Last week I shared the story of The Water Wagon…about a little boy who came to my grandparents’ house in Headrick with a wagon to get water. This is the second of three connected stories from that same little house.
That little house was built by my great-grandfather and my granddad.
My grandparents lived there until 1971, when they moved to Altus, Oklahoma. Since I was born in January of 1972, the Altus house is the only one I ever knew. It’s where I spent countless hours growing up.
When I walked through my grandparents’ front door, I knew I was loved. I knew I belonged. I didn’t have to earn it or prove anything. Looking back, I realize that little house helped shape what “home” would always mean to me.
Even though I never knew the Headrick house as my grandparents’ home, I grew up hearing stories about it. Those stories made me feel connected to a place that had shaped my family long before I was born.
Years later, my dad and my aunt were able to buy the little house back.
By then, it simply couldn’t be saved.
Before it was torn down, they saved some of the wood.
A beautiful cross was made from it, along with the frame that surrounds one of my favorite family photographs.
That photograph shows my grandparents, my dad, and my aunt standing in front of the Headrick house.
My granddad made his living as a house painter, and we’ve always believed the weathered white paint still on that wood may have been brushed on by his own hands.
I love that thought.
It makes those pieces feel even more connected to the people who came before me.
When my husband and I downsized, I spent a lot of time deciding what to keep and what to let go.
The cross and the picture frame were precious to me.
But there was someone else who loves our family’s story just as much.
My younger cousin, Katie.
She is one of my grandparents’ great-granddaughters.
As much as I treasured those pieces, it brought me even more joy to place them in her hands. It felt right that she would become their next caretaker and, one day, perhaps tell these stories to the generations that come after us.
Sometimes loving something doesn’t mean holding on to it forever.
Sometimes it means making sure it continues its journey.
The little house in Headrick is gone.
But it isn’t forgotten.
Its wood still points to the cross.
Its stories still live in our family.
Its legacy lives on in the stories we tell, the faith we pass down, and the people we love.
Next week I’ll share the final story in this little Headrick series…how this little house, along with the story of The Water Wagon, helped shape what “home” came to mean to me and why my husband and I chose a small, older home.
The Little House in Headrick
Last week I shared the story of The Water Wagon—about a little boy who came to my grandparents’ house in Headrick with a wagon to get water. This is the…
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