Today I found myself thinking about how much I love our home. That thought led me to realize—I’ve loved every home I can remember. From the old farmhouse in Oakwood, Ohio, when I was three years old, to the place Joe and I live in now.
That’s sixty-six years of memories! And remarkably, each house stands out in my mind with distinct images, feelings, and stories. I thought I’d spend the next week or two writing about those homes—one at a time—capturing the memories that have stayed with me through the years.
Let’s start with the beginning.
The Farmhouse in Oakwood, Ohio
We lived in that farmhouse until I was about five. It was home to Mom, Dad, my brother Kenny (called Buddy back then), and me—until Jeni arrived when I was four and Buddy was three. The house sat on the corner of a large country lot, two stories tall, though we only lived on the bottom floor. I can still see the floor plan in my mind—although, admittedly, memory is a tricky thing. To a three- to five-year-old, the rooms seemed enormous.
This was supposedly the house where I gave Buddy some "candy" that resulted in a trip to the hospital and a stomach pump. My parents had stored medication on the top shelf of a kitchen cupboard. At just three years old, I apparently climbed up on the counter, then up the shelves. Mind you—I didn’t eat the candy myself.
This is also the house where I remember tossing bread from my bologna sandwiches into a closet. That closet wasn’t used much—except by a sneaky four-year-old Beth Ann. My poor mother was less than pleased when she discovered a stash of moldy bread.
Snippets and Snapshots from Oakwood:
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My dad once shot a possum out of a tree on the property.
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I tasted squirrel for the first time—at least, the first time I remember.
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I had my first crush: a twelve-year-old boy named Kenny Bowman. His mom would pick me up for church. I was four. I thought he was dreamy.
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I remember my mom braiding my hair with rags at night, and waking up to long, bouncy curls.
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My brother would often get up in the middle of the night to crawl into our parents’ bed. One night, he tripped and hit the metal bed frame, splitting the bridge of his nose. Off to the ER he went, while I was dropped off at my dad’s parents’ house.
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When Buddy came home, he had stitches. I came home with a haircut. My grandmother, without permission, had placed a bowl on my head and chopped off all my hair. I don’t recall ever being left alone with my dad’s parents again.
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My mother’s precious photo collection was ruined when someone cut Buddy out of all the pictures with scissors. According to her, that “someone” was me. I still find that hard to believe—especially since I’ve never been able to cut in a straight line. Clearly, my scissor skills peaked at age three.
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One snowy night, coming home from a visit to those same grandparents in Defiance, a drunk driver hit our car. After the impact, we slid into a field. I remember Mom holding Jeni in her arms (this was before car seats), and my dad turning to the backseat to ask Buddy and me if we were okay. We were. My dad, however, ended up in the hospital for a few days. Turns out the crash caused internal injuries from the steering wheel.
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Buddy did his first “driving” at that age, too. We were at a small market on a hill when Mom ran inside. Buddy climbed into the front seat and shifted the car into neutral. It started rolling down the hill. A man saw it happening and ran to stop it. Crisis averted—but only barely.
That old farmhouse may have only been our home for a short while, but the memories from those early years are vivid. Some are sweet, some dramatic, some still make me laugh. It was the beginning of a long love affair with the homes that would come next—and with the stories they still hold.
More tomorrow.
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