I recently spent a weekend away to rekindle some childhood memories.  I went to a place with my family that was sacred to us; it was a place of respite during the summer, a place of utter boredom and unequaled bonding among siblings.  It was a place of comfort and of discomfort. It was a place from my childhood that was so important that even though we only spent a couple of weeks there each summer, it was revered as a special place, our place, my connection to my father’s family.  My memories are mostly good:  the mysteries of the attic, the smell, the items (including old Pan-Am carry on bags from the 60s and 70s, old glass pill bottles to name a couple), the warmth of the space.  I remember lobster races on the flagstone walk way.  I remember how cold the water was from the hose used to rinse the beach sand off, even from those hard to reach places, before going into the house.  I remember cheese puffs and cranberry-apple juice before dinner and the slight smell of dog.  swing.jpgI remember the wooden swing for the tree in the yard, the bird bath so faithfully filled each morning and the fun of being the one picked to bring in the flag from the flagpole in the evening.  I remember the mosquitoes, playing on the rocks, singing “Shoo-Fly” as we walked.  I remember tuna sandwiches and ginger-ale on the beach, the sand pails used to rinse off feet. I remember the car rides over little rises that caused our tummies to flutter on the way down while sitting in the back seat of a 70s convertible.  The stench of the lobster bait as we walked on the pier and the taste of grape soda while dropping fishing lines from the end of it.  I remember looking at all the pictures of my father as a baby, little boy and young man all carefully displayed in my Aunties room.  The house was sold several years ago, but still that place remained special….until my last visit.

Something horrible happened.  Something so grossly horrific that I can hardly bring myself to say it when I have to.  Something that now consumes my thoughts and my sleep.  The association of this event to that special place has caused a great chasm in my heart. On the one side, the precious memories of a little girl and her family and on the other the newly created nightmare of the now grown woman and her own family.   Stress had already been applied to that place a few years ago when my father died.  But this?  This was devastating.  I don’t know if I will ever be able to re-visit that place.  All the wonderful memories are now stained with this recent event.

The old wooden swing sits in my garage, gathering dust.  I had hoped to hang it in my own yard.  For now, it will remain in the corner.  I pray that God will renew my love of that place someday,  and that it won’t always carry this dark shadow.  I know God can renew, and I know God can heal.  It’s the waiting that hurts so bad.


Bedtime Reflections

I need to write.  This is how I deal with things.

On March 31, 2015 my dad died.  It was sudden, painful and hard to learn about.  5 days ago my mom died.  It wasn’t sudden, painful or news.  It couldn’t have been more different.  Dad died quickly, more in the way he wanted to go.  No fuss, just gone.  Mom, on the other hand, had been living in a nursing home for several years.  She had multiple admissions into the hospital over the last few years, leaving me to wonder which time would be her last.


Mom and Dad at a High School Dance

There were the ICU admissions, the ones that really work you up and cause you to panic.  Then there were the “routine” admissions.  Her body just not metabolizing her medications as expected.  She was on dialysis.  She had Parkinson’s disease.  Her mobility was severely limited and I wondered how we would do the holiday’s this year.

Mom spent almost a month in the hospital this time.  She was not herself.  She couldn’t communicate verbally anymore.  When she did, it was nonsensical.  She actually got angry at me one day because I wouldn’t move the chair in from the dining room so she could step off the table.  I knew where she was…she was standing on the kitchen table in her childhood home and wanted to get off.  I wouldn’t help her so I was “being difficult”.  When the doctor came in, he asked her where she was and she told him.  He gently said,

“Ruthie, you are at the General.  You’re in the hospital.”

She looked at him, paused for a moment and then a big smile flashed across her face.  As her eyes twinkled, she said, “Now you are doing what she did!  You’re trying to tell me I’m somewhere I’m not!”

That’s the last complete sentence I heard my mother say other than “I love you”.  The diagnosis was that she had a stroke sometime in September.  They couldn’t pin point when and the truth is it didn’t matter anymore.  The damage was done.  As the days went on, she spoke fewer and fewer words.  She could no longer feed herself.  Then, just to add insult to injury, she contracted C-Diff, a horrible intestinal bacterial infection that was triggered by the antibiotics used to rule out a systemic or brain infection.  It was a mess.  I never wished so much that she could talk again.  She couldn’t tell us when she had to use a bed pan.  We had to wear gowns and gloves to visit.  We couldn’t explain why.

The day finally came when the hospital said there was nothing more they could do for her and that she needed to go back to the nursing home.  My brother and I had a decision to make and it wasn’t going to be easy.

When I was about 4 or 5, my parents were living in an apartment somewhere in Pennsylvania.  There would have been company over that evening, and I really don’t

mason flagg

Dad at my wedding in 1997

remember much aside from the stories told to me.  Apparently it was time to go to bed and I didn’t want to go.  Mom did her usual, “One…….Two…….”  and I took off running looking over my shoulder right into the sharp side of a door casing splitting my eyebrow.  I still have the scar.

In 1995 my mother survived a ruptured brain aneurysm.  That she survived is a testimony to her character.  But it robbed her of so many things.  First her vision.  The aneurysm had bled into her optic nerve and blinded her right eye.  Because of that she gave up her driver’s license because she didn’t feel safe.  Then her job.  At 57 my mom was forced into retirement and she couldn’t get government assistance.  That lead to her losing her home.  As much as I wanted to help, I didn’t.  I couldn’t.  She didn’t want it.  All of the above.  She wanted to live in Lowell and I am in another state.  I didn’t have enough money to support her.

After a few years of really trying it became clear to her and to us that she needed nursing home care.  She wasn’t able to control her diabetes on her own and after several close calls with congestive heart failure, we all saw the writing on the wall.  She adapted well to living in the nursing home, attending church regularly and coming to our house for holidays.  Things were going as well as they could.

Then the stroke came, and then the decision.  We were faced with 2 options: continue dialysis or not.  Because of her economic situation she could either have hospice care or dialysis but not both.  (Optimally we would have chosen palliative care WITH dialysis.)  Agony ensued.  How do you choose?  The choice was basic:  longevity or comfort and it was clear.  But abruptly that all came crashing down when her government medical insurance refused to pay for her new reality and dialysis; where she had been able to be transported by chair van, she would now need an ambulance because she was confined to her bed.  She would never be able to get in a wheelchair to even go to the dining room in the nursing home let alone 3 times a week to go to 4 hour-long dialysis and the government was simply not going to pay for that level of care.   It was, in the end, out of our hands.


Thanksgiving 2017 at my house.

My brother and I stayed with her round the clock.  He took the first night shift sleeping on a cot in her room while I stayed at the home of one of her church friends.  I couldn’t do that again.  I needed to be where she was.  So we scrounged up another mattress and set it up next to the cot in mom’s room.  My brother and I traded off sleeping that next  night, and the rest will remain close to my heart until the day I die.  It was the first time in many, many years that my brother and I shared a room.

On Monday evening, October 29, mom slipped away into the gates of Heaven.  It was peaceful with her favorite singer, Roger Whittaker, softly playing in the background.  I was with her, but not at her side.  I think she wanted it that way.

So now they are both gone from this life but not from my heart.  Although divorce tore them apart when I was 16, my love for each of them was never stronger than it is now.  And I hope that’s ok.  They each moved on in their own ways, and I moved on in mine.  Now it’s time to move on, yet again, from the pain of the loss.  But I think I might just linger here a little longer because the little girl in me doesn’t want to say good night just yet.


The dictionary definition of perspective is, in simple terms, a point of view.  More specifically it has to do with how the parts relate to the whole.

When I was very young, our house in Naperville seemed so big.  The yard seemed huge.  It also seemed back then that summer lasted forever, an hour of homework was a lifetime, and Christmas just took soooo long to arrive.  That was my perspective of life.  But I also had a very specific point of view of relationships too.  In school, for example.  The social structure was defined by powers beyond me.  I was relegated to a specific social class from the start.  All of us were.  And once you were there, there was no changing.  At least not until we all eclipsed the age of 40 and then those barriers all seemed to fade away.

Such was the case with a girl named Juliet.  I was in a class with her more than once during our first 5 years of school, and our paths continued to criss cross up until the time I moved away the summer between 10th and 11th grades.  I never really gave her another thought.  I just wasn’t in her social class.  She was pretty.  She was smart. She was popular.  She was an Arrowette, the elite in cheerleading.  I was awkward, a wannabe jock, a tomboy,  the very antithesis of Juliet.  She even had a pretty name.  From my perspective, this girl, and the others like her, had it made.  I didn’t look far into the future back then, but if I had it would have written her story as success.  She would go off to college, probably meet a super jock with a great future, get married, have beautiful children running around their beautiful home with a manicured lawn and live happily ever after.

But I don’t think that happened for her.  I recently learned she passed away.  She actually passed away a few months ago but no one knew it.   The details of  how or why she died are not being shared by her family.  There are some suspicious facts that anyone who searches the internet can find.  But  in the end, there are just questions with no answers. And I’m sure as long as I live there will be no answers.  I just have to be OK with that.  But it’s left me wondering about my perspective, and how things change.  From what I’ve heard, Juliet had her struggles.  But she wasn’t supposed to.  She was supposed to have everything.  I can understand me having struggles; I didn’t have it all together back then.  I struggled academically. I was never the elite athlete I saw in my minds eye and I knew it…even back then.  It would make sense for me to have struggles and ups and downs (which I have, don’t get me wrong!  I have had my struggles!!)  But Juliet wasn’t supposed to suffer any of that.   She was part of that social group that lived above the struggles.  At least that’s what my perspective was.

What the news of Juliet’s death has done is for me just mind bending.  I know that we never know how things will turn out for any of us.  I know that where we were in high school really has nothing to do with who we will become as adults.  But it’s hard to overcome those perspectives when they dictate so much of a young adults life.  And I guess the only thing I can take away from all of this is to encourage my children not to live their young adult lives seeing the world as above them, like I did.  Because it’s really hard to rationalize when someone “up there” faces the same day to day struggles as the rest of us.

I am sad about Juliet’s passing.  I know from social media she leaves behind a little girl. I’ve found myself more than once the last couple of days thinking of Juliet and of her daughter.  I will join my prayers to those who called her sister, daughter, friend…I pray for comfort for family, for answers, for wisdom in dealing with a little girl who just lost her mommy.  To her friends that are now also my friends, I’m really sorry for your loss.  Juliet was a girl I didn’t really know. I wish I had.  Social rules kept us from knowing one another as teens and our paths never crossed as adults. Your memories are precious, keep them close.  All I can do now is wonder what ever happened.



Losing Dad, twice.

There are few things in life harder than losing a family member.  I think parents who lose a child top that list.  I can’t imagine that pain.  Losing a sibling or a spouse has to rank high on the list as well.  Losing a parent would then round out the top 3 in my world. Only for some of us, because I know I’m not alone in this, losing the same parent twice is just plain devastating. Divorce does that to some of us.

When I was 16 my parents divorced after 21 years of marriage.  At the time, I was stoic.  I didn’t cry, I didn’t feel hurt I guess because I was too confused.  My dad had not been an active part of my life and so his departure didn’t mean much to the 16 yr old me.  Over the years my stoic self turned into a very angry self.  I was angry at my dad.  I was angry because everyone else was angry.  I was angry because I thought I was supposed to be angry.  I was angry because my mom was hurt and that should be reason enough for anyone to be angry, right?  I was angry because I started to see where my father had let me down, and just how important he was to me.

When I reached my 40s I realized that, although I had already started to bridge that gap with my father, it was time for me to really lay it on the table for him and let him know where I stood.  So on the phone one afternoon, I let him know that I had lived many years not really knowing if I was angry, sad, or just what emotion was there but that I was in a place to just forgive.  I let my dad know that I forgave him for all the things that had made me feel angry, sad, alone or abandoned.  I let go of all that “stuff” and I told him I loved him.  I hadn’t said those words to him in many years.  From that day on, we started to forge a new relationship; one built on a mutual understanding of hurt and forgiveness.  He embraced my children with enthusiasm and joy that took my by surprise.  I loved sharing with him the accomplishments and the pitfalls of parenting these 2 beautiful children.  He supported.  He sympathised.  He encouraged.  He was my Dad.  After all those years, I had my Dad.  And I loved it.

3 days ago I lost him, again.  This time no phone call can patch things up.  His heart stopped.  He is gone forever from my life.  Right now, I hurt.  I think of him and his cheerful voice on the other end of the phone each and every single time I called.

Nothing can prepare you for the loss of a parent.  Not even a long illness.  Because in the end, there are still so many things to say.  But I can rest assured that I spoke peace into my father’s life by laying down the hurt and anger that I carried (even if I didn’t know why I carried it) and telling him I loved him.  He spoke peace into my life too by loving me in spite of myself.  His blood runs through my veins.  His memory will live on in my heart forever.

Rest in eternal peace, Dad.  I love you.


I’ve had a hard time writing this.  It’s been almost 4 months since we said good bye to our “first born”, Patriot.  It still brings me to tears to think of him.

Patriot was the puppy that needed me as much as I needed him.  Patriot was our introduction into the crazy world of Weimaraners.  We first saw him at just a few days old.  12 1/2 years later we said our final good bye.  We went through so much with him, from chasing deer deep into the woods to a 6 month struggle with what turned out to be an allergic reaction to (of all things) fabric softener to digestive issues that after extensive and expensive testing returned a plastic buckle.  Not to mention the completely devoured leather belt, then countless shoes and shoe laces…

PICT1073But through out his life, Patriot was so much more than just a pet.  He tapped into the deepest part of my heart when he was just a tiny pup wanting nothing more than to be held and to be loved.  He endured long days at home alone and reviled in the joy of our return.  He waited at the door more times than I can count for his best friend and mine, my husband Rich.  His heart tie to Rich was tight.  There were days I could have gone without all the barking; Patriot was never short for ‘stories’.  But his love was genuine and deep and profound.  And I miss him.  As much as Jingo was my dog, Patriot belonged to Rich.  He loved us all, but Rich was his buddy.

When we learned that the tumor on his liver was “huge” and inoperable, we decided that rather than go away on our long awaited family vacation knowing he was so sick, we would help him to end his battle at home with us by his side.  Our normally ravenous food thief seemed to want to savor and enjoy his last meal of cheeseburgers.  He took unusual little bites, careful not to nip our fingers.  And then he laid down on the bed we prepared for him as if he knew it was time.  He was ready.  As he took his last breath, Rich was right there, soothing him with his voice and pressing his head against Patriot’s.  It is an image I will never forget.  Their love was intense and I know Patriot would not have survived the 10 day separation from us.

My words now seem weak and few for the love shared between us.  But my heart is still broken and finding the words is difficult….

Not Alone.

I wrote this in 2009. Kate is still fighting. We need to keep praying.


They were any other family.  Active, loving, playful.  They, the mom and the dad, were beautiful examples of all that God expects of those that he makes husband and wife, mother and father.  Their bond was strong, their love even stronger.  Their children, siblings, bicker and squabble, but their bonds, too, were growing stronger and stronger.  Sisters, leading, following.  Brother, teaching, learning.  They worshiped together, prayed together, lived together, love     together.  This family that God created.  This family that embraced all that God offered; their love, their each other.  She was any other child.  She shined with the joy of play, the shimmer of love and the brightness of childhood.  Her eyes sparkled, bright blue, full of wonder, amazement and curiosity.  She embraced life, although at her tender age she couldn’t know that’s what she was doing.  She was the reflection of God’s pure love.  A loSunflowerve that doesn’t…

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So, it’s been a long time since I posted.

But this has been pressing on my heart and I wanted to share.

DISCLAIMER:  I am NOT suicidal!!  I have been thinking about this since Robin Williams took his own life, and just wanted to share my thoughts!  I’m OK!
Honest, I am!!

So, now that we’ve got that out of the way, I wrote this just to explore myself the thoughts that one might think.  I was kind of surprised at what came out of it.  I don’t know…what do you think?
So here goes:


If I stay, how would they act? What would they say?

If I stay, where can I go?  Where can I hide?

I don’t really want to go, but I don’t think I can hang around here anymore.

You don’t understand, you can’t even hear me.  I know you can’t see me.

So it’s better if I just go. At least then it will be of my own choosing.

So you say now that you care, and you want to listen,

But when I really needed you, you weren’t there.

I’m not really scared. I’m not really sad.

I’m not even relieved or anything at all.

There is nothing I can say now that you want to hear.

There is nothing you can say now that I want to hear.

I’m not really scared. I’m not really sad.

I’m not even relieved or anything at all.

If I stay, how would I act?  What would I say?

If I stay, where do they go, why do they hide?

I don’t really want to stay, and I know I can’t hang around here anymore.

I don’t understand, you don’t even hear me.  I thought you might see me.

So it’s better if I just go. At least now it’s is my own choosing.

So I think now that you might really care, and you might want to listen,

And now I really need you, and you aren’t here.

I’m not really scared, and I’m not really sad.

But I’m not sure if I should go…

2 Days Was Not Enough


I think back now to our first days1384381_10201658265671790_1085072720_n
and how you challenged me so.
Your sense of humor, your zest for life,
your unwillingness to let go.

Your crazy ears, your “Elvis face”,
your silly, goofy smile;
All these things will remain with me
even after you’ve been gone a long while.

I knew the day would someday come
when I’d have to let you go
But I never thought it would be like this
And how I miss you so

Now you’re gone and I’m left to ponder
All that we could have done
And all I can say,
How sad the day,
2 days was not enough.

My Jingo

Hi!  Is that for me?I originally posted this in 2008. Yesterday nearly 5 1/2 years later, we had to set Jingo free. 

Just 2 days after being diagnosed with bone cancer, Jingo is free at the Rainbow Bridge running care-free and picking up sticks and rocks as he pleases!  I’m sure his favorite toy, a giant blue ball that we bought for him, is with him also!  Rest peacefully, my faithful friend, until we meet again!

I’d like to introduce you to Jingo, my blue Weimaraner.

 Jingo has a special story. 
In March of 2004 we were approached by our trainer about a very young blue Weimaraner who needed a new home.  He was only 18 mos old.  He was going to be put down.  In 2 weeks.

We agreed to meet him, and his owners and see if he would blend into our family of a pair (brother and sister, but not litter mates) of grey Weimaraners.   Now there has been years of debate about blue Weims as opposed to the traditional grey.  I’m not going to get into that, I have my opinion…

Well the good news was that, indeed, he got along with our dogs–rather, he ignored them.  And us.  We figured this was fine, and that within a short time he would get on just fine.  The bad news was that his owners didn’t tell us the whole story. 

As time went on, we learned that he had been neglected.  He had never been socialized, or trained.  He had been a gift from a husband to a wife in an effort to ‘fill the hole’ of not having another child.  Big mistake.  She didn’t want a puppy she wanted another baby.  So she resented the puppy.  She ignored him, crated him way too much and then got upset when he jumped on her, or her 4 yr old son.  She did get pregnant again, and at 8 mos along decided that having a 65 lb dog jump on her was not a good idea.  So she put her foot down: either the dog went or she went.  The husband was broken hearted.  He had bonded with the dog but wasn’t home enough to make a difference.  So he went looking for a new home for his beloved pet. 

Enter us into the story.  We wanted to know everything.  They told us that he hadn’t been trained, and because of that he really didn’t do well on a leash.  They said he liked people, but he was a little shy in the beginning.  They told us he was fine.  They lied.

On the first night, he went around the house and collected all the dog toys and put them on HIS bed.  He claimed the living room, the kitchen and the dining room. I couldn’t get him to go upstairs, so at bed time, I crated him and slept on the couch next to him.  I had no idea what he was used to, and I wasn’t about to take a chance that during the night he would destroy something precious.  Needless to say neither of us got much sleep that night! 

On the third day with us, my in-laws came for a visit.  My father-in-law rang the doorbell and walked in the house.  Big mistake.  Jingo (who’s name was Griffin) froze.  He didn’t bark, he didn’t even growl.  He froze, ears down, tail down, head down, eyes fixed.  Anyone who knows about dogs knows this posture and knows that it means only one thing:  don’t move or I am going to attack.  I eventually crated him, and by the end of the visit, he was resting his chin on my father-in-law’s lap.  But I learned a very valuable lesson.  He had no idea how to deal with strangers.

A few weeks went by and things were not getting better.  Oh sure, he was fine with the dogs, but heaven forbid he should get something in his mouth!  He wouldn’t let go!  Going for walks was horrid!  He would turn on the ‘stick radar’ and for the whole walk be scanning left, right, left, right…weaving along…looking for a stick, or a rock, or something to carry around.  Finally I bought a rubber stick thinking that would help.  It didn’t.

We started him in doggie day care.  He would spend the ENTIRE time, 9-10 hrs, pacing around the room.  No interaction with other dogs, NO interaction with people.  I started to get worried.  I had conversations with the vet, the trainers, friends, owners of the training center.  The vet wanted to put him on Prozac.  Trouble is they don’t know how to wean dogs off that stuff so I wasn’t ready for a lifetime of that.  One of the trainers suggested Benedryl.   Just to take the edge off.  So we did.  We used it before training classes, before and during doggie daycare days.  We started to see a change.  He was becoming more relaxed, better able to focus on us and learn to trust us. 

Fast forward to present.  Jingo, renamed since we just couldn’t make Griffin work for us, is now a well adjusted love.  He does sometimes have issues with meeting new people, but he has shown me that he does trust me, and that he will respond to me when he needs to.  He is the most loving and affectionate dog in our pack.  Everyone who meets them goes away saying that Jingo is their favorite.  He has a fabulous sense of humor, and is as playful as a puppy prancing around the kitchen when he thinks he’s going for a ride in the car!

He does, however, have one small problem:

Darn it.  Caught.

The House at 8 Franklin Street

It is said that a house is just a house, that it is a family that makes it a home.  And I think that is mostly true.  But I have to wonder. download Because a lot of living goes on in a house over the years.  And that couldn’t be more true for this house, the house at 8 Franklin Street.

This quaint 2 family home is located on a quiet little street in a Boston suburb.   All the homes on Franklin Street are neat and tidy, with manicured lawns but nothing pretentious about any of them.  What stands out is the community on that little street.  And I do mean little.  There are no more than a dozen homes adorning both sides of the street.  But there are dozens of lives intertwined and connected through the years that span the lifetimes of those that lived and still do live there.

In 1957 a young mother and father brought their baby son to their new home at 8 Franklin St.  It was November, and their baby was not quite a year old.  They occupied the first floor while the new father’s sister and her family of 4 moved upstairs.  Their young sons were 10 and 7 and more than able to climb the stairs to the second floor.  The 2 families purchased the home together, and embarked on a lifetime together.  As a condition of the purchase, the bank required the house to have a “fresh coat of paint” applied to the exterior.  Being November, and a 2 story home, all the new mother’s brothers came to help.  And so started the legacy of this home, and this neighborhood.

The baby boy soon had a baby brother, and the 2 boys downstairs grew up in the shadow of the 2 boys upstairs.  The families spent countless hours together in the yard, building a 2 story deck and investing in one another.  Summer evenings were spent barbecuing and socializing, enjoying their yard and their neighbors.  Both families were headed by hard-working men; one a plumber, the other a factory worker.

Over the years the neighbors became acquainted with one another.  They all looked out for each other’s children, borrowed or loaned the cup of sugar on more than one occasion.  If any neighbor was in need of anything, there was another quick to help from shoveling snow in the winter to cutting grass in the summer.    Waves hello or welcome back over fences were common.   There didn’t need to be signs posted on street poles; neighborhood watch was well under way on Franklin Street.

The sons all grew to be both high school and college graduates.  One of the older boys headed off to Viet-Nam and became the hero to the two younger boys downstairs.  All 4 boys grew into professional men with a solid understanding of family and what it means.  In turn, each of the 4 boys brought their wives and children to see their childhood home, and visit their grand parents.  The last to bring home a wife was that nearly one year old baby that moved in way back in 1957.  He joyfully brought his children, his parents only grandchildren, to visit and play.

37 years after the 2 families moved into the house,  the family upstairs lost their father.  The “boys” were now men and living their own lives.  But the emptiness was profound.  The wife upstairs continued on, sharing birthday celebrations with her downstairs family for the next 20 years.  And then quietly she passed on too.

So now the house at 8 Franklin Street will belong to someone else.  Papers will be passed tomorrow to finalize the sale.  The couple from down stairs, now in their 80s find themselves in unfamiliar territory.  They are moving.  Moving from the home where they raised their sons, made so many friends, and felt safe.  This was home for them.  A place to go that is familiar and comfortable.

So many memories are sewn into the walls of that house that it can’t help but be a home.  Scratches on the wall where the family dog tried to get someone’s attention.  Tools and parts carefully sorted and stored in the basement.  The envelopes stuffed with pictures of little boys running around, revealing the changing face of the walls.  But the most poignant are the neighbors who have come to help pack, dump and move.  The children who grew up in the neighborhood and now reside in their parents homes on Franklin Street came to console and comfort the aged couple now having to uproot their whole lives and move.

I think, from what I’ve seen, that a house can be a home, but it takes a family to love it like a member for it to become the only home for some who lived in it.