The Old Abandoned House at the End of West College Street
Prefer to listen instead? Play the below for the audio version of this written piece.
Be forewarned: My grandmother once told me that I sounded like banjo-pickin’. I consider this high praise, but you might not. Approach with hoedown caution.
My grandparents lived on a spot of land on the outskirts of a small Texas town. My papa called it “God’s Little Acre.” Half of their lot was covered in trees, and the other half was cleared out to make room for their new home, a driveway, and a little workshop shed. Straddled between the divide of trees and cleared land sat an old, dilapidated house.
Even as a young kid, I knew this house wasn’t exactly…safe. The wooden walls had long since cracked and faded, rotting in some areas and held together by rusted nails in others. What was once the front porch had caved in on itself. It was now a tangled heap of twisted metal sheets, split wood, and broken-down piping.
Every room was stuffed with decaying boxes and lined with tattered old wallpaper, dulled and curling in on itself.
But what this house lacked in structural integrity, it made up for in allure.
As a kid, I was obsessed with this house. I’d beg and plead with my papa to let me go and explore it. My heart would leap up to my throat when, every so often, he’d grumble and nod his head. I’d bound out their back door, and he’d yell out, “Watch for nails!” as the screen door smacked shut. At one point, he even helped my brother and me clear out a tiny corner room of that old home so we could turn it into a playhouse.
The Old Abandoned House. My brother’s and my playhouse was in that room on the far left corner. #dreamy
I’m telling you—I was entranced by this house. I wanted to know everything about it, including who had abandoned it.
When was it built?
Who lived there?
Why did they abruptly leave?
See, both of my grandparents were storytellers. As a child, I’d sit on their lap or sprawl out on their sofa and listen with wide eyes to story after wild story. They had this uncanny ability to connect then to now and do so in a way where it felt like I was right there in the days of old. One of their stories included what happened in that house.
Though my grandma swore later that she told me something entirely different, here is the story I first remember hearing—the one that’s still seared into the very walls of my imagination and memory.
The Story My Grandma Told Me (That She Says She Didn’t)
At the end of an old country road sat a newly built house. It was the 1920s, and a young man had finally nailed up the last board. He had built this house with his calloused hands and by the sweat of his brow. He had built it for his young wife and small children.
Times were tough. They were on the cusp of the Great Depression, and though they didn’t have much, the man and woman had each other. And that was more than enough.
So, they moved in and started getting settled. They were expecting a new baby, and there was much to do to get the house ready.
Over the next few months, they found their rhythm, with the husband taking jobs where he could find them and the wife sewing and hanging curtains that billowed in the warm summer breeze.
Soon, the baby came, and the house was filled with sounds of coos and cries. Life continued forward, until one day, tragedy struck. For reasons nobody knows, the baby suddenly died.
Grief swallowed the home. The parents, overcome by the deepest of sorrows, could no longer bear to stay in their house—for what was once filled with new life and love had now turned into bitter tears and red-rimmed sorrow.
In a frenzy, the husband and wife tore through the house, throwing clothes and pots and pans into their travel bags. And early the next morning, they took their children and closed their front door for the last time. They stepped out of their house at the end of that old country road and walked away, never to return.
There the house sat for many, many years until decades later when another young married couple bought the land. They cleared out half of the acre to make room for their new home. There, they lived with their little girl who would later become my mother.
All the while, the abandoned house sat there until one day, my grandparents cracked open the front door and stepped through to witness its disarray. To walk through the rooms still frozen in time. To see the clothes in the drawers, the dishes on the table, and a little baby’s bottle lying on the floor.*
What the Abandoned House Taught Me
You see why I was so enchanted? That story was mysterious and creepy and sad. It was relatable and plausible and also a bit out there. It was rocket fuel for my imagination. It sparked tons of questions and made me feel something.
See, I was always a child of curiosity. The creator of stories. The listener of tales. The seeker of the untold saga. Before I ever stepped foot on an airplane or took my first road trip, I sought after adventure. I created playhouses nestled in honeysuckle bushes. I strung up pots and pans from the trees in my grandparents’ “forest” and pretended I lived in the wild. I stared at the sky from a treehouse built up in an old mesquite tree and wrote stories of what it might be like to live in the days gone by.
My brother, papa, and me when I was a wee one. It’d still be a few years yet before I ventured into the abandoned house. I was darling, wasn’t I? :)
My imagination was my closest friend. I explored for exploring’s sake. I didn’t have to go to a faraway place. My most memorable moments happened right at home—or in this case, at the abandoned house on my grandparents’ land.
That house fed the insatiable curiosity and wondering of possibilities. It wasn’t just reading or listening to a story. It was entering right into it. I felt like if I could step in that house, I could step back in time.
Through my explorations, including the ones at the abandoned house, I experienced how adventures don’t have to be grand, and they are always grand.
“Adventures don’t have to be grand, and they are always grand.”
Why Imagination Matters as an Entrepreneur
Merriam-Webster defines imagination as “the act or power of forming a mental image of something not present to the senses or never before wholly perceived in reality.”
Did you catch that last part? “...never before wholly perceived in reality.”
Imagination is about exploration and creation. Through imagination, you’re bringing something into existence that’s never before been realized in real life. You’re thinking of things that live in the realm of possibility, potential, and magic.
This is what you do as an entrepreneur. You took an idea, something that didn’t exist, and you created it into a business. You dream up new ways to better serve your clients all the time. You see the potential in others and you help them turn that potential into their reality.
So, when you go on an adventure or indulge your imagination, you are nourishing important parts of yourself—the human part, the entrepreneurial part, and the part that helps your clients bring their imaginings into real life.
Your imagination is the rest stop on the road to creating transformation and breakthrough. It’s your gateway to new ideas and possibilities. The more you live in that creative space, the more expansive you get to be.
What’s Your Abandoned House Story?
So, my friend, what’s your abandoned house story? What’s something that you remember being totally encapsulated by as a kid? Think of one experience that stirred up your curiosity and allowed you to step into the world of your imagination. Sit in that memory for a moment and let yourself feel it.
If nothing comes to mind right now, that’s okay! What could it look like for you? Here are a few ideas to get you going:
Think of one mini-exploration you could go do and fully immerse yourself in it (without your phone—gasp!).
Tell a story and get super specific in the details. Really paint the picture.
Read a fiction book in a genre you normally don’t read. (If you want some mystery or thriller recommendations, let me know!)
Paint a picture or a pumpkin or a stick (lol), and do it with your non-dominant hand.
Go to a nearby State Park and look for unusual rocks along a river. Ask yourself how they got there and why they might be hanging out by the water.
Try out one of these ideas and let yourself enjoy the experience—not for the Instagram Reel or to post on your Stories. Experience it simply for the joy of it.
Remember—an adventure doesn’t have to be grand in order for it to be grand. And your imagination is a wild, beautiful thing. Go indulge it. 🌹
Footnote:
*We don’t know the full story of the family that lived in that abandoned house. When I was much older, my grandmother told me (much to my surprise!) that it was actually a family in the 1950s who lived there. This admittedly was much less interesting to me, lol.
Tragically, their baby did pass away, likely due to SIDS. The young family did abruptly leave, and my grandparents—years later after they bought the land—did go into the house and find boxes of newborn clothes. My mom, who was 10 years old at the time, was the one who found the baby bottle.
The backside of the house. Behind that door is the main room that opened up into the kitchen (which is around where the baby bottle and clothes were found). That main room in the house later became my papa’s workshop. To the far left was the area where he and my mom stored their horse saddles.
The house has since been torn down but not until after my grandma passed in 2012 and my papa in 2015. This old home provided decades of imagination to both my mom and me during our childhoods and will always hold an enchanting place in our hearts.
The intro and outro music used in the audio recording was created by Jeff Cook and is used with permission.
