The house that I was born in was blue, built by the strong hands of my father and uncles, practical men all. In those days, there was little by way of a building code, so they did what seemed reasonable and what they did seemed to work out.

The walls were perhaps a bit thin, and it might have been possible to put more insulation into the attic, but it was war-time, and supplies were hard to come by. The house was colder in the winter than it might otherwise have been, but the woodstove in the kitchen and the fireplace in the parlor adequately compensated for that.

We were six in that house: my parents, my three siblings and me. Dad would have loved to be a farmer, I think, but it was war-time and the factory paid well and was hiring. Mom spent the days at home, dealing with the chickens and the cow and canning fruit for the winter and doing hundreds of other things.

We moved away from the blue house when I was four. I still drive by it from time to time, but it’s changed so much since those days.