself being entertained by the likes of Weird Al Yankovic and whoever that guy was that sang “The Streak”, “Ahab, the Arab” (you have to read that so Ahab and Arab rhyme) and numerous other ditties that presently escape my memory, just like his name has. Those were definitely not my favorite artists, but the kids loved them—and I knew the day would come when I could listen to all the Mannheim Steamroller I wanted because I’d be the only one in the car.

It was on one of these excursions that we first saw it, just on the other side of Enville—an old used-to-be-white frame house. It was fairly close to the road, overgrown with privet, and obviously uninhabited. Except for one thing. There was a lamp. A rather small, very old lamp sitting in a window that, for whatever reason, the privet had elected not to obscure. And the lamp was lit.

Odd is not exactly the term I would use to describe the situation. Why would a lamp be lit in an obviously abandoned house? Was it allowed to burn constantly, no matter the time of day? Our first sighting had been at night when a glowing lamp would be easily seen from the road, especially since said road had very few if any street lights. All the way home, we talked about the house and the lamp and why it seemed to burn for no one in particular.

The next time we traveled that way the lamp was still on our minds and, as we flew through Enville, heading toward our Jackson destination, we caught the quickest glimpse of a glowing lamp, still waiting in the only window to be seen. Again there came the questions and, again, we made up our own answers. Perhaps the lamp was left as a reminder that the house still lived behind the rapidly growing, all-consuming privet. Maybe it served as a memorial to the former occupant who, for whatever reason, would never return. What if they’d been abducted by Martians and never had the chance to turn off the light before being swept away by their captors? What if they’d been eaten by bears? Long drives to Jackson with children will occasionally lead to temporary insanity.

For months we passed the house and for months the lamp glowed gently, quietly through the window as the privet crept higher. Surely the bulb must have burned out at some point; it had been so very long and, no matter the time of day, the lamp was always lit. Who would replace it? Why would they fight their way into a house so lost to the brush that it had almost ceased to exist—except for one small, welcoming light? There must have been great meaning to that house for someone to so faithfully tend to its sole remaining occupant. And then one day, it was gone. The lamp no longer burned and, as time passed, the house slowly decayed, collapsing bit by bit . . . piece by piece . . . until even it was lost.

Someone’s history was bound up in that place; for someone it held great meaning and, even though the physical structure was gone, I’m sure it did not lessen the attachment. As human beings, we cling to those things that remind us of our past and those who inhabited it. There is no shame in that, only a comfort that often cannot be found elsewhere. To have those things disappear before our eyes can often trigger renewed grief and an overwhelming sense of loss.

I still drive that way on occasion, although mostly during the day when the deer are not so prevalent and, should they decide to attack my van, can be seen coming so I stand a fighting chance of escaping unscathed. Drives at night now go through Selmer where the roads are better and straighter and less populated by four-legged creatures. It’s hard to remember where the house once stood but I still look for the spot. I still try to remember. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who does.

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