We moved to Asa Street in Defiance, Ohio, sometime around the summer I turned five. It was a short stay—just a couple of months, I believe—as I turned five in July and don’t recall starting kindergarten while we lived there. And yet, inspite of our short stay, that little house was a place of powerful memories.
I remember having my own bedroom for the first time. The details have mostly faded, but I recall a large dresser in the room—and one vivid memory attached to it. Our dog, Lady, a black hunting dog of some sort, had puppies while we lived on Asa Street. Somehow, those puppies ended up sleeping in one of the dresser drawers. That image—tiny pups nestled in a drawer—has never left me.
Down the street lived two elderly sisters in a house the neighborhood kids were warned to avoid. Word was they were mean, always yelling at children. But I came to learn, over time, that they weren’t mean at all—not to my brother, not to me, and not to the boys who lived next door to them. Maybe they’d just been misunderstood.
It was on Asa Street that I learned to ride a bike. Uncle Bob (Karnes) gave my dad a small bicycle with training wheels. The moment it came out of the car, I jumped on. Twenty yards later, I was face-down on the sidewalk, bleeding from my chin. The front wheel had come off, and I went flying over the handlebars. No helmet. I don’t even think I’d ever heard of a helmet back then. That crash was my first lesson in mechanical failure—and the beginning of my lifelong appreciation for safety checks.
Another memory stands out with stark clarity: my mom having a severe nosebleed. I remember the sound of blood gushing and my dad insisting she go to the hospital. One of my Posey cousins came to stay with us while Dad rushed her to the ER. I never knew what caused it—only that I was terrified she might be dying. I prayed hard that night for her to be okay.
In hindsight, I’ve wondered if the "bloody nose" story was something softened for a child’s ears. My mom was only 21 then, with three small kids. She’d had two miscarriages—one before my sister Jeni was born and one after. Jeni would’ve been just a year old at the time. Could what I heard that night have been something more serious, more heartbreaking, hidden behind a child-safe explanation? I’ll never know for sure. But it marked my first confrontation with fear and fragility—of realizing that grownups, especially moms, could bleed, too.
And then there’s the time I ran away from home.
I don’t remember what I was upset about, but I told my mom I was leaving. Instead of stopping me, she told me I needed to take it seriously. She helped me pack. She said if I was going to run away, I needed the right supplies. She helped me make a peanut butter sandwich, told me to get a handkerchief from my dad’s drawer, and find a stick outside. I also had to bring a change of clothes—because, of course, she said, you still need to stay clean even if you’re on the run.
We wrapped everything up in the handkerchief, tied it to the stick, and off I went.
I didn’t get far. I made it to the shed in the backyard, where I stood for what felt like hours, sniffling and feeling sorry for myself. I don’t know how long I was really gone—probably not long at all. Five-year-olds don’t have much sense of time. I was mostly just upset that my mom let me run away. But eventually, I came back inside.
My mom looked up from what she was doing with Jeni and said, “Welcome home.” She seemed glad to see me. And just like that, it was over. I never tried to run away again.
Now, writing this more than sixty years later, I find myself tearing up thinking about all of it. My mom was only twenty-one, with three babies to raise. And still, she found the grace and humor to guide a five-year-old through a runaway adventure, to comfort me through fear, to raise us with warmth—even when she must have been overwhelmed.
It’s incredible to me now, thinking about all she carried and how little of it she ever let us feel.
More tomorrow.
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