For the past 20 years or so, we've hosted Thanksgiving. Big boisterous events packed with food and family. But this year we had an offer we couldn't refuse — spend the holiday with our younger son's new in-laws in Cooperstown, New York. That's quite a drive, and we stopped the first night in my hometown of Berea, Ohio.
I might not have gone out of my way to eyeball the old house. I saw it, what, 10 years ago? But our host suggested the nostalgia tour, and we swept over. The circle where we played kickball seemed so very small, and I stood at home plate a moment, waiting for a boy now older than I am to roll a ball that wasn't coming.
I might not have gone out of my way to eyeball the old house. I saw it, what, 10 years ago? But our host suggested the nostalgia tour, and we swept over. The circle where we played kickball seemed so very small, and I stood at home plate a moment, waiting for a boy now older than I am to roll a ball that wasn't coming.
I remembered that when I recently wrote about The Fort I built the boys, a reader expressed interest in seeing The Shed that my father constructed — by himself, during the three weeks I was at summer camp, start to finish, which is about two years quicker than I took to build mine.
So I gingerly stepped into the side yard and snapped the photo above, hurrying away before the homeowner might notice and jump to shoot me. "This is Ohio after all," I said.
In my day there was no decoration — and a tall rectangular window in front that has been painted over. Or boarded over — maybe the glass was shot out too many times.
The new owner is obviously a golfer, judging by the bric a brac scattered everywhere. And why not? It's his house, and it's a free country — so far, though judging by the number of Trump flags I saw snapping in the buckeye breeze, that could change. My hometown friend urged me to knock on the door and present myself as the original occupant — my father would take his lunch here and watch construction proceed. I was reluctant but, joined by my wife so as not to present "some scary solitary man," I rang, waited a moment then, relieved, hurried away.
So I gingerly stepped into the side yard and snapped the photo above, hurrying away before the homeowner might notice and jump to shoot me. "This is Ohio after all," I said.
In my day there was no decoration — and a tall rectangular window in front that has been painted over. Or boarded over — maybe the glass was shot out too many times.
The new owner is obviously a golfer, judging by the bric a brac scattered everywhere. And why not? It's his house, and it's a free country — so far, though judging by the number of Trump flags I saw snapping in the buckeye breeze, that could change. My hometown friend urged me to knock on the door and present myself as the original occupant — my father would take his lunch here and watch construction proceed. I was reluctant but, joined by my wife so as not to present "some scary solitary man," I rang, waited a moment then, relieved, hurried away.
You really can’t go home again and maybe you should try
ReplyDeletemy childhood home is a vacant lot here on the west side of chicago. surrounded by vacant lots. has been for many years.
ReplyDeletea golfer? quel fromage!
My parents lived in four places when I was growing up. One as a baby I have been by( the area of Waukegan now being a bit sketchy I don’t go there any more), one in North Chicago that has been torn down, one in Kenosha that they tried to buy but just couldn’t make it work, and the last place in Waukegan where they rented for 27 years. I still get in my old car each summer and drive by the last two just cause.
ReplyDeleteI’ve occasionally visited the neighborhood where I spent my early childhood years. My parents lived in the house with my dad’s mother and stepfather. Lots of memories but I’ve never been bold enough to knock on the door. But I have lots of memories, good and a couple of bad ones (like my younger sister setting the garage on fire).
ReplyDeleteA couple of shed builders, you and your father.
ReplyDeleteIn January of 1971 I left the house where I grew up to go into the army. My mom moved while I was gone and upon discharge I lived with her for a bit then started apartments etc until marriage. Fast forward to 2007 I'm on CPD and there's a call in the old homestead. The elderly mother of the owner had passed away. After taking care of things I mentioned that I grew up there. As I looked around I saw my mom at the sink (the decor was changed but the footprint was the same) and the memories flooded back. The biggest takeaway was (I'm one of ten children) how did we all fit in that house. But we did, and I wouldn't change a thing.
ReplyDeleteThanks for honoring my request, Mr. S. Your father built something that massive in just three weeks? It's a lot bigger than I envisioned. All those doo-dads (hey, wasn't your father a do-dad?) and tchotchkes detract from its appearance. A window would help. Maybe it was covered to protect it from golf balls. And it's the same color as the house. Were they both red fifty years ago?
ReplyDeleteThe owner might have been friendly and congenial, or he night have been a suspicious a-hole. People in this benighted state still swing both ways. But only a few decades ago, you'd have probably been welcomed, Mr. S.. The Trump flags tell the tale. Outside of its cities, Ohio is as deep red as West Virginia or Georgia or Oklahoma. It's North Missitucky now. Or maybe Oklahio.
The building I lived in and watched the streetcars from, near Monroe and Homan, is long gone. Probably for a good forty years. As is most of that side of the block. The other side of the street has new townhomes. I remember driving down the street in 1978. My old building was burned out and boarded up. First view of it in almost 25 years. Our third-floor windows had only open sky behind them. The roof was gone. The apartment was a blackened shell.
Monroe St. had deep craters that I thought would swallow my VW Bug. If I'd broken a tie rod or an axle, I'd have been a goner back then. The gangs would have had me for lunch. Hear the West Side has gotten better in recent years, and that the South Side has grown much worse. Been gone a long time, but still read the Sun-Times. Gunplay and bullets flying and more casualties than ever. Every goddamn day.
Back around 2015, my father and I flew to England to revisit our homeland while Dad was still well enough to get on a plane. We had already visited the usual destinations: surviving relatives, boarding school, college and so on, but one morning we set out on a 2-hour drive specifically to visit our old house in the little village of Quorn in Leicestershire, a house that my parents had built when they married in 1958.
ReplyDeleteWe reached Quorn in early afternoon and took a short walk down our old street, which on a Sunday had basically zero signs of activity. Dad was determined to knock on the door of our house, since there was a car in the driveway, but I persuaded him to look for someone who was outdoors and try talking to them first, to see if they might know anything of the current residents there. For our own credentials, I had uploaded photos to my phone showing me outside the house in 1963.
We found a man opposite who was outdoors in his driveway. Dad said who we were and where we were from, and the man immediately said, "I was in Cincinnati last week!" Um, fine! Good for you, Sir! Back on topic, he knew the older lady across the street in #35 very well, and (this is when things started getting interesting) said that she'd been living there for 50 years. Dad and I did one of those movie-cliché reaction shots where we both look at each other in surprise, because that would mean that she's the one who bought the house from us; thus it's only ever had two owners.
He took us across the street and knocked on the door, made the introductions between us and Elizabeth, and she said, "Yes! Come in! Would you like some tea?" Oh, heck, yes.
The house was immaculate. The garden originally designed by my late mother was gorgeous. We learned that Elizabeth had lived there by herself since her husband died, but would be selling it soon to move in with some of her family elsewhere. She remembered a visit from my mother decades earlier. Nothing bad had ever happened there, the house of my parents' design had served her family of five very well, and it will outlive us all. So yes, it is possible to go home again, and you might even get invited in for tea.
That's a great little story, Andy.
DeleteI was born in Garfield Park hospital. We lived at Ohio and Trumbull till I was five. That was 19 63
ReplyDeleteThe place here on Warren is 120-year-old three flat and that's just the other side of the alley from Madison Street where it can get a little dicey but there ain't a lot of killing. There's less killing in Chicago now than there was 30 years ago. Also less people
I spent 6 formative years on the northeast side of Des Moines, Iowa (though as a child I had no idea where I was in relation to anything else). Recently on our drive to meet family in Colorado, we stopped by to take a look. The sycamore in the front yard had grown as tall as the whole house. The "huge" back yard was miniscule, the space between houses much narrower than I remembered, and the house itself seemed to have shrunk. How did a family of 8 fit as comfortably as I remembered in that tiny house? And yet, we did. Every house on that block had at least two kids, with many having four, five, or even ours and one other with six. The street was always full of bikes, and it was a rare day that we couldn't find someone to play with. I didn't knock on the door -- I remember the inside perfectly, and my memories (and some old family slides) are enough to keep those images fresh. Thanks for the urge to take this walk down Memory Lane.
ReplyDelete