A House is Not a Home

During a recent visit to the small town in Ohio where I grew up, I decided to take a drive by our old house. I saw the For Sale sign in the front yard and remembered that my grandmother had mentioned the house was on the market. I just kept driving though, trying to recall some of the old times in the neighborhood; where my Uncle Joe used to live, the alley that seemed much longer when I was younger and all the homes of neighbors that were no longer standing.

A couple of days later, my brother, sister-in-law and I were heading up to Lake Erie for the day and I mentioned that the house was up for sale. My brother decided to do a drive-by as well. Only this time we all got out of the car. My brother and I immediately walked to the front porch, which the previous owners had covered with some sort of outdoor carpet. We both wondered about the three hand prints that my dad made us put in the cement when the porch was laid some 40 years ago. It was his way of creating a monument in the foundation with markings from my sister, brother and I.

It was a sentimental experience. The house that we were reminenscing about was built from the ground up by my father. I remember all the trips to the builder to pick out the floor plan. I couldn’t have been no more than 7 at the time. And certainly had no idea what Mom and Dad were talking about with the sales representative. I just remember that we all had to be on our best behavior while the conversation was taking place.

The next thing I remember was seeing ground being dug up for the basement. But even before that, I remember the house that used to sit on the property. We lived in a rented house that was across the street. I awoke in the middle of the night to see the old house fully engulfed in flames. I saw this image through the bathroom mirror from my bedroom. At first glance, I thought OUR house was on fire!

Once the basement was dug out, cement was poured, bricks were laid and to me it was still just a hole in the ground. Until I came home from school one afternoon and saw the frame of the house had been put up. That’s when I realized, “Wow, my daddy is building a house!”

It took months of ‘free’ labor for our house to be built. We didn’t have builders, electricians and all. It was mostly my dad, my grandfather, my Godfather, a close family friend, my dad’s first cousin and anyone in the town who could lend a hand. Heck, there were days when my mom, sister, brother and I were a the house putting in insulation, nailing up wallboard and the whole nine! I distinctly remember putting up an entire wall in my brother’s room. All along the way it seemed like a long process and it was hard work, but I can imagine my father was having a ball because he was a builder.

We finally got the house to the point of being livable, meaning we all had walls separating the bedrooms, the lights and plumbing worked and the appliances and windows had been installed. Not necessarily in that order. The only thing we were missing were door knobs and a few other minor things like face plates on the electrical outlets, etc. By the time the house was built, we were living in another rented home that was just around the block from the previous rental. I guess my dad had enough of renting and decided owning was a much better option. 

As my brother and I peaked through the windows of the house, we could remember the hardwood floors that had been covered with carpet; the first Thanksgiving dinner; the family gatherings and oh, the kitchen looked much smaller than we remembered. The previous owners had made some changes to the interior of the home, including closing off the entrance to the master bedroom from the kitchen. They had installed a fence in the backyard and put a deck on the back of the house. It was well kept.

Then my brother pulled out his cellphone and called the realtor. I overheard him talking about how much they wanted for the house. It was in foreclosure and the bank wanted almost $60,000. When the conversation ended, my brother thought he could offer $48,000 and the bank would take it. We’re talking about a really small town in Ohio with no real economic base and a declining population. Neither of us could imagine the bank would really get $60,000 for the house.

We both wished we were in a position to buy the house — but purely for sentimental reasons. We want the house that our late father built back in the family.

There’s still hope that our dream can become a reality. Who knows? Things may work out in our favor.