I have a lot of old albums. My brother Jim was born in July 1940 so this was probably the summer of 1941 when he was 1 and I was 3. Or maybe we were 2 and 4. That's my adoptive mom probably still wondering how she ended up with two when they had told her she'd never have kids. She was looking at Jim as if to say "how did you get here".
To her credit, she never sent me back and neither of them ever referred to me as anything except theirs. My dad and granddad built the house from an old Methodist chapel. It was in a permanent state of construction. My dad worked full time for Remington Arms until he retired and my granddad did carpentry work. I've said before they were both craftsmen and perfectionists so that house was a work in progress.
We slid down that cellar door and threw bean bags which my mom sewed through the bean bag game which my dad built for us. Or maybe my granddad.
The locust tree in the foreground was one of a pair which came crashing down on the house during one particularly vicious thunderstorm. The house was so well constructed the only damage was to a few shingles and our nerves.
I'll be back with the snow and maybe one other photo for my son Tim who has begun leaving comments.
Someplace I have a photo of the house as finished as it ever became.
In many ways, those were wonderful times.