Letting Go of My Childhood Home ~ Bittersweet

 On Friday, March 13, 2026, I wandered through my childhood home for the last time. The picture to the left is how it looked when my family moved in during the summer of 1962. My little sister was on the way, and we’d outgrown the two bedroom tiny house three doors down. My maternal grandparents lived at the other end of the block. 

At the time, we had no idea that we lived on the wrong side of Logansport, Indiana in the Irish ghetto. Saint Bridget Catholic Church, school, rectory and convent were across the street. 

The superintendent of the Logansport Community School system strongly recommended that my parents move to the east side of town, which was more acceptable for teachers. 

My siblings and I were unaware that we lived in an undesirable neighborhood. We didn’t want to leave our friends, our church, our neighborhood, our comfort zone. We felt safe, played until the fireflies came out, walked to school, and aspired to be good people.

My parents updated the house over the years, replaced the asphalt siding, the front porch, added a family room, a deck that my husband designed, and a Florida room. The interior had beautiful oak woodwork, high ceilings, and simple furniture. Our kitchen table was rescued from the old Saint Bridget School before it was torn  down. I have beautiful memories of family gatherings and friends coming to our house because it was welcoming. 

My brother, who inherited the house in compensation for caring for our Dad in his final years is selling. Walking through the house in its disarray, looking for heirlooms that should be salvaged, experiencing the end of a place that afforded safety, solace, peace, arguments, happiness, grief, and memories was bittersweet.

I love my current life and home. I know that this is just part of the passage of time. But, it is nonetheless disconcerting, difficult, sad, emotional, painful, and just plain unimaginable to accept this loss.

Before we departed, Todd and I went to pay our respects to Mom and Dad, my maternal grandparents and the baby brother I never knew at Mount Hope Cemetery. I’m not sure when we will see them again. 

But I know  I will carry the memories with me for the rest of my life; and I am grateful for what my parents represented.