I don’t remember much about the day we visited what would become our new home. It was a long drive from where we were living. The house was also a long way from any other houses. The people that lived there were old, and the house was old, and everything in the house was old. I was not old, I was eight.
My parents were touring the house which was for sale by the owners. We boys, five of us by now, were instructed to sit on the sofa and not to get off. Of course, Kevin was an infant, so he got to travel with Mom and Dad all through the house. Jerry would have been about five, but the most important person, the one to whom all this mattered, was me. I wanted to see what this house looked like. I didn’t want to stay on the sofa.
The house was much larger than the one we were living in. This house had a living room, a dining room, a kitchen big enough to eat in, and another room that someone called a den. It also had a second floor, something our house did not have. On the second floor were four bedrooms. Later I would discover the attic and the basement as well.
It seemed as though our parents were taking an awfully long time to look at this house. I had been sitting on the sofa for a long time and now I needed to use the bathroom. When I caught sight of Mom and Dad I made my need known and they asked the owners if it would be alright for me to use their bathroom. The nice old couple decided it would be permissible and I was led upstairs to the bathroom. I was happy that I got to see more of the house than my brothers did, even if it was only a little bit more.
At eight years of age you don’t understand the complexity of home buying and soon the trip to the house with the nice old people was forgotten. But the day came when my parents announced we would be moving and I didn’t like the idea. In fact, I was definitely against it. I had no idea what it would be like living out in the country, but I knew I would not see my neighbors Danny, and Ricky, and Tommy if we moved. I put up as much resistance as an eight year old can, but was unable to convince my parents to change their minds. I vowed to one day return, buy the house we were living in, and raise my family there. My parents pleaded with all of us not to buy that house on Post Avenue.
My father came home one day with a big truck that he had rented. It was the biggest truck I had ever seen. All our possessions were loaded into that truck, and all the memories of living on Post Avenue were tucked away into my eight year old mind. The memories of neighbor kids playing softball in the yard. Halloween, when it seemed all the kids were walking up and down the street in costumes, joking and having a good time. Parents stayed at home then, because it was safe for kids to travel alone in their own neighborhood. Memories of learning how to ride a bicycle, building caves into gigantic snow drifts, chasing trains, milkmen, and feeling secure and safe. Tomorrow would be different. I didn’t want to leave. I already didn’t like the place we were moving to. I wanted to stay here. This was my home. This is where I belonged.
