That Yellow House
I grew up in a small yellow house in a quiet city that you’ve probably never heard of. In fact, I’m very sure you’ve never heard of it. Decades before I was born, thousands of square miles of quiet central Ohio farmland developed into still-quiet streets of small homes in the 1950s to accommodate WWII veterans and their expecting spouses.
There wasn’t even a true shopping mall in our sleepy town until I was six. Rumored to be built on land originally owned by an elderly man named MacDonald (he did have a farm), old cornfields transformed into brick-and-mortar stores filled with the hottest 80’s fashions and Sears appliances.
My childhood home was a modest one. The 1,200-foot single-story house was situated on a coveted parcel of land, nearly an acre on a corner lot. My Oma chose the yellow siding of our 3-bedroom, 1-bath home because it reminded her of sunshine. My grandparents built that yellow house as part of their American dream — living through, no, surviving a war they didn’t want in Germany and disillusioned with the system. The walls of that American Dream home housed my mom and her siblings and, later, my siblings and me.
An old B&O Railroad line used then only as a passenger tourist train cut behind our home, dividing the property line between our property and the high school. The train would come three times on Saturdays and Sundays, crossing the trestle over the Licking River, blowing its familiar horn.
If we were lucky, passengers were towed behind a real locomotive, steam billowing from its stack and swirling around its chug-a-chug wheels. We’d leave pennies on the railroad tracks to be flattened, wondering if some government spook would arrest us for illegally destroying them. Today, it’s a bike path that riders, joggers, and walkers enjoy.
What I remember best about our small yellow home was the yard and its slight lilt. Not flat enough to play any true form of soccer but it worked for impromptu games of badminton, laser tag, or whatever games we could concoct. There was a tall Buckeye tree that would bloom at strange times and drop its namesake fruit. We’d love to peel open the soft outer shell and collect buckeyes by the dozens.
Our home’s tree-lined border made for fun hiding spots during games of hide-and-seek. Once, my brother, sister, and I set up camp under those same trees on a bed of soft pine needles, only to come inside at dusk because we were uneasy about sleeping out there alone. We were rewarded with a major breakout of poison ivy and head-to-toe doses of calamine lotion.
At our property border was a perfect sledding hill for snowy winters. As an adult, I can walk up the entire hill in six or seven paces but as a small child, the hill seemed a giant. My siblings and I would race down in plastic saucer-shaped sleds for hours and come tumbling into that yellow house with our snowsuits to be greeted by hot chocolate.
When I was old enough, I advanced from bus stops on the #8 school bus to a short commute by foot to the high school. Cutting across those railroad tracks, I entered a world of algebra and sports, of social hierarchies and band practice.
That yellow house was my home from childhood until my early teenage years, until we relocated to a different city in a different state, into a larger home with more bathrooms and more breathing room.
My Oma took over that yellow house and it still felt like home with every visit, even if a few things had changed. When Oma passed away, my cousin bought it and lovingly remodeled it. But I think we all knew that somehow, someday that yellow house wouldn’t be in our family anymore.
And then one day, it wasn’t. We celebrated well and said our final goodbye.
I don’t have the heart to drive by and see whether our L-shaped gravel driveway still has tread marks from cars backing up just a little too far. Or whether the people there enjoy picnics and birthday parties outside as we did. Or whether my favorite purple irises still grow on the side of the garage.
No, I don’t have the heart to go back.
But man, do I miss that yellow house.
