My brother Kenny practically lived on the basketball court there. He spent so many hours practicing that by the time he reached junior high and high school, he was better than most kids his age. He even made the varsity team as a freshman—something no one else had done at the time.
I spent a lot of time at the park too. The swings were my escape. I can still hear the squeaky chains that must have driven the neighbors crazy. I’d swing for hours when I wasn’t in school or doing chores—replacing my daydreamy bike rides with the rhythm of back-and-forth motion.
In the beginning, we rented our house with the option to buy, and eventually, my parents did. That house had its quirks—and its secrets. It was haunted, but not in a frightening way. I never told anyone except my sister Jeni. We believed the spirit was a woman, though we could never quite picture her face.
For the first few years, I slept in the room with the multiple paned windows, and Jeni had the front bedroom that looked out onto the street. Later, we switched. Some nights, Jeni would come into my room and whisper, “The lady is back—I can’t sleep.” I knew exactly what she meant.
One night, after she crawled into bed next to me, I felt someone gently pull the covers up over my shoulders, kiss my forehead, and whisper “Good night.” The next morning, I thanked Jeni—only to have her look at me wide-eyed and say, “That wasn’t me. It was the lady.”
Just to be sure, I asked my mom. She had never come upstairs to tuck us in and told me it was probably Jeni. But I knew better. To this day, the mystery remains unsolved. I never did think to ask my brothers if they had any encounters with her.
With seven of us living under one roof, you’d think the house would feel crowded—but we always had room for more. Friends, cousins, aunts, and uncles—our door was always open. It was a lively, chaotic, love-filled home.
When things got a bit overwhelming, I’d escape with a book or retreat to the park and swing until the world felt calm again.
That house was the backdrop for slumber parties, birthdays, family gatherings, and plenty of sibling squabbles. The doors and light switches got more than their fair share of use. My dad had a special method for teaching us responsibility: if we left a light on or forgot to shut a door, he’d make us do it 100 times—on, off, open, close. He swore it would build muscle memory. Turns out, he was right.
If I had stayed in Ohio after getting married in 1974, I would have bought that house when my mom was ready to sell. For two decades, I dreamed about fixing it up and living there again.
But now the house is gone. This past spring, the town tore it down. Rumor has it they’ll turn the lot into parking for Ney Community Park.
The house may be gone, but the memories are alive and well. They live in the stories we tell, the laughter we shared, and the spirit—maybe literal—that made that house our home.
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