Jeff's Blind Dog Blog

Yes, somehow this crush held onto me in varying degrees of strength for 15 years past the onset of puberty, 13 of those years hundreds of miles apart with almost no contact whatsoever.  The one thing that kept it from being "almost" was a mutual friend who brought her collection of senior pictures to school one day in 1982.  She had one of Debbie.  It put me on the moon for two days.  She had matured beautifully, at least in appearance, and my 18-year-old imagination happily filled in the blanks. 

Understand:  Time heals some insanity.  After our 1991 visit I realized my obsession was at best unrealistic and at worst unhealthy, and I let her memory slowly fade.  I made more of an effort to date, ultimately met the good woman I married, and came back to earth.

But I'm a sentimental fool at heart, so each year when I go home, I make an effort to pass by her house at least once--what I call my "Debbie homage."  It's something I've been doing since I was old enough to drive. When Dad was generous enough to let me ride his motorcycle, I used to crank the throttle as her house came in view, pretending she was on the porch watching me blast by.  Seeing it was at the intersection of two major country roads at the foot of a hill, I had the good Lord and my guardian angel working overtime on that one.  It was a nice L-shaped (I think) ranch house.  Debbie's family raised horses and it looked like the perfect house for a family who did that, at least to my young mind. 

This year was the first time since 2006 I could do my "Debbie homage."  Apparently since then, the property has been purchased and merged with other property either up the hill or beside it, and the house has been removed completely.  There's no trace of it save for a separate garage.  A small storage shed is now next to the garage.  You'd never know a whole house was there. 

As recently as five years ago I might have shed a tear.  Another piece of childhood, gone forever. But you know what?  The older I get, the more accepting I am of such things.  It all works out as it should, and it's an unhealthy kind of living in your head to wonder what might have been. Better to live where you are as you are.

When I found Debbie 17 years ago she was doing quite well for herself--I won't tell you what or where--and seemed happy, if anything a little bored.  Some of that may have been self defense. Put yourself in her place, how much would you open up to someone you barely remember from childhood just showing up and wanting to talk one day--and a guy, no less?  But overall, she confirmed something I always expected--that no matter what happened, she'd come out of it okay.  

I guess that's why I'm writing this.  Even if her house is gone, I know she's okay, and happy, and that's good enough.  That's a long way from where I used to be. I'm okay and happy too.  Good enough. 

But she should know her house is gone, if by some bizarre circumstance she reads this blog. I've noticed through Feedjit that several people have seen the blog in the area I last knew was her home.  Just in case you're one, Debbie:  In my heart, your house may be gone but you never will be.  Hope all is well.