Member-only story
Family
“Go Away, Thief”, My Sister Yelled
She pointed the old Civil War rifle at the intruder while I cowered beneath the stove.
My family moved to an old farmhouse near the center of town in 1952. I remember the day we moved in and how excited we all were to see the many rooms, the sagging old barn, and our new large back yard.
We had fireplaces and our very own rooms. The lights were sconces in the walls, with bakelite push button switches. Large sliding doors separated two living rooms, and there was a mysterious attic to explore.
My two older sisters ran noisily through the upstairs hall while my father showed me how to burn some trash in the fireplace. He showed me the cellar, where he would later build his workshop. Although the house was now heated by oil, there had been a coal bin, and I found a few pieces of shiny anthracite coal on the floor.
For days or weeks, the house was a jumble of possessions in odd places as my parents decided what would go here and what would go there. My father was planning to remove walls and do other remodeling; these projects would last throughout much of our childhood.
One day not too long after this, our parents had gone off somewhere with our older sister, leaving…
