COLUMN: A special listing

     It’s a strange coincidence, at least in my little world, that we recently wrapped up our annual Home & Building issue.

     That’s because, just the other day, I received an email from my sister Sue in Minnesota, containing a real estate listing.

     It wasn’t just any listing. It was a listing for 24 W. Logan Ave., West St. Paul, Minn. The home I grew up in.

     That’s not completely accurate. I grew up in several homes, including one right next door (we moved because the new one was larger).

     But it was that house, which we still call “24,” where I spent the best years of my childhood. I believe we lived there for nine years, from the time I was 7 until I was 16.

     The link in Sue’s email had photos – lots of them – which made clear how many impressive upgrades the subsequent owners put into it. I mean, it looks beautiful, inside and out.

     Mostly, though, it brought memories rushing back. My siblings and I spent much of Thursday morning emailing each other to briefly recall stories (I did get some work done too). My younger brother Bob said he had tears streaming down his cheeks as he looked at the photos. Gregg, the eldest – he left that house to go to college – wrote, “I want in there real bad.”

     My memories mostly revolved around the sports my younger brother played in and around that house.

     The driveway was awesome, and awesomely huge. One of the things that stands out in the photos is the huge chimney, which runs all the way up the side of the two-story structure. I used to spend hours throwing a rubber ball off the chimney and fielding grounders and pop flies. Because some of the bricks stuck out slightly, I would sometimes get some crazy bounces that made it more challenging, and more fun.

     We also played basketball and hockey – mostly hockey – in the driveway. Eventually, my father replaced the glass windows in the garage door with Plexiglass because our slap shots kept breaking them.

     And for a couple of winters, we flooded the backyard and had an actual skating rink, where we played hockey some more. In summer, the backyard often served as a mini golf course, played, of course, with Wiffle golf balls.

     We used the basement as a mini basketball arena; my dad fashioned metal posts between the floor and ceiling, on which we attached empty gallon ice cream buckets, with the bottom cut out, to serve as baskets.

     Of course, there were countless family memories in there – holidays, confirmations, graduations, and family gatherings, with my parents. They’re both gone now, but would no doubt have loved to walk through that place one more time.

     I adored that house. We all did. And given the chance, I would make the five-hour trip north for a few minutes inside.

     I’ll be watching for an open house.