A few days ago I was near my old neighborhood and decided to drive by the house I grew up in to see if it had finally fallen down. My great grandfather built the house during the first years of the twentieth century so it was well over a hundred years old. All gone now. All I saw where the house used to be was the concrete slab it was built on and a lot, a whole lot, of weeds. Sad and inevitable.

I remember that house to always be full of family and friends and laughter and music. My maternal grandparents lived there when I was a small child and my mom, dad, brother and I lived there with them so that we could help with my grandmother who was ill. After both my grandparents died my family lived there until I graduated from high school. There were three of us children, myself, my brother and sister. But, there was always a cousin, sometimes two, staying with us. Then in middle school two boys were added to the family. The oldest of my foster brothers is six months older than me and the youngest a year behind me. It was common for all of us to have a friend staying over on the weekend so it was noisy and chaotic and fun.

Holidays were a big deal that we spent days, sometimes weeks, preparing for. My great aunt Louise, a widow, was always included in family events and entertained us playing the grand piano for sing-alongs and assisted mom with meals. Our house was after all where she grew up with my grandfather, her sister and brothers, so she was literally right at home. She was the organist at our church so usually began our song fests with hymns, but after my dad made her a couple gin and tonics she played boogie and even some rock and roll.

Christmas was the social event of the year at the old house. The boys and dad cut a tree and we always had a tree trimming party a week or so before the holiday. Cookies and punch and old and new jokes and stories were the order of the day and many of our school friends helped hang ornaments and lots, really a lot, of tinsel on the tree. Christmas day was a party all day long and into the night. There was a huge spread of ham, deviled eggs, several casseroles, cakes, pies and fruit salad, yeast rolls and the punch bowl full of eggnog. All day, as different groups of aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors and special friends came and went the food was moved from the fridge to the table and back again. The teens played ping pong in the shop; the adults visited in the living room or later in the day played cards at the dining room table. Penny poker mostly. The old house seemed to sigh with relief when the end of the day came and quiet settled over us all.

I parked on the street and walked around the neighborhood for a bit. All that I have in my memory is only that now. The house is gone as are others where I used to sit on front porches with neighbors. The little town where I learned all that was important for me to know is smaller now than ever. Since I left there sixty years ago there is hardly anyone I remember there. I walked past the Kalbacher building that housed a bar when I lived there and walked by what was Judge’s tavern when I was a child. Just a small, boarded up old brick building now. Same for what was the bank, post office and grocery across the street. All empty and dilapidated. The bar at the base of the bridge that crosses the Ohio river where my grandfather used to drink, a lot, is still there and functioning. I thought about stopping in for a drink, but I was driving, so no.