When I was a girl, our family, three or four times a year, made the five-hour trek from Shreveport, Louisiana to Caile, Mississippi to visit Granny Maxwell.

“It’s about time we go home to see Granny,” Mom would announce. And off we’d go.

Of course, we made a few stops along the way.

In Monroe, we’d go visit my mom’s “sick friend” Ira. Ira was actually a women’s clothing warehouse store where my mom could spend hours and lots of cash. I’m not sure if Dad actually believed that Ira had been sick that long or if was just a little joke between my parents.

Dad would drive around and look at old tractors and backhoes and I would be stuck sitting there bored to death while Mom looked at clothes. They had NOTHING for girls or teens…just “old woman stuff.”

After we cheered Ira up and paid for at least a week of her recurrent “medical bills”, we’d head on down the highway, Granny-bound.

As I grew older and more fashion-conscious, I noticed a dress shop for girls in Bastrop, LA called Gentry’s. Just think of it as my little bit o’ payback for all those hours sitting in musty ol’ Ira’s.

Back in “the day,” Esprit clothes were very in style, and Gentry’s had the motherlode! Mom would never pay full-price, so I didn’t make a haul like she did at Ira’s, but I do remember an adorable pair of orange Esprit pants with a matching top stamped with “ESPRIT” in stencil letters. I think there may have been a little paint splatter on there somewhere. I was thrilled over those orange pants! That outfit was my first day of eighth grade outfit. Had to make a statement, you know.

Past Bastrop was a tiny little town called Mer Rouge. No dress shops there, but they had a little walk-up burger joint that had THE BEST soft serve ice cream I’ve ever had. It tasted like the homemade ice cream people spend hours making with the old hand-cranked ice cream makers. Karla, my sis, would always get chocolate in a cup. She’d dig a hole down the middle of the creamy goodness and eat it from the middle out. I always got a vanilla cone and tried not to let one drop of it go to waste.

As we left the dumpy little town of Mer Rouge, Karla and I would crane our necks to the left to make sure we saw it…this stunning two-story home built of aged wood. In front was a fish pond with a wooden bridge across it. Pecan trees stood guard in front and behind. Horse pastures framed the home in green. Karla said she wanted to live there one day. I wanted to be wherever Karla was, so I decided that’s where I’d live too.

Once we passed through Lake Village, Arkansas, I’d start peering over the trees ahead. I always wanted to be the first to catch sight of the Mississippi River Bridge. Highlight of the drive for me. Truly. I’d press my nose against the window and see how many barges I could count.

Something about the vastness of the river and the steely majesty of that bridge awed me.

On occasion, the river would be a little low and sand bars would appear off the shore. Dad told me they were quicksand and that many a river fisherman had been captured in its clutches. I’ve never looked it up, but I suspect he was pulling my leg.

In third grade, Mrs. Farr taught us about the Mighty Mississippi River. I remember my shock at learning that the Mississippi River actually starts as a tiny stream you can walk across.

The very next time we approached that bridge, I informed my sister and her new husband,  Buddy, of that handy fact. They knew I was right, but they decided to challenge my newfound knowledge. They got my feathers so ruffled I believe I actually cried and said, “Mrs. Farr said it, and that settles it!”

After crossing that bridge, the next stop was Granny’s house with her chocolate pies, black-eyed peas and cornbread, and hound dogs and tom cats.

I can see why Mom called it home. The place was a haven. The breeze whispered, “Peace.” The wag of puppy dog tails lured you to sit a spell and just “be.” In the summer, there were always loads of black-eyed peas to shell either by hand on the back porch or out in the shed with Granny’s electric pea sheller.

“Co-colas” in liter glass bottles with metal screw-on caps. Chocolate-covered marshmallow cookies in Granny’s secret hiding spot. Polar Bars in the freezer. Picture-after-picture of sons, daughters, and grandchildren covering every square inch of the L-shaped hallway. An old tuneless piano in the hall off the kitchen. Built-in shelves filled to overflowing with old National Geographics and dusty books.

One summer, I read Star Spangled Summer by Janet Lambert and dreamed of being Penny Parrish on summer vacation with her wealthy friend.

Granny had one of the first remote-control TVs…four buttons. She liked to put her feet up and watch “her stories.” There was a bed in that room, but my favorite room was the one my mom called hers. It had a wrought iron bed painted crisp white. I don’t know what it was about that room, but it called to me. Maybe it made me feel close to the girl my mom once was. The carefree social butterfly with no worries about paying bills or teaching school. I wanted to know that girl.

When Granny wrapped me up in one of her so-tight-I-couldn’t-breathe hugs, I knew without a doubt  she loved me for me. I was her youngest grandchild. She didn’t care that I wasn’t her blood relative like most of her other grandchildren were. I was her sweet Lee.

The road home has lost its landmarks. No more Ira’s. No more Gentry’s. No more ice cream delights. Only the Mississippi River Bridge still stands.

And Granny’s been gone for 17 years. Her house lays vacant and run-down from the neglect of past renters. Mom doesn’t call Mississippi home anymore.

Granny was home.

Lord, thank you for a hands-on granny full of love, full of hospitality, full of home. Oh, how I pray that my grown sons and their children will long for the home of Momma Bird one day. Give me a heart wide-open, just like Granny.

 Who is home for you?