Almost 10 years ago already. That went fast. Our fourth grandchild was born. Graham Lucas, a beautiful little towhead, swept into our lives and stole our hearts. It had been 5-1/2 years since Peyton was born so a new baby in the family was welcomed and loved.

When G was a few months old, Sarah went back to work while waiting to get into RN nurse’s training. Adam was head chef and worked every weekend as did Sarah. So Sarah’s mom watched Graham 2 Saturday nights a month and Hubs and I gladly took the other 2. The problem with this was our location. Karen lived a few minutes from the kids, we were 175 miles away. But we were thrilled to see all of them (especially Graham) often so he wouldn’t forget who we were. As if. The kid was amazing.

When Graham was about 18-20 months old and talking very well for his age, we encountered a small problem. When it was our turn to stay with G, I brought him a treat. It wasn’t a big deal except Sarah was rather adamant that Graham not eat very much junk food. He loved fresh veggies, pasta, salmon and was a great eater.

I’ve been hooked on Brach’s brand candy since I was a kid. Malted milk balls, chocolate stars, chocolate covered peanuts plus all the non chocolates they offered. Chicks and Rabbits for Easter and my favorite, Circus Peanuts. Kinda orange/peachy/yellow colored marshmallowy candy about as big as my pinky. Sickeningly sweet. Yum. I started bringing 2 Circus Peanuts in a snack bag every time we watched Graham, but kinda without Sarah’s knowledge or permission. We’d give them to Graham long before supper or shortly after. That little stinker soon realized every time we walked in the door, there was a candy treat that would be his shortly. One Saturday he’s sitting in his high chair eating thin strips of yellow pepper when we walked in. Sarah’s running around, putting on makeup when Graham pipes up, “cirt-kus p-nups. Cirt-kus p-nups!” Sarah walks through the dining area, shoving stuff around in her purse, looking for her keys, frowns and says, “what’s he saying? I can’t understand him.” “Umm, I don’t know,” I said feebly, crossing every body part she couldn’t see.

Graham’s a remarkable little kid. By the time he was 2, his vocabulary was bigger than mine. He was obsessed (in a healthy way) with all things dinosaur. He had a book containing pertinent factoids/pictures/pronunciations on every dinosaur known to man (kid) kind. He knew his stuff. You could open that 100 page book anywhere and he’d rattle off the correct name, pronounce it right, the dinosaur’s size, what they consumed, (this was no Little Golden book) where the beast lived, slept, swam, how they communicated and what size poop one could expect to see after a meal.

One weekend Hubs looked over to what was holding G’s attention for so long. He had built a fenced in enclosure on the floor, filled with tiny, plastic dinosaurs milling around in small groups, palm trees and a lone male figurine smack dab in the middle of the whole works. Grandpa said, “oh that poor guy, he’s in trouble Graham. He’s going to get hurt or stomped on by one of those carnivorous dinosaurs, probably the T-Rex.” Immediately G turns to grandpa for a teaching moment, “no grandpa, he’s not going to get hurt. He’s a paleontologist.” (I kid you not). What a character. He was 2.

Graham and I looked forward to our Saturday nights together. We started doing the corniest projects, which was highly unusual, unbelievable even, because I’ve not one crafty bone in my body. I couldn’t think of something clever to make with a 3 to 7 year old kid if I was offered a substantial cash bonus! I am taking credit for a couple things we made together, but even those projects are dicey because I made the originals when I was in grade school. Guess I’m really taking credit for something my talented teachers thought up 60 years ago.

Even though Graham was a little young, he had the patience of Job and our Saturday night craft projects held his interest until he was around 7. By then he was playing outside with neighbor kids and my goofy crafts lost their appeal. (I’m about to start the same ritual with my great-granddaughter Jovi. Should be fun and I’m looking forward to learning lots from her). Of course, many of our craft projects revolved around snacky food ingredients like Twinkies, cupcakes, bananas, Rice Krispy treats shaped into snakes, cupcakes into an enormous centipede, dirt cake that turned my cake pan into a spooky cemetery. But a couple of them, one with clothespins glued on a tin can which made a neat pencil jar I hope mom and dad save for him. My favorite was something we made for Adam for Father’s Day. I took G to one of his and daddy’s favorite spots. A neat park/pond/playground near their home. We brought a bucket along and collected lots of small stones. At home we made a big batch of salt dough, (a favorite staple for craft projects) shaped it into an oval, poked holes on the top so we could hang it and stuck the pebbles in before we baked it. DAD ROCKS. Always have special meaning for both of them since they spent a lot of time at Mill Pond Park where we collected the rocks.

This was around the time we decided to move closer to the kids. If we weren’t driving across the state for one of 12 year old Landon’s travel basketball tourney’s, it was a Peyton school party, grandparents day, a dance recital or simply to visit. Josh and Erica lived in Detroit, Adam and Sarah in Ann Arbor, Shannon and Tracey in Jackson. All within an hour of each other-except us. We were 150-180 miles from all of them. It was crazy. We were retired, living in a house too big, too expensive and too far away. An easy decision to make. We’d move somewhere at least 150 miles east. We wanted to see everyone more often but without the 3 hour drive.

Selling the house took a lot longer than we thought so we continued our weekly treks to enjoy various events. We finally moved 4 years ago. What a wonderful difference. Should Sarah get called in for an extra shift, we’re available and a half hour away. If Peyton gets sick at school while Tracey’s stuck in Ann Arbor and Shannon’s testifying in court, we’re just a few minutes from picking her up, bringing her home or to our house. It’s rare we miss anything that’s going on where family is concerned.

Graham’s gonna be 10 in a couple weeks, hard to believe. Now he’s playing flag football, little league baseball and zipping through 5th grade when I think he should be a toddler. Still a wonderful, thoughtful boy who’s a joy to be around. Hope he never changes…

We say this frequently, but seriously this time, it’s just not possible. Could it be I’m missing an alternate universe clip from my life and Rip Van Winkled my way through 20 years? I don’t feel like I’ve missed much, yet a couple of decades have quietly slipped from my life without me even realizing it.

It was a mundane Monday. I was jittery. Stomach doing flip-flops, my mouth as dry as a popcorn fart and I had unconsciously nibbled a good sized chunk from the bottom of my lip, which would prove sore for the next several days. I was in cahoots with someone, keeping secrets, both which I’m pretty good at but this was different. Life changing even.

As far as I knew only 3 people in the world knew our secret (and one was a total stranger so I wasn’t expecting him to spill the beans and announce my intentions to the world). I felt like I was wearing something akin to ‘The Scarlet letter,’ emblazoned on my meager chest. Anyone glancing upon my countenance would certainly nod as they smirked, “I know what’s going on, you’re not fooling anyone.” So I looked no one in the eye during the preceding weekend leading up to the mundane Monday.

Johnny Wayne and I had dated/split/dated/split for several years, mostly through no fault of our own. Oh I’m responsible for a couple of them because I was a fickle, spoiled little shit, though most of our breakups were caused directly from above. My parents, (not God-He was on board except for the fooling around part) usually Mom. She didn’t view John as a suitable mate for her delinquent brat and voiced her strong opinions daily. I was neither assertive or strong willed enough to fight them on this matter. Except for the mundane Monday after the preceding weekend. I just kinda grew a set, said hell no, I’m not gonna take this anymore. Whoo boy. (There would be consequences from Mom, lasting until the day she died. She may still be holding a grudge).

During that fateful weekend, Johnny Wayne and non-confrontational Neese quietly decided to elope. To stay on the down low, we opted to get hitched in South Dakota for a couple reasons. Our impending nuptials would not be published in the Sioux City Journal where hundreds of folks from our hometown would read about it ahead of time, and there was no waiting period in South Dakota. We had our bloodwork done (soon-to-be-Hubs passed out when the needle was inserted. To this day-he’ll never live that one down-hilarious).

There were a couple of hiccups of course. Had a flat tire on our way to Elk Point on Friday when we were applying for our marriage license. This had to be done before they closed at 5 so we narrowly missed the deadline. And we had no money, no place to live, bills up the wazoo, but by this time there was no stopping us. No asking permission or forgiveness and no apologies. Let’s do this.

On that mundane Monday, September 22, 1969 we (I had to drive-soon to-be groom had lost his license from speeding tickets and drag racing-what in the world was I getting myself into?) I was 18, John 21. Parked my 1968 Ford (fix or repair daily) Mustang in front of Elk Point’s beautiful courthouse about 6:50 pm and waited for our witnesses to show up. (One was Hubs roommate and a friend from our hometown-thanks Dale, the other a teaching buddy of Dale’s named Ed something, his last name is illegible on our marriage license ha-ha. He was the stranger who knew about our secretive, devious plan).

Didn’t know if my legs would propel me up the concrete steps of the courthouse and I think John was more nervous than I was. Met in the judge’s chambers, stammered our way through 3 minutes of vows, and by 7:05 we were legally wed. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change one solitary thing. Not one. Don’t even get me started on spending thousands on a stupid wedding. Instead of planning for months, over thinking, over spending, fighting who sits at what table, changing your mind about insignificant crap, how about getting married with 40 friends and relatives present and spend all that extra time working on your first 5 years of marriage because they’re brutal! If there’s gobs of money, use it for a down payment on your first home. If this mode of thought was followed religiously, (BTW God is a big help in the area of marriage longevity) the divorce rate would plummet. Trust me.

Freshly minted Hubs and I took our 2 witnesses out for a steak supper in Elk Point and bade them farewell. The newlyweds were headed for the Black Hills. We got as far as Sioux Falls before reality smacked us in the face. We had very little money and only a couple days off from work. The parts that were still thinking rationally decided we’d just hole up in a hotel for a couple days, call it good and head back to Sioux City without a bigger credit card bill.

So here we are celebrating our 50th anniversary. Feels surreal. When I think back I realize it’s not always been easy. Our marriage didn’t always include the perfect job, a decent house, vacations, or enough money to cover the bills. Sometimes it was sick kids, lay-offs, broken down cars, arguments on child rearing. Unless you’re made from a whole different dye lot than we are, marriage is hard work. We were 2 individuals with very different ideas on everything from raising kids, jobs, religion, sex, and what to do with our money (or lack of it). However, we were deeply committed and in love with each other which is paramount if your marriage is gonna work.

Except for a couple glitches here and there, the years have been good to us and have sped by at warp speed. Our 3 children are grown, successful and wonderful people. They in turn have given us 4 amazing grandchildren and one great-granddaughter. Who knew how much of a blessing your kid’s kids would be in your life? I’m up in the card category during our many years together. Hubs forgot our anniversary once. In his defense he was working on a multimillion dollar project, requiring too many hours a day as his deadline neared. (He made it easily, under budget, saving the company a million bucks). Does not negate the fact I’ve now bought 50 anniversary cards while he’s only purchased 49. Slacker.

r

A couple of anniversary memories come to mind. On our first I was 6-1/2 months pregnant with Shannon. I looked so cute and felt so good. We bought a crib at a garage sale for 5 bucks (the crib slats were about a foot apart), painted it bright yellow then got a 20 dollar mattress at K-Mart. I think our kids (plus Ariana) made us a fancy supper at home for our 25th anniversary in North Muskegon.

But the one that produces the most poignant memories for me was our 10th. We were living in Spencer, Iowa (loved it there). Shannon was 8-1/2, Joshua was 4 and Adam was 10 days old. His breech birth had been traumatic for all of us and I was recovering slowly. There would be no fancy restaurant on that September 22nd. Hubs and Shannon were making supper downstairs, Josh was playing with his Matchbox collection on the floor in our bedroom, Adam had just finished nursing (my only breast-fed baby) and was laying next to me. I could barely hear John and Shannon collaborating on supper chores, plus the sound of Joshua’s cars zooming up and down on the wooden floor. I was in a semi-stupor thinking about the previous decade. Totally amazed that I was the mother of 3 and had been John’s wife for 10 years! One of my favorite memories.

Hubs folks had 58 years together before Jim passed away in 1987. My parents celebrated 62 years before Mom succumbed to non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 2004. Average that and I come up 60. Another decade together. Doesn’t sound very long does it? (We are rarely satisfied and tend to always want more). But there are many couples who never reached 30, 40, let alone 50 years together. Thanks for the first 50 God…

I assumed once ingrained as a habit, it would remain as such forever. I was clueless yet again. No surprise there. How was I supposed to know this beast had to be nurtured and encouraged like my little tykes years ago? I was grateful it hung around as long as it did. But it’s my fault it disappeared, and now I’m fighting hard for its return.

There were a couple of glitches during the first decade, lengthy pauses, but I always returned with good intentions. Until I moved to Jackson. Can’t blame Jackson but a series of untimely events made everything go haywire, and I’m having trouble reviving my routine. I still think of it as my routine, but following through and actually completing the routine has not been a walk in the park. (Which is exactly what I should be doing).

Four years ago we were living with our daughter Shannon. We had sold our lake home, stored several tons of ‘stuff’ (this after a major purge, eliminating everything unnecessary in our lives, ha-ha) and bought a fixer upper (in our mid-60’s, what were we thinking)? At the time we didn’t give much thought and actually had a pretty good time working on our new crib. We moved a month later but there was still a huge amount of work to be done. The yard and driveway were a disaster but our main concern was getting the interior comfortable before winter, so we kept working.

It was late fall. For the first time in 20 years we were living in a different neighborhood. There was a small lake but no sidewalks which is different. I was accustomed to my morning walk along the lake and never wavered from the exact same route I lumbered along for 15 years. (Anyone watching me by day 2 knew where I walked, how long I’d be gone after I stepped out of the house, all no-no’s). Along my path everyday, I knew what time every man/woman left for work and what kind of car they drove. How many kids they had, who was getting divorced, if they got new carpeting, when they took vacations and where they worshipped. All because I walked past their house every day without fail. I memorized their license plates and knew as they drove past which driveway that car belonged in. But in my 4 mile stretch I knew the names of very few people. And I’m sure none of them knew mine. They might have had trouble recognizing me in a store when I wasn’t sporting dark shades, Mickey Mouse headphones, along with my long strides and swinging arms. To them I was invisible and I was fine with that.

Now in new surroundings, I looked up and down my long block (20 houses on each side) and didn’t know exactly where to begin with my good intentions. I needed a pattern which I was sure would become routine shortly. Late in 2015 I started ‘marking my territory.’ I wanted to utilize the pretty lake nearby because Muskegon Lake was a familiar, favorite part of my walk in North Muskegon. The lake here is a couple blocks away so I made it the focal point of my morning walk, going about a mile and a half from our house, then turning around. That lasted until winter hit hard near Christmas. I had taken 2 nasty falls (6 years apart). Both spills were when it was still fairly dark out and both resulted in a fractured left elbow. After the second break I determined no more walking when it’s dark or on a surface that is slippery. Period.

In February of 2016 we had some gorgeous winter days. Sunny with temps in the 40’s. And I was so ready to get back to my routine. Not a block from home I felt a searing pain in the back of my left leg. Wisdom wasn’t currently along during this walk, thus I decided to limp my way through the pain. The price for this little error was steep. Physical therapy, cortisone shots, prescriptions and a year away from ‘my good intentions’ before my leg was almost back to normal. Still had to be careful pivoting and squatting was impossible.

You know what happened during my year’s hiatus? I got out of the habit of walking every morning which I vowed would never, ever happen. I couldn’t imagine a day where I wouldn’t take a walk. (I can remember driving down Ruddiman on my way to work and being envious of a walker as I zipped by. Mind you, I had already walked 3 miles a couple hours earlier, yet I was jealous of her walking and me in my stinking car. What the hell happened to the gal who walked during torrential downpours, blinding blizzards wearing 3 layers, humid, scalding sun, winds that nearly knocked me over, live electrical wires on the sidewalk after a storm? Where had she disappeared? That euphoric feeling after the first half mile that lingered for the rest of the day. My daily mood enhancer. Didn’t I miss that? Heck yes, but obviously not enough to start anew.

Couldn’t get the gumption to get my fat ass moving every morning again. My good intentions were so far on the back burner my pilot light blew out. I reminisced about walking-how great my walks made me feel about life, how grumpy I felt if I missed a couple days. But the months passed with nary a guilty thought anymore. I took another fall which had nothing to do walking, (because the only walking I was doing was back and forth to the fridge) hurt my right leg and just for good measure, my left elbow for the 4th time. I waited a month (to see if it would get better on its own) before going to the doctor. The news wasn’t good. Neither of my knees were in good shape, the cartilage was gone and I was facing replacement, probably for both. The fall didn’t do that, it just finally made me go see an orthopedic dude. The pain wasn’t going away so 5 months ago I had my right knee replaced.

Unlike physical therapy for my bungled up elbow when Brunhilda (the PT sadist) harped, “time is of the essence and your window of opportunity for range of motion is slipping away at a fast clip,” my knee surgeon stressed my leg would continue to improve and get stronger over the next year. I was skeptical. But those darn professionals are proving me wrong again. I’ve noticed quite a change since I hit the 4 month mark. Stride is better, not using a cane, going up and down steps is easier, even my big issue-balance is much better.

So I decided it’s time to restart my ‘good intentions’ routine again. (For keeps I hope) First thing I needed was a walking stick (staff) for a bit of stability on our crappy, pot-hole infested, uneven streets. Had Hubs buy me this gnarly vine/branch. (I resemble Charlton Heston’s version of Moses parting of the sea. Perhaps I’ll try it on the lake when no one’s watching).

I’m on my second smart-ass phone (glutton for punishment with intelligent gadgets smarter than me). Once I started walking in 1998 it became mandatory to listen to music while I walked. I could still daydream, plan my workday, but to keep moving I required tunes. At first it was the Beatles, Doors, CCR but that grew tiresome. (Sorry favorite bands, I still love you) Face it, I’ve listened to those groups for 50 years. Josh, my tech guru ‘woke’ me to pop music in the early 2000’s. I listen to different music. Good stuff but a little raunchy (it’s ok, I’m really deaf so most of the lyrics could be spoken in Latin and I probably wouldn’t notice the difference, but it keeps my feet moving and my butt in arrears).

First walk was down to the corner and back with my walking stick. Nothing else. But if I’m serious about getting into the swing of things, I’ve got to go back to what was successful for 15 years. Music. I’ve used a cassette player (which was so big it also doubled as a weight around my waist), a CD player that skipped notes with every other step and drove me insane, and a tiny iPod, which is like an antique in the electronics world. Since I’m up on all the latest technology, I thought I could use my latest phone for music while I walked. (Honest to God until a few days ago I did not realize all my music was already on my phone). Sigh.

I couldn’t remember where anything was, my shoes, special socks, headphones, iPod but it didn’t take me long to rustle up everything, and get them charged. I looked all over my phone but could not find the small round hole to plug in my headphones. (This is so lame and makes me feel old and out of touch, yet Josh never belittles or tells me I’m an idiot when I ask stupid questions). Seems I need an adapter (which is more than Apple could afford to include with my iPhone 8. You think they’re made outta money)? So my 12 yr. old iPod will suffice for now, we’re old pals.

I’m not gonna tell you all is kosher in my walking world. It’s not. Geez I need some stamina, but it’s a start and I feel good. (I’m cranking out a half mile but still getting outpaced by a garden slug). My decision to start walking and how much improved my mood is afterwards. Actually it’s been my non-surgical leg that’s been more painful and tired. Gotta say, I did get a little weepy when I reviewed my old playlists. I won’t be shopping for any new tunes just yet. Black Eyed Peas, David Guetta, Enrique Iglesias, Flo Rida, Israel Kamakawiwo’ole, JLo, Ke$ha, Kylie Minogue, Maroon 5, P!nk, Pitbull, Usher, Kelly Clarkson, Lady Gaga, Train, plus all my old favorites from Huey, Neil, Johnny Cash, Beatles, Doors, ABBA and more! (Although I don’t have any tunes by Willie, I am on the road again. Yay. Appropriately enough, the last song I listened to while walking this morning was Johnny Cash’s, Sunday Morning Coming Down). I can’t remember how to buy music anyway, plus I’m overdrawn on my dumb question quota for Josh in September…

Something’s been bothering me since I visited my home town, Rock Valley, Iowa this August. Like a little bobber on a fishing pole, dipping under the water for a nibble, tug and a miss, then resting back on the water’s surface.

The place was never much to look at, but to my folks, it was almost unattainable, thus putting it on the same level of importance and beauty as the Taj Mahal. Buying their first home after 13 years of marriage (and 3 kids). I’ve talked about the house before so I won’t go into details about the constant work Dad did over the years (under Mom’s strict tutelage and guidelines after several firm requests).

My folks lived in that house from 1955 until 2005. A half century. By the time they moved into the house on 15th Street, it was probably already 50 years old. (Generally once folks hit a certain age they grow weary updating and remodeling their homes). The same was true of my parents, but let’s say they kept updating for at least 40 of those 50 years. During those 40 years they (let’s be real-he) remodeled the kitchen and bathroom. Each twice. Tore off the long front porch and enclosed a smaller one. Added a breezeway with a zinger step, leading to a new double garage with a turn so tight, often rendering an experienced driver into a panic. Landscaping they were so proud of. New siding, roof, windows.

Added a large bedroom on the main floor, eliminating the need to sleep upstairs as they got older. The staircase of our old home was not for the feint of heart. Narrow, steep with a couple of turns that could send you sailing backwards down the steps much faster than it took going up. My bedroom, so stinking hot during August, Mom would pull my bed up to the window facing south to try and catch any breeze. The smaller bedroom behind mine with the wooden covered attic opening which is still home to a killer I saw during the night when I was 7. I had serious issues walking in there when I was in my 50’s. No one can convince me he’s not real or still up there, waiting for me. With a knife. And a wide mustache.

Much like the unique style of the rooms, (fabulous dining room) our house included an odd assortment of steps going from one room to another. Crazy. These were mostly the fault of my father (the builder-without firm plans or drawings), though it was never on purpose. From the tiny 1-1/2 inch step from the beautiful oak dining room floor to the living room carpet, to the enormous/scary/unusual plunging step of 9 inches plus from the kitchen to the breezeway, which was anything but a breeze in utter darkness. (There was a pull string just out of reach until you landed safely with both feet planted. Or not).

With all the wackiness of the rooms and odd steps, add to the mix that our family did not have many years of happiness living in the house in the middle of the block. My brother Larry was killed riding his bike 3 years after we moved to 15th Street. That right there set in motion years of mourning and slowly drifting apart from which we would never recover. A senseless, tragic death that changed everything. For all of us.

I went through my rebellious, teenage angst in that house. My sister Mona couldn’t wait to leave, marrying at 17. I left at 18. But I still have many fond memories of living in that house. Mom, sitting in her favorite chair, knitting up a storm. Her beautiful flower bed and Dad’s garden-loaded with tomatoes the size of his fist. My play house and the swing set he built. The huge unattached garage out back where Dad painted the signs for his highway outreach ministry.

Coming through the door after school, getting hit with the smell of homemade cinnamon rolls permeating through the house. Walking home for lunch and having Mom surprise me with, “let’s go shopping in Sioux Falls this afternoon, I’ll call school.” Mom making popcorn on top of the stove, covered fry pan sliding gently back and forth over the blue flame from our gas stove. Dad’s black lunch pail setting on the counter, waiting to be refilled by Mom (everything wrapped in waxed paper-even his daily banana) for another work day. Me watching (but never helping) Mom make 7 minute frosting (the absolute best, I’m still so intimidated by her ability-I have never tried to make it myself), fudge, penuche or divinity. Dad’s corner of the kitchen table holding the Bible and variety of religious material used during our lengthy devotion time before and after eating supper together.

Not everything about living in the middle of the block was unhappy, which enables my strong feelings for the home I’ve not lived in since the late 60’s. After Mom passed away in 2004, Dad was so done with that house. Duh, he worked on it non stop for 4 decades. I was ok selling the house, but honestly would have (should have) paid to keep the Gerritson phone number intact. Giving up that number (which was a lifeline when I was a teen) still hurts my heart.

So while riding around Rock Valley, we were reminiscing about classmates, homes we’d been in during our youth, places nearby where we hid while making out, old businesses, changes in our growing community. We rode past Hubs house and mine. His old house has seen many changes. New porch, addition on the back plus a garage. My house has seen many changes too, none as positive as John’s. Backyard weeds were tall, shed looked dilapidated. The blue spruce shrubs Mom planted and loved on either side of the front step were gone. Driving slowly down the alley I stopped, idling. The shingles on our steep roof were literally curling like taco shells. Now why should something like that hurt so much?

I know the house wasn’t much but my parents always had (and showed) pride in their home. It was fixed up, paid for and I dare bet, one of the cleanest homes in town. (Mom was anal about cleanliness, floors, furniture dusted, windows sparkling). Some of my friends had nicer homes but many classmates had homes similar to ours. I was never ashamed to invite my friends over. But seeing its dismal condition recently really has me in a funk about it.

A couple weeks ago my friend Wanda messaged me, “hey Denise, I think your old house is for sale.” What, we were just there. I checked but couldn’t find anything until she literally sent me the link. Sure enough, there’s my childhood home. Looking sad, even a bit ratty, but the pictures weren’t too bad (except for that damn roof, geez slap on some new shingles please).

What can I say? That it would make a good investment for a decent rental with a few bucks stuck in it. Maybe the amount of money needed exceeds the income it would generate for a new owner. Or maybe it’s a hopeless case, and the neighborhood would be better served if someone bought it, tore down and started over. As much as it would bother me having it torn down, seeing it go downhill reminds me how much I dreaded seeing my parents fail the last few years of their lives. It’s just a house. I know. A neglected, worn out house. But for many years it was my home and got me (us) through some tough times. I wish it was fixed up, looking spiffy. Nurtured and enjoyed by a family who took pride in ownership again…