This year's tour has taken us through a few of our favorite states. In Missouri we looked forward to seeing friends and climbing all around everything in the City Museum. In Illinois, we landed in Casey where my aunt and uncle came to see us and we cruised the ultra cute downtown shops and bakery. In the Hoosier state we moved all around my mom's home town of Terre Haute and visited with more family. As we continued through the Midwest and neared my home state of Ohio, I was keeping a close eye on my calendar. Our days in Ohio were filled with visits I had planned with my sister, friends of my kids and friends who are like family.
Ohio's rolling green farm land was something out of a magazine. Classic red barns, pristine white two story farm houses and shiny tractors were all common sights on our morning drives. As our trips would fade from farmlands to more residential areas, Georgia and I marveled at the beauty and detail of the many Victorian homes that lined the tiny village streets. Fortunately, 25 is the maximum speed limit in those areas and they are dotted with stop signs and stop lights. This allowed us to admire the color schemes, some intricate landscaping and fresh green lawns of homes built so obviously around the turn of the last century and all those with a Brady Bunch feel and others with more contemporary designs. To me, it is a joy to peruse these village streets so we can take in the beauty and maybe find the history.
As we neared the Dayton area, I made plans to explore a few special places so I could share a little of my family's history with my kids. Since my grandfather worked in the maintenance department at Wright Patterson Air Force Base during WWII, I wanted to see first hand with my kids the WPAFB museum I heard so much about. My hope was to take in every history lesson the museum had to offer. I wanted, in some way to connect my kids with a part of my grandfather's life. His time at the air force base was something he spoke of with pride and honor.
Another stop I had hoped to make was at The Siebenthaler Company. The giant nursery has been in business for several decades and employed my grandmother from the mid 1960's till about 1974. I can practically still hear the fondness in her voice when she spoke of her job and coworkers. Although I have no memory of what the inside of Siebenthaler's looked like, I'm certain I have at least sat in the parking lot because I can still recall the logo on the building with the big curvy "S." To my dismay, the nursery and museum are still on my list of places to see with my girls someday.
North Hampton is a little less than an hour from our old house on Far Hills Avenue in Dayton. My grandmother had one sister with whom she was very close and it was her house on that hill by the creek in North Hampton that served as a mini getaway more times than I can count.
My great-aunt Eileen looked almost nothing like my grandmother. My grandmother was the mirror image of their tough, Irish, tool & dye maker father, Mike Quigley...right down to her steely blue eyes, large curved nose and slight overbite. She was your classic feisty Irish red head...all 5'1'' of her. Eileen was light, like Jean Harlow. Her delicate features matched great-grandmother Louella's, and so did her quiet strong spirit. To look at them, you probably wouldn't know they were related. But, they were alike in so many other ways and were so close, they practically completed each other's sentences.
That house in that tiny town. A town with one church, one light, a tiny post office and a little ice cream place. My grandparents could never understand why Eileen and Joe, my 110% pure Hungarian great-uncle who bore a striking resemblance to Floyd the barber, would want to live in a smaller-than-Mayberry village. But, even as a kid, I could see the appeal. Even though I didn't get much passed the tall white woven fence surrounding that house, I somehow knew those neighbors were close, like family. Everything about that town felt easy and comfortable.
The house was red. That kind of deep, almost maroon, but not quite, kind of red. Long before my family moved in, the red house had been one of ill repute. That is the only history of the house I know. I wish I knew more.
There was a pond in the front yard to the left of the walk way leading to the front door. A bell to the left of the door that Uncle Rock (Joe) would let us ring. The front porch was glassed in and there was a full kitchen with a white stove, that I guessed was from the 1960's. The shelves along those windows were filled with Snoopy memorabilia and a variety of knick knacks, funny signs and trinkets. Passing through the first kitchen, into the main house was the second, more modern kitchen. Fridge to the left, sink and stove to the right, early American round dining room table just beyond the stove nestled near the bay window overlooking the creek. There was a small tv on the counter which usually aired the Bob Braun Show or the local news. Old fashioned rugs dotted the floors that creaked and I can still recall the smell of that place. I could go into more detail about the claw & ball tub, the giant jars filled with bars of soap, the grandfather clock, the living room no one sat in and was a little dark & scary, the tall bed that required a stool to climb into and the narrow iron stairs leading down the hill...but I would surely wear the keyboard out.
My sister Lauren, is closest to me in age. It was with her that I explored the creek that ran through North Hampton down at the bottom of the hill the house sat on. In 1970-whatever, the creek was clear. There were large slippery rocks that allowed us to walk from one side to the other. A few fallen trees with scary exposed roots and a couple of rusted out ancient cars had been partially immersed in those waters for what I had guessed, had been a million years. Those cars were creepy and rusty and probably haunted and although I never dared go near them, I secretly wanted to climb inside and see first hand just how old and spooky there really were. What did the interior look like, and whose were they and how did they get shoved down that hill into the water??? The creek was lined with pebbles and small smooth rocks, some good for practicing skipping. Trailing along the creek, we would come to Uncle Joe's duck house. He actually had a gaggle of geese. They seemed giant to me and I had heard at least one had a penchant for nipping. They were named after Peanuts characters and Uncle herded them along like a pro with a long staff. We didn't venture too far past the duck house without Uncle Rock, but we did dare climb on parts of the fallen trees, and probably took a few too many chances on those slippery rocks in bare feet. But it was all special. And even at that age, I could appreciate how mind-clearing it was. Not just for us, but for my grandmother. When we were there, with as enjoyable as it was for Lauren and me, I could sense a seriousness to my grandmother's visit with her sister. I never asked, and they never said, but there always seemed to be a little more to their visits than trips down memory lane.
Just a few weeks back, my plans to revisit the "wilds" and waters of North Hampton came through with the help of dear folks who grew up near to my aunt and uncle, and not just in proximity. Annie and Julie were the grandkids Eileen and Joe never had. Their parents were long time close friends of my family's. It is in keeping in contact with these thoughtful folks, that I have come to know more about my aunt and uncle and have been able to recall old moments in time I had long forgotten.
Annie recently took my girls and me on a tour of North Hampton. For some, there may not be much to see. The church looks the same and the post office is still tiny. The population is still less than 1,000. The country houses are sweet and some have the quintessential garden. But, for me, it was a tour of a lifetime. Seeing my kids enjoy the creek I once spent hours in was a kind of special for which I can't find words. Although the creek isn't quite as clear as it once was, the whole place was greener than I ever remembered. The duck house is in good shape and so is Joe's storage shed. The rusted out cars were hauled off years ago. But, if they had still been in that old creek, Georgia would have committed to memory every detail of the interior of those old jalopies. Of that I am sure. I was not surprised to see her test her footing on the slippery rocks. The iron stairs that Lauren and I raced down a hundred times are still there. The bell isn't hanging up anymore and pond is long gone. Joe and Eileen carved their initials and the year they bought the place at the top of a cement stair case leading down the hill to the creek. The carving is still there, but very faded.
The house isn't red anymore, but it sure is prettier than it ever was what with all the painstaking remodeling and expanding it has gone through. Joe and Eileen have been gone for many years, but I have no doubt they would take great pleasure in the way the current owners have not only improved the place, but so obviously reverence the place, its history and former owners. It is comforting for me, to know that there are others who, like myself, appreciate the history, the memories and meaning of a place that's not simply a dwelling or a house, but a home.
