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.”
That is my story and I am sticking to it!
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