None of a kind beats a full house

Growing up in tough times as one of 10 kids who didn’t need a dictionary to know what poverty is, I was never ashamed of our big old house, but whenever passing by or visiting nicer, “wealthier” homes, I often said to myself, I wish I lived in that house.

Each working three jobs just to pay the bills and feed and clothe the brood, mom and dad were forced to prioritize just to survive, and taking care of a house was always on the back burner. Of the handful of houses we lived in, just one contained all 12 of us at one time and lasted the longest.

There were missing shingles and the paint and siding of our house was chipped, faded, used and abused from baseballs, rock and dirt clod fights, misfired sling-shots, and rocks thrown from the squealing tires of hot rods driven by delinquent gearheads trying to impress one of my five older sisters.

When my brother and I would go out on our paper routes every morning, we’d leave our old house and pass by all the other nice homes and I would say to myself, I wish I lived in that house.

Those baseballs and rocks would also break out windows and storm doors and with new windows or doors simply not in the budget, dad would patch them with cardboard and masking tape, adding to the down-trodden look of our house.

On the way to school or church each day as we passed by other nice homes, I’d say to myself, I wish I lived in that house.

With bases and base paths worn in our littered, weedy yard, I’d see manicured lawns at other nice homes and say to myself, I wish I lived  in that house.

When our Little League or high school ball teams would travel to other towns for games and we’d pass by some stately farm homes or beautiful homes in other towns, I’d say to myself, I wish I lived in that house.

My high school girlfriend lived in a fantastic, sprawling home on the lake and every time I’d visit her, I’d say to myself, I wish I lived in that house.

Our house was a two-story former duplex and the 12 of us lived in the whole thing. I always joked that my house had two front doors, how many does yours have?

When my brother and I would grab our snow shovels or old two-wheeled sickle mower to go make a buck, we learned that the nicer the home, the better the pay. And oftentimes, I’d say to myself, I wish I lived in that house.

I drove by our old house in Storm Lake the other day and stopped across the street and just stared at it while recalling all the ups and downs growing up there. 

I thought about mom’s cooking filling that old house with smells that have never left me. I thought about mom’s famous homemade buns that would bring neighbor kids from near and far just for a bite.

I thought about hearing mom and dad coming home from their night shifts, sleeping four hours and getting up and doing it all again.

I thought about Saturday nights when the family budget would sometimes allow dad to buy a bucket of ice cream topped with mom’s homemade hot fudge. Is this heaven?

I thought about my older sisters and their friends and boyfriends always hanging out there and wondering why they didn’t hang out in some of the nice homes. 

I thought about my four brothers and all the fun we had and games we played and how we shared our one Christmas present with each other so we’d each have five.

Above all, I recalled all the joy and laughter and love the 12 of us shared in that old thing. 

And as I drove away wiping away the tears, I said to myself, I wish I lived in that house.

Paul Struck is a Storm Lake native who graduated from St. Mary’s High School in 1964 and then Buena Vista College, the son of Ray and Helen Struck. Paul is the longtime editor of the Cherokee Chronicle Times, now the sister publication of the Storm Lake Times Pilot.