There were four of us in our family. My dad, a Korean War Veteran from Illinois. My mom, a farm girl from Wisconsin. Then there is my brother and me. My dad wanted to live in Wisconsin and have a farm or at least a rural property, but that didn’t work out so he wound up living in the suburbs. He did not want to live in a city, and it made him very unhappy. We lived in a two story house that he and grandpa had built together, a fact that was unknown to me until just months before he passed. We lived on the second floor of the house; my dad’s sister and her husband occupied the first floor. During the years in this house, there were many things I remember that remain vivid and/or bittersweet. I remember that the living room carpet was a brown and white berber style. There was a small kitchen that had melon colored walls. The living room had an alcove with a window that was perfect for the fresh pine tree we always had at Christmas (what a fragrance). I remember a tiny bathroom, a bedroom I had to share with my brother, and a room with no door in which my parents had to sleep. Not much room for a growing family, so in 1972, we moved across town into a newly built house of our own. The house on Ezekiel had it’s neat experiences, so I will start with those. Back then, phone numbers in our area started with Trinity Two. When the ice cream truck rolled around, the man made ice cream cones fresh to order. Ice skating on frozen water in your own yard was a big deal, and you had to have an imagination in order to entertain yourself. Things are so very different now. How I miss those simpler times.