09/06/2015
My Grandfather had a little house that he often shared with friends and relatives as we visited him in North Carolina. It was our little vacation home.
There were always doggies. The town's homeless refuge for dogs was my Grandpa George's little house. There were many fond memories of cookouts on the porch that was as large as the little home, and pulling golf balls out of the stream that ran behind the house. Countless memories had their origin there as well.
After speaking (Chatting) with my Cousin Larry, we decided it might be nice to share some of those memories and or pictures. Please feel free to contribute.
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On an old computer I found my Mom's written memory of the little house as she once shared it with a website called "Gather" . I thought I would share it once again. "
Clay Douglas’ description of relative silence shattered only by the occasional sound of a passing semi (http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474976826456)
evoked a vivid auditory memory of a place we called “the Little House”.
When my dad moved to North Carolina in the mid 1970’s, he bought a small parcel of land on highway 421 between Lillington and Sanford. The lot was located in a sparsely populated rural area and included a small building which was previously used as a combination gas station and convenience store.
With hopes of encouraging out of town family and friends to visit frequently, dad had the building remodeled into a one room house with a small bathroom and a large back porch. The single room included a sleeping area in one corner; a kitchen counter with sink, refrigerator and cabinets; a dining room table and chairs by the front window; and several easy chairs in front of the fireplace.
A small creek ran along the back end of the property and there were several horses who lived at the farm next door.
In keeping with his idea of making the accommodations available for visitors, dad initially referred to the small building as the “motel room on the highway” but it wasn’t long before we began to call it “the little house”. Our family visited the little house frequently from 1976 until dad died in 1995. We enjoyed beautiful scenery, fresh air, cool breezes and playing with the two dogs who soon became permanent residents.
Relaxing days gave way to restful evenings and soft sounds of insects, frogs, rustling leaves and the bubbling creek. But the quiet of the nighttime was frequently interrupted by the swish of semis and the constant stream of headlights when Highway 421, which was almost deserted during daytime hours, became a busy thoroughfare after dark.
-------Thanks Mom, (AKA Linda Rosenthal)
