We celebrated birthdays during breakfast, complete with cake and opening of our presents before we got on the school bus.
The earliest birthdays I remember was my 5th birthday party with hats and friends, and marking off the days on the calendar to March 7 for my (matching number) 7th birthday.
The only birthday I remember not held in the kitchen was my 13th birthday— because my dad was hit in the head with a frozen clod of manure thrown from the manure spreader the day before, breaking a bone in his temple and he had to have surgery to correct it.
Memories of my childhood home are flooding back this week because after 142 years of existence, our childhood home was bulldozed on March 1, which by coincidence was the date my parents took position of it in 1946 as newlyweds. They built a new ranch-style house on the farm in 1974 and used the old house for storage.
But, without no one living in the house for over thirty years, it finally decayed to the point where the roof caved in, sealing itself off from entry. My parents moved into town this last fall, my brother took over the farm, and tore down the house this month.
The house has been in the background of many photos documenting our childhood, and was the inspiration for my writing career, starting with my first book Butter in the Well.
I’m afraid the house is now gone for people to see (I had put the township maps in the back of the book so people found the farm and mom and dad had many visitors because if that) but its story can still be enjoyed through my book series.
And I’ll always have my photos and memories of growing up in the Old House, especially of special days like birthdays…
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