In 1977 my husband and I moved into the house on Lincoln Avenue. The first time we laid eyes on that street, seeing the inviting brightness of the yellow brick and the majestic expanse of those old sycamores during a late October visit, we knew that it was the house for us. The price was right and in our excitement over the area, we did not realize the many challenges this at the time rather dilapidated structure presented. We were smitten. So, what if it had a bad roof, leaking gutters and had we looked carefully, we might have noticed squirrels and crows flying out from under the eaves of the seven dormers. As we were sitting on the shaky porch swing, we heard the clamor and whistle of approaching trains which made both of us feel nostalgic. While I was worried about the noise my husband thought the sound reassuring. Then I heard German spoken in the yard next door. The lady of the house was from my home town in Germany and her parents were visiting. I was sold. We became good neighbors and are still friends. Slowly the ugly house was restored to our liking. My husband had the opportunity to learn many skills needed for renovation. The lives of those neighbors were intriguing and worth remembering. The children grew and left and after 30 years we were also happy to say Goodbye. It served us well, that old house on the yellow brick road.
