The Summer We Didn’t Belong Anywhere

Before the decrepit farmhouse.
Before the leaking roof and the lie that our life became.
Before Hico.
There was Shady Oaks Circle.

The summer I turned eight, we were kicked out of the government housing projects in Mineral Wells, Texas—Shady Oaks Circle. 407 NE 27th Street. That was our world. At least, that was my world. That was where life felt magical and free, with the pretty gold and ivory princess phone that clashed with the dingy linoleum and racial tensions and drug use underscored much of our movement in that time.

A fire broke out and burned down the property management office. The blame fell hard and fast on my two older brothers. Whether or not they had anything to do with it didn’t seem to matter, I suppose. Just being teenage boys in the wrong place at the wrong time was enough. That was the early 1990s. This was shortly after the Rodney King incident, and racial conflict in Texas, in America, especially between Black and white Americans, was fierce and visible.

Add to that the tail end of the AIDS epidemic and the crack cocaine era, and you had a neighborhood heavy with fear. I remember the used needles littering the sidewalks. I remember how quickly kids learned to recognize danger by sound, not sight. Sirens, screaming, bottles breaking, arguments that turned threatening. It was all background noise.

We were five of us then.

My mother. My sister. My two brothers.

Me.

We all lived in a three-bedroom duplex with cheap linoleum floors and no room to breathe. My mother was attending Tarleton State University, driving an old wood-paneled blue station wagon an hour each way while studying to become a nurse and working at a nursing home. That woman wore herself thin trying to outrun her past—and eventually, her mind. But at this point, her mental illness hadn’t yet unraveled her completely. There was still order.

Still effort. Still the illusion of control.

And there was still childhood.

Our Secret Kingdom

Just beyond the projects, behind the tall chain-link fences, was a thick patch of overgrown woods. To anyone else, it was just brush and trash and forgotten space. But to us, it was the world. It was freedom, escape - It was fresh air and childhood.

We scaled the fences and disappeared into the trees, carrying with us anything we could scavenge from our homes—a broken chair, an old sheet, an empty milk crate. We built forts. Hideouts. Palaces.

We weren’t kids from the projects in those woods. We were rulers. Rebels. Free. It was very much a Where the Wild Things Are vibe, with the going to bed hungry and the monsters, except we weren’t rulers, we weren’t kings, and we didn’t return home to find supper waiting for us, still hot.

I remember the feeling of safety there, oddly enough. The grownups in our neighborhood made life terrifying. The other kids could be cruel. But in the woods, it was just us. And for a little while, that was enough.

A Winter We Didn't Expect

One winterer, my mother got walking pneumonia and ended up in the hospital. I didn’t understand how serious it was, only that she was gone and something wasn’t right. My grandfather and Mama Kay—my step-grandmother—drove down to pick us up and take us to their home in Louisiana.

I don’t remember how long we stayed. I don’t even remember much of what we did. What I do remember is the stress. The feeling of waiting. Of not knowing what came next.

During that time, my brothers stepped up. They looked after me and my sister, shielding us the best they could from the noise and fear that always seemed to follow us. It was one of those brief and blurry moments in my life where everything was unstable, but the love between siblings stood firm. I often wish it had stayed that way, that we hadn’t grown so far apart.

That we hadn’t grown so separately that there is no way to refashion the bond.

After the Fire

When the fire happened and we were evicted, it was the start of a summer that still feels like a fever dream.

We had nowhere to go. Who knows how long it lasted. At first we stayed in a rundown, sundrenched blue single wide trailer with a stranger and their family. That’s where I had my 8th birthday. We were in a battered women’s shelter for a while, which refused to allow my brothers to stay, even though they were teenagers, and I’m not sure where they ended up during that time. I could ask but neither of them really like talking about this. In that shelter, I remember nothing but the pantry because inside it were goodies I had never had before - gummies. It’s funny how things like that stick with you. Everything else had imploded but I still remember the first taste of gummies.

I’m rambling now but those are important moments that would otherwise be insignificant to someone else. I don’t know how long we were there before we eventually made our way to Stephenville City Park, where we slept under the branches of a big, old pecan tree. It felt like weeks that stretched into months while the five of us, my mom, my sister, my two brothers, me, lived in that old blue station wagon. The Texas heat was unbearable. We had what we could carry, and what we didn’t have, my brothers found a way to procure it all. We sweated through nights. We scavenged and survived.

Then, something miraculous happened.

A woman named Lela Wade met with us. I have no idea where she came from, I just knew that she talked like an angel and was so patient and nice to me. Even though I must have been filthy…

She didn’t look away. She didn’t avoid our struggle. She walked right into our story and changed the ending.

She took my mother, my sister, and me to a McDonald’s—and that’s where I had my very first Happy Meal. My first fast food, ever. I remember the cool air, the shiny red tray, the toy in the box. It felt like magic. Not just because of the food, but because someone saw us and responded with kindness instead of fear or judgment. That sticks with me too. It’s funny writing this, because if you ask me now, I don’t care for food. I don’t care about the taste or savoring it, I’m picky about what I will eat because I honestly don’t like to eat. But that’s another story for another time.

Lela offered us a place in Hico—in the government housing there. And somehow, against all odds, we made it. Same kind of situation as before but with less furniture and no woods, but the linoleum was cool to the touch and felt glorious after so long exposed to the Texas heat that summer.

After an excruciating long and drawn out unstable situation, Hico felt like heaven. The roof didn’t leak. There were ceiling fans and a refrigerator. There was a shower and a park just down the street. There was space to breathe.

Looking Back, Looking Deeper

I didn’t know then that we were living in crisis. I just knew it was normal. Getting kicked out of housing. Living with needles on the street. Hiding in the woods from adults. Sleeping in a car. Watching our mother try to hold herself together with equal parts drive and delusion.

I see it differently now.

I see scared children building forts in the forest because the world they were born into wasn’t safe.
I see a mother pushing herself to the breaking point because she didn’t know how to stop.
I see inherited pain shaping decisions, warping perceptions, and echoing down generations.

And I see God, working through a woman named Lela Wade, holding out His hand in the middle of our wilderness.

Just Before the Fall

That summer, I didn’t know what was coming. I didn’t know that moving to Hico would mark the unraveling of my mother’s mind. That we’d soon be completely isolated. That the rest of my childhood would be marked by survival, shame, and deep spiritual confusion.

But I also didn’t know that one day, I’d look back and write it down. That I’d tell the truth without bitterness. That I’d stop hiding behind the pain and begin healing from it.

That I’d meet a God who wasn’t afraid of broken homes, dirty needles, or forgotten kids.

This was the summer before the unraveling.
This was the last breath of normal.
And grace was already whispering in the trees.

– Candice, Once Homeless, Now Held