For most of my life, I grew up in a ranch style home in Yellow Springs, Ohio. It was one mile from my first job at the Young’s Dairy ice cream shop, and I often get a hankerin’ for their sweet scoops served up in a crunchy waffle cone. Problem is, my family moved to the hills of Pennsylvania after I graduated high school, so the closest we get to that ice cold treat is when we’re visiting Scott’s mom and pop in Cincinnati – one hour south of Yellow Springs. It’s a bit of a detour to hit up my old hometown on the drive back to Chicago, but one day in June our cravings got the best of us, and we made it happen. Once we were good and full of a Young’s lunch followed by the sinful dessert, we made a pit stop to my ol’ stomping grounds. And there she was, the one story brick-box in all her glory.
We sat there on their curb, still in the car, while I pointed out to Scott which window was my bedroom (second from the left). I also detailed the story of planting that tree in the backyard, which is now peeking it’s way over the roof and seen from the street, there on the right. The basketball hoop is still in place, just barely visible off the driveway, and I recalled countless hours of trying to make a basket while standing backwards (my record was five times in a row; sadly, no one was there to witness it). And even though those cars parked on the pavement aren’t ours, the minivan conjured up the memories of toting my siblings around to soccer and hockey practices. With a quick click of the camera, the sly stalker in me captured those nostalgic thoughts, and we headed home to Chicago.
Has anyone else tracked down their childhood home? If so, have you had the guts to knock on the door, or is that a step too far? I wonder if my room is still blue or if the tile my mom and dad laid in the kitchen is still in place. I may never know, but it’s comforting to see the exterior almost exactly as we left it almost ten years ago – just a little more mature, with new memories being created inside.