…and while listening to Mamaw’s House from Thomas Rhett and Morgan Wallen I got to thinking, I never had a Mamaw but then again I did but we called her Babcia. That’s Polish for Mamaw. And if it’s not Mamaw it’s Gigi or Grammy. However you say it the song got me to thinking about my Mamaw or Babcia’s house. Going to her house when I was a kid was like going to a different world. She lived in a house my grandfather built on a hill that was right on the edge of Kings Creek in Weirton, West Virginia that today is called the bowl. I think is was called cow s___ hill when I was a kid but a lot has changed since then. Babcia’s house was the last house on the hill before the road went down to the creek. It was built before the land next to it was developed and the open space slowly disappeared. I remember you had to walk across a little wooden bridge over a creek to get to her house that sat next to a run down barn and chicken coop. Babcia had chickens, ducks, cows and a garden and at one time an outhouse but all that remained when I was young were the memories and remnants of what used to be. Like the carnation milk in the tea she made for me and my sister to the wind up record player in the living room and a porch that overlooked the front of the house. It’s something I don’t think about much anymore unless someone comes up with a song called Mamaw’s house and the memories that come with it start pouring back in. Like the car seat my sister sat in which was a baby bathtub and my mom telling be to hold on to it. Yeah, my arms holding the tub were the car seat straps to buckle her in while going to Babcia’s or Mamaw’s house!