Going Home

As my kids grew older, I would often tell them about the great family life I had growing up and how beautiful the scenic area was where we lived. Proclaiming, back in my day, it was a time when neighbors would actually come out of their homes to say hello to one another. There were no fences between yards for barriers, no one had cell phones, no computers, no emailing and no texting. Nothing so impersonal like the technology they use today to make themselves think they are being more sociable.

I remember going on vacation for two weeks, my Parents forgetting to lock the doors on our house, but we didn’t worry. You always knew that the neighbors nearby had your back. Everyone knew who was away on vacation and made sure no one broke into their home.

Not like today, where it is a struggle for the neighbors to say hi to one-another when you see them outdoors.

It probably has something to do with our neighborhood having to endure this middle class poverty life, while in the “The Great State of Nickle & Dime You to Death California,” so you can’t afford to do any activities outside your own home.

Where I grew up, the grass was green and trees were the scent of pine. The nearby cornfields were full of Pheasants, Mallard Ducks swam in the ponds, and the Ruffed Grouse ruffled in the grassland. We had deer hunting, ice fishing, camping, and boating. It was clean air, friendly faces, and open spaces.

The local park where played every day spanned thirty miles along the shores of Lake Michigan.

So when I finally had the chance to take the kids to see my home town and the house I grew up in, I jumped at it. My brother said he would put us up at his house so we could be there for the first family reunion in twenty years.

I told my children that the family no longer owned the structure on the corner of Elm Street and Juniper Circle, but I would drive them out there before the reunion, just so they could see the old place.

And an old place it was. Gone was the only elm tree on Elm Street which had shaded us in the front yard. The once green grass I rolled around on, was now infested with weeds. The metal shed I erected as a youth, rusted through and had fallen in on itself. The garden of tomatoes, carrots, and radishes my Mother grew was now a junk yard of old tires, car parts, refrigerators, washers and dryers.

A Fire Marshal's notice condemned the place while Police tape was supposed to keep out any looters. You could see that the living room was half gone from a fire which had also taken most of the roof.

I saw a young man a couple of houses down, in his front yard, watering his roses. Walking towards him to ask what had happened, he pointed the hose our way even though the water couldn't reach us.

“Stop right there, Mister.” He said while giving me an angry scowl. “If you are in anyway associated with those Bittleman brothers, you can just turn around right now!”

I introduced myself and told him why we were there. He then opened up enough to tell me the brothers inherited the house after their Mother had died shortly after purchasing the place. How ten days ago the two of them got drunk and with their pistols in hand started shooting beer cans off the refrigerator in the middle of all that debris. When the Police were called in, the two brothers barricaded themselves inside the house and wouldn’t come out. After a twelve-hour standoff with the Cops, the Chief of Police decided to use tear gas to get them out, which must have triggered the fire.

I thanked the gentleman for his time and we left.  There was nothing left to see.

On the way back to my brother’s place, my oldest daughter tried to cheer me up by saying, “Dad, we didn't think we were going to see anything special anyways. The neighborhood was bound to be different. You know how you are always telling us that in life change is inevitable, so don't be surprised by it, embrace it. Well, what did you expect?”

Of course the middle child had to have her turn at me. “Don't you remember Dad? You've taken us camping and fishing. We've sang songs together around a campfire and hiked in the mountains! We have done some of the same things you say are so great here.”

My youngest son surprised me next with his wisdom by consoling me with, “Dad, we like where we are growing up. All of our friends are there. We know nothing about living anywhere else.”

After being consoled by my children, I thought about a quote I once heard.

“Home is where the heart is.”

This is,

Most Of That Story Is True,

Jim Hauenstein,

And,

 “My home will never be a place, but a state of mind, which I find through my music.”

    - Charlotte Eriksson -

That is my story and I am sticking to it!

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