Summer of 1965: Jewell, Ohio
During the summer of 1965, we moved from Defiance to the small town of Jewell, Ohio, about ten miles northeast. Our new home was a two-story farmhouse just outside of town. We only lived on the ground floor, though now and then I’d wander upstairs to explore the empty rooms and chat with a spider who made its home in the corner of a window.
We attended the local elementary school, which was even farther out than our house but still on the same road. We rode the school bus, usually the first ones picked up and the first dropped off. I loved that school—it had a library. I made it my goal to read every book in that library by the end of sixth grade, and I did it. I especially loved the autobiographies—Amelia Earhart, Dolley Madison, Jane Addams, and all the U.S. presidents. That little library helped spark my love of writing, which my teachers encouraged and nurtured.
Our farmhouse didn’t have running water, so we pumped it by hand and heated it on the gas stove for baths, dishes, and cleaning. We didn’t even have a sink. My brother Kenny and I would pump water into a bucket, haul it inside, heat it, and then use one bucket for washing and another for rinsing. I think I was usually the washer, and Kenny rinsed and dried.
There were no indoor toilets either. Our outhouse was out back, and in bad weather or during the night, we used an enamel pot with a lid kept in a back room for just that purpose.
We had a kerosene heater in the living room and a big wood-burning stove in the kitchen. Kenny’s job was to keep the fire going. We were only eight and nine when we moved there, but we already had real responsibilities. I don’t think many kids today could say the same.
The four of us kids shared a big room at the front of the house, two beds between us. In winter, we’d all pile into one bed to keep warm. My parents had a smaller room just off of ours. At one point, they had bunk beds in their room too—probably during the coldest months, since it was easier to heat just one space.
Years after we moved away, the house burned down. I spent hours searching online for a photo of it but came up empty. The picture above is just of the land where it once stood.
Some memories from our time in Jewell:
Kenny and I liked to sit in the car and pretend we were driving. One day, Kenny accidentally put it in gear and we rolled straight into the old barn. I think that might’ve been strike three for Kenny’s underage driving career.
In the summer, Mom would wash our hair by holding our heads under the pump outside. I remember the first time she did this with Jeni—she must have been about four. She screamed and jumped like crazy. I laughed. Jeni cried. She never had her hair washed like that again.
We loved playing baseball next to the house. After we broke the third window, Mom and Dad gave up and just covered them with heavy-duty plastic. They told us again and again to play ball somewhere else—but we didn’t.
There was an old orange and white Oldsmobile parked on cinderblocks beside the house. We also kept pet rabbits in cages behind the shed, until a fox got into the cages one night. By morning, they were all gone—except one that we found days later living under the Oldsmobile. It stayed there for years until, eventually, something else got to it too.
My best friend during those years was Connie Egler. She was four years older and absolutely loved the Beatles. She owned every Beatles album released during those years, along with a bunch of singles by other popular musicians. We would pretend we were DJs and play records for hours.
In 1966, our world changed. My dad had a fall at work that crushed his pelvis. He was hospitalized for almost a year. My mom had to start working nights at a diner, flipping burgers, while I was in charge at home. She hated leaving us, but there was no choice. At the time, Ohio workers’ comp required an in-person hearing, and since Dad was in the hospital, he couldn’t attend—so we got nothing.
Mom tried to get temporary assistance from the welfare office, but they told her she was able-bodied and could work, so she did. Occasionally, Connie babysat us, but we couldn’t afford to pay her often.
Earlier that year, my brother Todd was born. By the time Dad was in the hospital, I could take care of him mostly on my own, and that helped my mom a lot. I loved caring for him.
My bike was a blue Schwinn that Uncle Bob had rescued from the trash during his garbage route. I’d ride it for hours in circles on the road in front of our house, daydreaming about how different my life would be when I grew up and moved away. That’s when the daydreaming started—some of it turned into stories, a few into plays or journal entries. That little road became the start of my writing journey.
Looking back, life in that farmhouse was hard in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. But it was also where I first found books, stories, and the stirrings of a voice that wanted to be heard. Even without running water or indoor plumbing, those years gave me something solid—resilience, imagination, and a deep appreciation for what stories can do. That place, for all its challenges, is where my writing life quietly began.
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