Two blocks west of the city limits,
we joined the ranks of home ownership,
adults at last in the eyes of the world,
settling into a Chicago shotgun bungalow,
a 1903 classic clad in white stucco,
its lot 125 feet from stem to stern,
one tenth of an acre of shady paradise.
Thirty houses crowded the block,
two tight rows marching down the street,
almost touching eave to eave,
separated by runways leading to the rear,
each yard a tiny box defined by cyclone fencing
where flowers struggled to find the sun,
and ancient garages faced the alley.
We learned how to paint and plant,
shoveled snow and mowed the grass,
hung wallpaper and cut mitered corners.
I mastered cast iron sash weights
and the other mysteries of ancient windows,
managed a few electrical tricks,
but plumbing remained a realm beyond.
Room by room, plans were laid
and set into motion if we had money,
which was always scarcer than energy,
but after nine years of unending projects
we moved to a new town and a new house,
each leaving behind a favorite corner,
a window from which to watch the world,
a place that was forever home.
Note: A picture of my son Jon back at the old home in January, 2015
