Memories don't need visual aids

The tiny wood shack was a weathered gray the last time I saw it. Rust wasn't just the color of the tin roof, but was also its condition.

Its five rooms branched off from each other - the miniscule front room with fireplace walked through to a middle room with two beds pushed against opposite walls. Walking through this room was a step-down that led to the kitchen, its slanted roof quite a bit lower than the rest of the house, an addition to the original structure that looked as if it was tacked on as an afterthought. The middle room had another door leading to a bedroom. The front room, too, had a narrow door leading to another bedroom.

The shack sat well back from the road, redeemed from invisibility on an overcast day by the lights shining from its windows.

As unattractive as it sounds, I searched for it on a drive to that part of the country.

It wasn't there.

There's no evidence that it ever existed among the modern brick and siding house built in its place. There are manicured lawns where once sprouted above-ground roots that kept all but the hardiest of grass from growing.

I couldn't see those roots beneath the plush-looking carpet of grass at the modern house. But I remembered the giggles my sisters and cousins shared as we jumped from root to root in summer, our bare feet dusty from the packed earth beneath the trees.

The columned porch on the new house looked inviting, but I once again heard the protesting groan of the wooden planks as we crossed the old porch back then, the moaning creak of the rickety porch swing anchored to a large beam by chains that squealed every time it moved.

We refer to that old structure as a shack because it was - a typical sharecropper's dwelling that had seen its best days years before my grandparents became residents. But because of their presence, it was a home that created memories for dozens of grandchildren who used to play in its dusty yard.

My grandparents have passed on to glory, as we like to say in the South. But I see my grandmother's petite, ramrod straight stature following the path to the barn where her milk cow lived.

I see my overall-clad grandfather leaning on his curved wooden cane as he surveyed the garden.

I feel the pecks of my grandmother's laying hens as they objected to my hand reaching for the warm brown eggs hidden in their nests beneath their feathers.

The memories are strong, despite the absence of people and things.

When I drove away from the site, I realized it wouldn't be necessary to drive that way again.

Sherhonda Allen is city editor. For more on her, visit timesdaily.com.