Where is your childhood home?

Where is your childhood home? If you moved, do you miss it?

I was born in a small Massachusetts town. It was 80% French-Canadian Catholic. I haven't been back in 20 years. I really can't travel far. When I feel nostalgic, I use google maps to revisit it.
We lived in several places in the same basic area. One of those has been eliminated and gentrified over, including the large peach orchard across the street from it.

But I have "visited" the other two though Google maps.
 
Also live in coastal Massachusetts, fuzzy. Not only still live here but live in the home (built in 1921) for my grandfather. He lived here as did my folks. I inherited it, eventually gave it to our youngest daughter while retaining a life lease for my wife and I. Our 2 families have shared the home now for about 30 years. As we gave them the property, they took over the utilities, taxes, property upkeep, etc

They've got 2 kids, now in their 20's. We helped tend to the kids as they grew and now they help gram and gramps when we need it.

As I'm 90 and my wife's close behind, I'm hoping that we'll finish out our days here. My grandfather, mother and dad, all passed away right here at the house. Hope we can manage to do the same.
 

From 5 until I was 15 years old, we lived in a small Colorado mountain town with an altitude around 7,000 ft. It was a 'wonderland' place for a kid to grow up in. My summers were filled with hiking, camping, and fishing. The winters were filled with skiing, ice skating, sledding and building snowmen, snow forts, including throwing snowballs...of course. We also had a college in town that offered a lot of things for kids to do. They had a indoor Olympic size pool we could use, a student union we could use, and they had a large band that provided lots of entertainment to the towns people.

The college was a college for teachers; accordingly, we had lots of coaches for sports and many of our classrooms had an extra 'teacher in training' to help. Overall, it was just a great experience for all the kids in town....
 
Born in England but grew up just outside of the GTA area. From 5 to 16. There are fields full of cows and a few horses. It was a great place to grow up.
It was a real mixed culture predominantly white. Now it’s 95% East Indian. It’s not a criticism, it’s an observation.
 
Born in Manila, Philippine Islands and grew up in the British colony of Hong Kong......the only place I think of as my home town. My parents were American ex-pats......overseas postings accelerated Dad's climb up the corporate step ladder.
Hong Kong has changed almost beyond recognition now, so I'm told by my friends who have returned to visit. Our house is still there and occupied by another family......we've exchanged pics via FaceBook messenger.....my old photos from more than 50 years ago and their photos of the place as it is now. They must be ultra wealthy to own the property these days......it looks much more posh than the rental property we lived in. And King George V School is still there, but the older buildings are crowded by new modern structures that seem to cover all the open grass covered areas I used to know......except for the sports field.
 
Scotland is where I was born and raised. I lived in several places growing up.. and aside from what was a brand new apartment when I was very tiny which has now gone... and looking on google street views, all the places where I lived for several years at a time are all still there and still looking very nice. .. and our old house where my mother died, is still there being very well looked after by the current owners

I do miss it... and I often consider moving back.. but I've been away almost 50 years.. and they do say ''never go back''...

The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there..
 
I grew up in a small town in North Idaho, Sandpoint, which was on the banks of the Pend Oreille Lake and River. At one time, the old Wagon Bridge over the river was the longest wooden bridge in the world; but it was eventually replaced with newer bridges, and even a shorter distance across the river.
The city beach was a beautiful place, and where I learned to swim, and there were a lot of different species of fish in the lake. Some places they have not found the bottom because it is so deep, and the Farragut Naval Base was where they had submarines during WW2, because no one would ever suspect that kind of thing in an Idaho lake.
We would sometimes see the submarines in the river as we drove across the long bridge. It looked like a log floating down the river, and then the ā€œlogā€ would suddenly disappear underwater and never reappear.

I have been back many times since, and still have good friends in the area; but it has gotten a lot larger and more developed since I grew up there. My old house is still standing, but has been remodeled and no longer has the big front porch that I loved so much.

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I grew up on the south shore of Long Island about 50 miles from NYC. The dairy farm across the street is now a beautiful park. My sister arranged a tour of the old house about a dozen years ago. The new owners kept some of the old features that my builder family had put in like inlaid borders in the wood floors and the original farm sink. They had removed all the radiators and installed in-floor heating. The grounds had been manicured and a terrace added.

It was a little sad to see how upscale the area had become but better than having it fall into disrepair.
 
born& raised here in Buffalo, NY,my childhood home is in same neighborhood where I've lived for the past 35 yrs,its 2 blocks from my apt building
The house was for sale 3 yrs ago, the woman who bought it from my parents in 1977 had died. There was an open house so I went to look. It basically looked the same,the only difference new hardwood floors in living room, built in dishwasher in the kitchen.,many childhood memories went flashing by I met the new owners,a couple with 2 kids ,they were interested in what I had to say.They are the 4th owners,outside the house looks the same
 
I was born in downtown Los Angeles. Throughout his life, my father moved our increasingly large family often. Almost always purchased homes with a mortgage. During my 13 K12 years I went to 11 different schools, something I greatly disliked. So never had a home in that sense. As an adult after living at several residences my first 6 years here in Silicon Valley, I've needed to remain in this region for employment reasons.

I've now lived in the same residence for decades only because moving was increasingly a tedious effort. My current residence is more a Hideout than a home and would move in a heartbeat were it not for the fact moving material items requires so much time and effort plus ridiculously expensive given market rates.
 
I was born and raised in north central Texas. My old house is still there but my grandparent's house is gone. They even moved the street. The only way to identify where it used to be is by an old cedar tree that is still standing.
 

Where is your childhood home?​

Up in the Chapman hills, tween Vernonia and Scapoose Oregon

I've posted this lengthy storie waaaay too many times

But

The subject keeps coming up

Maybe newer geezers will enjoy....

Recollections

this became rather lengthy....

Ever so often, I'd drive up to the ol' place for, well, old time's sake.
I always enjoyed the rush of memories, driving the old lane, and around the corner, up the hill onto the flat where most the kid population was, and where gramma's house, my 2nd home, crowned the hill.
Our place and gramma's place was one property, adjoined by five or so acres of strawberry patch, making the patch a short cut between houses.

Not long ago I hired a new engineer, he was a whip.
Ate up everything I could hand him.
Became our I.T.
Made tedious, complex projects his fun little game.
Interfaced quite well with our clients.
We became friends, even though he was in his late 20's, and I in my mid 50's.
Come to find out, his dad lived at and owned the property out there in the hills of Scappoose.
I had to make the trip one more time.

Our little converted broom factory house was ready for razing. The doors were off, the garage my dad and grandpa built (with a hand saw and hammer) were gone.
We stopped. I boosted myself thru the doorless, and stepless porch entry, the closed in porch was our laundry room.
Wringer washer, clothes line, wicker baskets, sweet smells of Fels-Naptha, my place to take off my day's clothes and grab the tub off the wall.
Rooms, once huge, were now so tiny.

The kitchen, remodeled with the rest of the house, still had the red fire alarm above the sink.
Dad would proudly demonstrate to friends how loud it was, putting a glass of hot water up near it.
The wood cook stove was gone, but the pipe coming outta the ceiling, with the ornate metal ring, bore testament of many a meal.
Meals I learned to prepare, taking a few times to learn how to not break an egg yolk, how to get pancakes to turn out like mom's and gramma's, snacks dad showed how he ate when young, tater slices scorched on the cook top, then lightly salted. Tasted horrible, but really good, cookin' with Dad, good.
The table was gone of course. The curvy steel legged one that replaced the solid wood one, well not so solid, as we lost a meal or two due to the one wobbly leg. But that steel one with the gray Formica (?) top was up town.
There I'd sit, waiting out the meal, spreadin' my peas around to make it look like I ate some.
'If you don't at least take a bite of your peas you won't get any cake!'
Eventually, I'd be sittin' at the table alone, studying the gray swirly pattern of the table top, malnourished head propped up on my arm.
Dad, Mom, and sis would be in the living room watchin' Howdy Doody on the Hoffman, or something just as wonderful.
Eventually, I ate cake...then did the dishes.

One Sunday morning I sat at an empty table, but for a glass of milk and the One-a-Day pill bottle. Dad and Mom were exasperated... 'Your throat is this big, the pill is this big'..minutes-hours passed, shadows on the table shortened...'OK, just drink your milk'
I drained the glass between pursed lips.
The little brown pill remained at the bottom.
Nice try, parents from satan.

We had a lot of beans, navy, pinto, brown.
Beans on bread was quite regular. Got to like'n it..not much choice really.
Had chocolate cake with white icing for dessert. No dessert plates. Cake just plopped on the bean juice.
To this day, I still have a craving for cake soaked in bean juice.

The house was designed so's I could ride my trike around and around, kitchen, living, bed, bath, bed rooms.
They were my Daytona, straight away was the bed, bath and bed rooms.
We had large windows in the front corners of the house from the remodel, 'so we can look out, for godsake'.
Now we could watch log trucks barrelin' down Pisgah Home Rd, and my sis and I could have a bird's eye vantage from the kitchen when Dad backed the Bel Air outta the garage over three of the four kittens puss had had weeks earlier under the porch.
Took my sis quite awhile to get over that, as she'd just named 'em a few hours earlier. I was just enamored with the scene; romp-play-mew-look up-smat.
Dad didn't know until he got home.
Actually, it saved him an' I a trip, as when he thought we had too many cats around, we'd toss a bunch into a gunny sack and once down the road, hurl 'em out the window of our speeding chevy.
I haven't maintained the sack-o-cats legacy, but there have been times....

The living room still had the oil stove that warmed us...in the living room.
A flash of memory recalled the two end tables and lamps, aerodynamic, tables sharp, cutcha, lamps with flying saucer shapes, one had butterfly like images formed into its material, and when lit, enhanced their appearance.
A sectional couch, we were up town.
Before the sectional, we had one that kinda placed you in the middle, no matter where you started. It was my favorite, as sis and I spent many a day on it when sick.
Mom would lay out the sheets and blankets, administering doses of tea, crackers, and toast, peaches if we felt up to it.
Waste basket stationed at the tail end of that couch, since we were in such a weakened state we could never make it to the bathroom.
Mom loved it, our own personal Mother Teresa.
Yeah, we milked it for days...school work piling up.
Recovery would finally occur once bed sores emerged.
When we were actually sick, Doctor Day would visit. Fascinating, black bag, weird tools, gauzes, pill bottles, the smell of disinfectant and tobacco. Then the shot.
It was all almost worth it.

Asian flu was a bit serious, but chicken pox was horrific for me.
It was Christmas, fever, pox forming.
Presents! Guns! Six shooters!...only there was this pock right on my trigger finger. It was like free ham for a practicing orthodox Jew.


Dad, always the entrepreneur, would use the living room as the media center, inviting salesmen with projectors and actual reel to reel set ups, showing us how to become a thousandaire overnight.
Nutri-bio was one, to take the place of one-a-days I guess.
The Chinchilla movie was fascinating, and we even took a trip to a guy's garage to see how they were raised. Turns out they need an even controlled temp to get a good coat, and actually keep 'em alive.
The Geiger counter became something to show company, and become an antique.
Dad and Mom's bedroom held few memories for me except for the time Mom found a nest of baby mice in the bottom dresser drawer...and a hammer.
There was that other brief time, but seems we were all pretty shocked.
My bedroom was actually our bedroom, sis and me.
After the remodel, we got twin beds, new ones.
Recall my first migraine in my new bed, pressing my head into the pillow. Teddy no consolation, but then I didn't really give it an honest try to fix his dented plastic nose either.
Dad was the bedtime story teller, Goldie/bears, red/the wolf, pigs/wolf..pretty standard stuff....but did the job.
Had a framed picture of a collie baying over a lamb in a snow storm hanging over my bed. It hangs over my light stand table today, found in some of my mother's stuff.

The yard was not spectacular, but when sequestered from the woods, was plenty for me. I'd play in the dirt. Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll-ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, would be cleaning the house, wiping something on the windows that would become a swirly fog, then wiping that off. Cleaning the floor was sweep, mop, wax. Linoleum was the rage.
Lunch would be a great, but simple sandwich, with lettuce, and soup.

The icebox held short stemmed dessert glasses of homemade chocolate pudding, each centered with a half maraschino cherry. For the longest time I thought cherries came that way straight from the tree.
Cross over the Bridge, or Sunny Side of the Street played on the radio. Then it was a Paul Harvey segment.



Nobody close died, there were no wars I was aware of, and folks were generally at ease during that eight year era of fond memories, just fragrant recollections.


This aging cynic, years of crust giving way to a soft spot, down deep, had a hard moment of holding back visual emotion, as we drove away from the last tangible vision ever to be seen of the house of a sweet early life.

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