"The House We Lived In"
Ever notice what triggers memories? It could be the scent of fall in the air. A relaxing shower. A song on the radio. A scene in a movie. Or it greets you—by surprise—when you’re driving down a country road.
Today, as I was driving to a fast-food restaurant for a quick dinner, I started thinking about my father. No specific memory—just wanting to remember him—feel his presence. This time, instead of letting a memory come to me, I searched for it.
When I left the drive-through, I drove back to his former home—my boyhood home—that I had sold forty-two years after he purchased it; shortly after we had to admit him to a skilled nursing facility prior to his death.
I parked in front of the house and turned off the engine. Looking it over, I took a bite of my chicken sandwich. I noticed the house number was faded—barely visible now. The landscaping was updated—and tidy. New windows adorned the house—unlike the wooden frame windows I remember—once cracked, paint peeling. The awning that previously shaded the picture window had disappeared, although the siding remained the same.
Taking a sip of my Coke, I noticed how the neighborhood had changed. It felt different—like I had never been a part of it—or my past wasn’t real. The homes were the same—and well- maintained—but naturally; the neighbors were now strangers. Funny how neighborhoods are defined by the people, not the place.
After we bought the house in 1964, a few of the neighbors were taken aback that a family with six kids had moved in. Like the cranky neighbor on the north side of our house—who nursed his lawn—and made sweeping grass off his driveway a national pastime. And if I, or one of my five siblings, ran across his lawn to our friend’s house, he reported us to our father, demanding an explanation. My father would patiently calm him down, respecting the fact that some people raise grass—others raise kids—and both are equally invested.
The neighbors across the street were cut from the same cloth. They perched in their lawn chairs on the porch and watched us play football in the street with our friends. When the ball unintentionally landed on their meticulously groomed lawn, they confiscated it and waited until my father arrived home from work. Then they confronted him. It was the last thing he needed. His response was kind, but firm; “Could you be more understanding? They’re just kids—and for heaven’s sake, they just lost their mother.” Despite his irritation, my father would later ask his three sons to shovel the snow off the sidewalks of four neighbors. We honored his request—shoveling their snow before school every time it snowed, not just for one winter—but for years to come. Our neighbors started to notice there was something different inside “the house we lived in.”
I took another bite of my sandwich and glanced at my father’s bedroom window. I recalled when my mom laid inside—dying. She once told my older sister, “I think I have cancer, but the doctors aren’t telling me.” It was 1965. I don’t think she knew the truth until it was too late.
Glancing up at the second-floor windows on our old Cape Cod reminded me of the stifling August temperatures in the bedroom I shared with my two brothers. We would never own air conditioning—so sleeping on the floor in the living room in front of a fan defined our summers. The house we lived in was small, but I never remember not being happy living there.
“A small house will hold as much happiness as a big one.”
My mind shifted to the treehouse around the block where my youngest sister fell from it twice in two weeks. My father had to set an alarm to wake her every two hours so she wouldn’t slip into a coma because of a potential head injury. As a single parent, he bore every burden—alone. I never fully appreciated how many things a single parent with six kids has to worry about. He once said, “The hardest thing about being alone is not having someone to talk to about the decisions I have to make. I miss your mother’s point of view.”
I let my thoughts drift—to see how far they would take me. If I closed my eyes, I could see the Christmas tree in our picture window—and recall my uncle’s tradition of bringing creative gag gifts for us every Christmas Eve.
I recollected introducing my dates to prom and homecoming to my father in this house, purchasing a 1966 VW Beetle—my first car—when I was in college. (It leaked oil in the driveway until he slid an old card table under it to catch the drippings.) I remember introducing him to the woman who is now my wife, and years later, telling him when we were expecting our children. When my son, David, was a teenager, we started visiting him every Thursday night after David’s guitar lessons. During those visits, he opened a window to his soul—and talked about his life experiences growing up in the south, and the trauma of the Dust Bowl, losing the family farm during the Great Depression, and life as a Marine fighting at Iwo Jima.
When I finished my sandwich, I reflected on how my father made our home a sanctuary for my friends in high school. It was “the” gathering place—where all our friends converged. It still strikes me that many of them called him “Pa.” And over the years, I few told me, “Your dad was like a father to me.”
Readers have asked me, why do you write so much about your family? I told them, “Simple. To encourage you to think about yours.” Why? Family is a gift.
Taking a final sip of my soda, I started my car and glanced at my childhood home for the last time. As I drove away, I realized the cherished memories born there taught me a crucial truth about my father—a lesson most of our neighbors eventually observed: his legacy was not the house he lived in—but how he lived in that house.
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SOMETHING TO CHEW ON: What stirs your memories? What is the legacy your parents left behind? What would your children say is the legacy you will leave behind? Not sure? Why not ask them?
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