Home is where you grew up

Alright, I know, it has been over the top as to how many pictures I am posting lately! My apologies but that is the beauty of blogging. You don’t have to look and I won’t even know. I took too many photos and I have much less ability to discard than I like to believe. I am sure to recover from this sentimental journey soon—I hope.

My two sisters and I and cousin, Pat, toured the farm house again when we went to watch the Barn Downing. (Is that the opposite of Barn Raising?)

The kitchen reminds me of Mother.

The family room where I watched American Bandstand on our black and white TV before Mom got home.

This house had so many neat cubbies and attics.

The view from my bedroom window of the lane and the bridge but across the road, I saw the reservoir, not that large Sauder’s building.

The walls were pretty thin so
I could sit here in the stairway . . .

And listen to these two sitting on a couch backing up to it. I learned I could hear just as clearly with my ear—I did not need a glass to magnify the sound. (That is my sister, Lou—6 ½ years my senior with her newly engaged fiancé, Roger.)

The pump from the well that used to be in the front yard before we got town water.

The apple tree that I used to climb.

The pussy willow planted from a few stems given to me during my first year of teaching 2nd grade at Wauseon Elm Street. Dad tried so many times to cut this down but it just kept coming back. Even a few years ago, I brought some back with me to decorate our entryway.

Dad got up on a ladder and cut these pussy willows down with a chain saw. He was 85 years old. I told him that I probably should not keep them because when David’s friends did something very dangerous just to bring him a cup of water, he poured it out. ( 2 Samuel 23: 15-17, also in 1 Chronicles 11:17-19) Dad chuckled and I brought them home.

Enough! Enough!