Home Sweet Home

For our family, a new baby meant a new home. When my twin and I were three, our house went up for sale. The doctor had advised a move because we were so close to the river. He thought the dampness was bad for my Dad’s asthma. So once again we moved. It was there that we waited for the birth of Marie, number five.

The move I most remember was from North Boulevard to Sherwood Street. Steve, second youngest, was a baby. The decision to move was sudden. A man in my dad’s office was moving to another town, and his house was up for sale. It was modest and in a nice neighborhood. The yard was already landscaped and full of pine trees, a large oak tree and a magnolia tree. The fragrance of the gardenia bush in bloom competed with the smell of the paper mill. Unlike the others, this one did not need painting. With only a month to pack, Mom was on a mission to discard the junk collected over time. Some things were hard to let go: the kitchen table, with the bench Dad had made, which was worn out and broke, the old braided rug from the den, and curtains that wouldn’t fit in the new house.

Moving day was getting closer and Mom was hoping to make it as easy as possible. Little by little, things were stored in the new house. The curtains were hung. The cabinets were ready, lined with paper. The linens and clothes were arranged neatly, and the lamps placed where Mom had envisioned. Dad was planning on renting a U-Haul to move the remaining things. He was sure he could handle everything but the refrigerator, stove, and washer.

A friend of the family, Donald, promised to come the night before the move. As I recall, he was a short, wiry man who was always ready to lend a hand. Being an electrician, he was going to hook up the appliances. He arrived as planned. Each appliance left on separate loads because his trailer was small.

With this accomplished, Donald suggested a few more heavy pieces be transported so Dad would not have to wrestle with them alone in the morning. After each load he decided we should take another. He gave the older children a ride on the trailer with the furniture and Dad. I remember Donald giving orders. "We’ll have room for that chair on this load; grab it, Bill." Finally, the only thing left in the house was Steve sleeping in the crib. The crib was taken down, and the door was shut.

By late evening, we were in our new home and the washer was already in operation. Donald was smiling and pleased with himself. Mom and Dad sat paralyzed and bewildered. Their goal was to move in a slow and easy manner. When he was ready to leave, he said, "Now if you need me for anything-just holler." A weak response, "Yep," was heard.

Through the years remodeling was as natural to Mom and Dad as moving. Each room in the house was like a canvas in which Mom could express her creative ideas. The sudden urge to change the dining room became overwhelming. It was set for a make over. A trip was made to Sears and the paint was selected. As the paint went on, Mom became more excited over the thought of redecorating. Meanwhile, Steve and Chris were quickly painting murals on the wall, delighting in their handiwork. Mom and Dad viewed their works of art with "We should have known." What really threw Dad into a state of shock was when he climbed down from the ladder to remove the spilled paint from the base board. Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to climb. The screams brought Mom running. On the top of the ladder, was a freckled face Steve saying; "I’m sorry Daddy." Steve had knocked the paint bucket right on top of Dad.

Dad sat beneath the ladder, staring into space, dripping with paint. Mom waved her hand back and forth in front of his face but no contact. He had flipped this time for sure. Mom kept saying, "Bill . . . Bill . . . Bill . . . , are you all right?" Gathering around Dad, Larry suggested washing his face so he could breathe better. With a towel in hand, Dad wiped his face and left the room.

As the day continued to unfold, it was life as usual. In the living room, the portable record player was playing the new rock and roll hit tune of the week. The little ones danced the shag. Mom, within earshot of the music, was writing a letter to her family and recapturing the event of the day. She didn’t share our love for this type of music but was immune to it. Dad sat in his armchair reading the newspaper. He never complained. With seven children, he had learned to cope.

During the school year, morning rush presented a problem in this house. The school bus stopped directly in front of our house around 7: 30 A.M. Dad also left for work at that hour. That meant five had to be ready by 7: 30 and we had one bathroom. The sink was beside the in-swing door and it was an easy way to be knocked down. Tempers would fly. Mom came up with a solution by attaching to the door a card on a string. Using a crayon, one side was colored green and the other side red. We would flip the card red when going in and green when coming out. Mom’s originality solved a lot of bathroom accidents.

As clever as Mom was, she was unable to find a solution for getting rid of the popsicle man. He made his round once a day. We could hear his bell ring from blocks away. As fast as we could, we would run home to ask permission to buy a popsicle. Then down to the corner we would run, sit, and wait, contemplating what special popsicle flavor we would choose that day. This daily occurrence was a source of irritation to Mom--frantic scrabbling for frozen treat money, but it remains a joyful memory to us.

At the end of each day amidst the confusion and busyness that regularly happened, there was still a sense of peace. It was home.