How many times I have uttered, "There's no place like home"
when returning to my beloved home. There is something very
special about having your own place which contains your
possessions, memories and just about everything that is
important to you.

I was born in 1933; not a good time for Mom and Dad to have
another mouth to feed. The depression was hard and Mom
and Dad had to make some sacrifices to keep their home. It
was a big, beautiful, brick home Dad had built in the late '20's.
It boasted a 6-room first-floor apartment with two 3-room
rental apartments on the second floor. The basement was
spacious and a beautiful carpeted, oak staircase wound its way
from the first floor all the way up to the huge attic. I loved that
attic. It was long and had windows at each end. It was one of
the nicest homes on that quiet street.

Tough times made it necessary for Dad to divide his 6-room
apartment so that he could collect an additional rent to meet
his mortgage. He partitioned off the kitchen, bath and two
bedrooms to create a 3-room apartment for additional income.
He then converted an area in the basement where we could
spend our days. The kitchen was complete with stove, sink, and
laundry tubs. On the other side of this space were the chairs
and table, china closet, fridge, wicker furniture and our radio.
Mom cooked and we ate and basically lived in that basement
kitchen and dining area. He also built a shower room behind the
furnace, wood-walled closet rooms and bathroom down there.
Mom bathed me in one soap stone laundry tub while laundry
soaked in the other.

More often than not, I would fall asleep on two chairs pushed
together to sleep on. When the family was ready to retire, Dad
would proclaim, "10 o'clock; go to bed". He would then carry
me upstairs to our bedroom which had been our former dining
room. Drapes provided privacy from the formal parlor and
sunroom. My bed was a metal crib and I'll bet I slept in it until
I was ready for school.

It was not an easy time for Mom and Dad but they did manage
to keep their home while many others in our neighborhood lost
theirs. It was not until Dad found work at the shipyards at the
time of WWII that they were able to return the first floor back
to the original 6-room apartment.

I really missed the old basement apartment where we were
always together. Now Dad was in the basement working on
his workbench or caring for his many canaries, Mom was in
her first floor kitchen, my sister was at the living room desk
doing her homework, and my brother off to war.

It was a happy time for Mom to have her big tiled kitchen and
formal dining room in place again, to say nothing of their
beautiful bedroom which was always off limits to us children.
At last I was in a real bedroom which I shared with my sister.
My brother returned safely from the Air Force and all was
well again.

I have fond memories of that house and still have pangs of
sadness when revisiting the old neighborhood. It looks
almost the same though the stone flower box that had hung
under the front windows is gone and the green tile roof has
been replaced with shingles. When Mom and Dad sold it
years ago and moved to a retirement village, it was quite an
adjustment for them and us children. But memories of that
place will remain with all of us forever.

My husband and I have owned and loved each of our homes
over the years and I can't imagine not having a home to go to.

Today though, many are without a home to go to. What is
especially frightening to me is the fact that many of those
homeless people had homes just a short time ago. Worse
yet is the fact that many of the homeless are little children.
Little children without a home--in the United States of
America! How can that be? Why should that be? What
memories will they have?