March 28, 2024

A simpler time, a simpler place

Editors note: This column originally published Oct. 10, 2014.

There’s a house that lies in Newton that I used to know so well. It sits on a quiet street, but what’s there is a catalog of lively memories and an immense amount of joy and bittersweet innocence.

The house belonged to my grandpa, Albert Kosmach, and for the longest time, the home of both he and my grandma June. They lived there since 1961, working, raising three girls and a boy.

Since my mom and I were the nearest family members, a mere 20-and-a-half blocks away, I spent a lot of time there. My grandpa oftentimes took care of me when my mom worked and when I got old enough to be on my own I’d like to think I took care of him, looking forward to riding my bike over on a daily basis to keep each other company.

Many kids’ best friends are other neighborhood kids, but maybe mine was my grandpa.

All of the home’s features I remember vividly — the grey painted cement entry stairs, the plaster curved ceilings, and the oak swinging doors into the den. There was an old AE metal milk box right next to the door which held newspapers since the milk man stopped coming many years before.

It wasn’t new but I wouldn’t want it to have been. There were a few creaks in the floors, and I hope it still creaks a step before entering the kitchen. The light switches were heavy to turn, not like the smooth flick of the switch in a new home. The carpet was slightly faded in places — a reminder of the four kids who roamed there a generation before.

I spent more time outdoors than I do now, and I could draw a layout of the old yard as if to replicate its existence, if only it were that easy to replace. A large stone bird bath, a two-wired clothes line, a giant pine tree, a beautifully well kept red shed and a unique metal bin that held two old metal garbage tins.

Although I have fondest memories of the place, the best part of the home were the people who occupied its space, primarily my grandpa. He enjoyed sitting in the backyard, relaxing. He always had a pocket watch with him which he would check randomly. He’d cook quite often too — apple turnovers, goulash, pancakes — and enjoyed a good St. Louis Cardinals game.

I’ve never attempted to go back to the house or even walk down the old street where I once roamed.

The memories are perfect the way they are. Maybe that’s the thing with memories, the bad ones we try to forget and the good ones we put on a pedestal.

My grandpa in his trousers and pocket tee, teaching me Yugoslavian; my mom with her perm and work outfit, mutual delight to reunite; or my cousins, creating our own simple forms of entertainment like playing in a pile of leaves, going through the old desk drawers, looking for invaluable treasures or covering the floor with wrapping paper on Christmas. Everything was an adventure; a mystery that would reveal a life we could never know, one that would have been ours if we were our parents.

Whether it’s the house your family moved out of in fifth grade, or your best friend’s house growing up or your grandparents’ old house, we all have special places that hold some of the fondest of memories, places that were part of us, that define days of past.

We might not think of them weekly or monthly or even each year, but when they come back to mind you’re taken back to another time or place, and for that beautiful gift in life, I’m thankful.

Contact Kate Malott at 641-792-3121 ext. 6533 or kmalott@newtondailynews.com