Call Me Kat

My mother and her siblings grew up in the same house where my siblings and I spent our childhood. Years later, my sister raised her four daughters there for several years before moving to Maine. It was more than just a house; it was a constant, deeply rooted in our family’s history.

When we were very young, the neighborhood was a blend of rural charm and urban proximity. Farms stretched to the north, while the bustling city lay only a mile or two to the south. My grandparents purchased the home during the Great Depression—a stroke of fortune amidst hardship. Despite the economic struggles of the time, they managed to keep working. My grandfather, a mule skinner, and my grandmother, who did odd jobs like housekeeping for the local grocer, raised their six children in that house.

After my parents divorced when I was barely two years old, we moved into the family home. My siblings and I grew up there under the watchful care of my grandparents and two uncles, who never married or moved away.

As a child, the house seemed enormous to me, with its ten rooms. Though we considered it a single-family home, it was built to accommodate two families. My mother, brother, sister, and I lived upstairs in a four-room apartment, while my grandparents and uncles lived downstairs. Upstairs, we had a kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms. Since we spent most of our time outdoors or downstairs, we didn’t need a living room. This gave us the luxury of a dedicated playroom until we were old enough for school.

The house itself remained largely unchanged for decades. Built during World War I, its only major updates were the addition of aluminum storm windows when I started school and an occasional coat of paint. The kitchen upstairs was simple, with a high-backed farmer’s sink—the kind now considered vintage but then a practical, modern fixture. It lacked hot water, making dishwashing an unpleasant chore, especially for reluctant children.

A narrow, steep staircase connected our apartment to the downstairs. Originally, it opened directly into my grandmother’s kitchen, but by the time I started school, it had been rerouted to end in the hallway for more privacy. A floor register in our kitchen allowed heat to rise from my grandmother’s wood stove below, helping to warm our rooms during the colder months.

Our primary source of heat was an old “gas and gas” stove, a combination cooktop and heater. My mother, ever cautious about gas leaks, turned it off at bedtime, no matter how frigid the nights became. Wrapped under a half-dozen heavy, handmade quilts from my grandmother, we stayed warm and toasty despite waking to the sight of our breath in the icy morning air. On school days, my mother would rise early to turn the heat back on and make a hot breakfast—oatmeal if we had it, or “porridge,” which was her name for a chocolate pudding-like dish made with cornstarch and unsweetened cocoa. We piled on sugar and milk to make it tolerable.

Before leaving for school, my sister and I would stop downstairs, where my grandmother braided our hair. We never left without giving her a kiss on the cheek—a tradition that endured through the generations until her passing in 1994.

The house was small by today’s standards, but the yard more than made up for it. Nearly an acre of grass, flowers, and outbuildings spread behind the house, creating a playground for our adventures. A massive tree, planted by my grandfather when they first moved in, became our favorite spot. Its branches stretched wide, offering shade in the summer and sturdy limbs for climbing. Another tree, a gift from my great-aunt stationed in Japan, shaded my grandmother’s wooden glider swing. There, she would sit knitting sweaters, hats, and mittens for her grandchildren, or chatting with visitors.

Change came swiftly during my twelfth year. The sprawling property across the street—once a source of endless play, with its brook, fields, and forgotten apple orchard—was sold. Bulldozers arrived, erasing it all to make way for new development. The once-rural tranquility began to vanish. The ice man stopped delivering blocks of ice for my grandmother’s icebox. The small grocery store near our school closed after the grocer’s passing. Even our closest neighbors tore down their chicken coop and garage, opening the view to the main street for the first time in my memory.

That year, I also prepared to leave the only school I’d ever known. For eight years, I’d walked to and from that small neighborhood school, where everyone knew one another. Now, I was headed to a large high school ten miles away—a world that felt entirely unfamiliar.

It’s impossible to speak of that house without acknowledging the community it nurtured. It wasn’t just walls and a roof; it was the heart of our family and a gathering place for generations.

Last year, it was sold to strangers after being our family’s home for over 80 years. Yet, its spirit lives on in our memories—a place where love, resilience, and countless stories were woven into the fabric of our lives.