
The House on Park Street
“There is no place like home.”
― L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Every kid who grew up in the 60s and lived close enough to ride a bike, horse, mule, or donkey to our house on Park Street knew what it meant to “slide on the green porch.” It meant pulling on an old swimsuit that you didn’t mind ripping, and gliding without grace on your knees, butt, or belly on our back porch, which was slick as ice when we hosed it down. If you got a good running start — from the screen door on the service porch and past the three gardenia bushes that grew so sweet-smellingly in front of the dining room window air conditioners — you’d have enough speed to slide all the way across the porch and fall off into the flowerbed on the other side. It was a good 15–20 second ride. And if you were agile, you could watch your reflection in the sliding glass doors as you floated by.
We were a gangling bunch. Kids in our diverse neighborhood were back then. Skinny. Unwise in the ways of the world. As an elementary school kid, I’d always scream when our Shetland pony, Blackie, let down his hooha, to air it out, I thought. It was wrinkled and black and almost touched the ground and I had no earthly idea that males of the human species had their own version of such a thing. I might have looked into being a nun if I had. As it was, my first career ambition was to be a dance hall girl with a feather in my hair like the ones in the black and white westerns. Rowdy Yeats (Clint Eastwood on Rawhide) was my idol.
My friends and I were curious about things like: Can you really dig to China? And if so, will people be standing on their heads down there? (I didn’t say we were smart.) We were not a worldly group. We were kids immersed in childhood at a time when kids shared their days, their toys, and their household animals with each other. Our group had tree climbing, horse apple throwing, hole digging skills. We were Hide & Seek masters. If you climb in under last week’s sheets and towels in the clothes hamper, they’ll never find you.
Two or three times every summer, we’d ride to the highway overpass dragging a plank of cardboard so we could slide down the grassy slopes. Talk about a ride! That was a trip. It was zip, zip through the earthy smelling weeds and we were down. If you hit a rock on the way, you might tumble down and go home with prickly scratches, but those are the only injuries I remember.
As the years went on and life got more complicated than calculating the distance to China through our horse lot, that whole group of sweet faced boys and girls had to grow up. I wonder what they’re doing. Do they remember the fun we had? Have they been able to handle life’s inevitable tragedies, trials and disappointments? And are they still looking for ways to do the adult equivalent of sliding on the green porch at the Park Street House?
Grief is a haughty bedfellow. It won’t let you kick it out until it’s ready. Grief massages you with delightful memories , reminds you of heartaches only God can heal, and, as for me, it won’t let me forget my remarkable parents are gone from this earth.
We are all marvels being pushed forward and pulled backward through life. For now, my mind’s going back to play at the house on Park Street. Despite the season, it’s winter, not summer, there now. My memories are going upstairs to close my bedroom door and lock it, and sit by myself for a while. When I’m ready, I’ll put on my old one piece and turn on the water hose. It’s time to slide back into the past for a while.
Call-To-Action
Make us smile. Share your coming of age memories by clicking on the little voice bubble below. Then click Publish. If you grew up near me, or played at our house, let me know. Those memories are precious to my family. Did you roll into the the pit in a barrel, jump off playhouse roof, play Rack-O on top of the shed?

Thank you so much to those who clap. It feels like a pat on the back.

