Some places never leave us, no matter how many years have passed.

Some places never leave us, no matter how many years have passed.

This is a space for quiet reflection and shared experiences

June 8, 2026

Dear Friend:

When I think about home, I don't think about a house. I think about Cabbage Hill.

I remember walking down St Joseph Street on Cabbage Hill on a sunny summer day passing St Joseph Church with its big steeple. I remember the big wooden doors to the church. The German immigrants who built St. Joseph Church long before I was born. Even as a child, standing beneath that steeple, I felt connected to something bigger than myself. I also remember the church bells I could hear from my home 5 blocks away. And the weddings watching a Groom with his Bride  coming out of the door of the Church. Who could forget the Pipe Organ? This church was the center of the community.

The convent was beside the church. It was not unusual to see a nun with her head under the hood of the sisters car trying to get it running.  Then there were the smells coming from the convent kitchen. During the school year if ever a nun would send you on an errand to the convent you were always treated to milk and freshly baked homemade cookies. It was a treat.

Running an errand to the corner store was another treat. First a walk which always at that young age felt like an adventure. Mom would give us a dime to buy some penny candy, taffy, tootsie rolls, root beer barrels, bubblegum, Swedish fish,  remember penny candy?

Then I remember the houses, mostly brick row houses with porches were the families would sit in the evening and chat with the neighbors and people passing by. At night the children would chase the lightning bugs. I think of the many German immigrants who lived in those houses. The rows of cabbage these Germans planted in there back yards - where the name Cabbage Hill comes from.

Then there were the Sauerkraut suppers in the Church Hall. Pork and Sauerkraut. I still remember the aroma. You would have to be German to understand. Then there were the delicious homemade baked goods the women of the church would donate. Church suppers were always a treat.

Back in the day we did not need expensive electronics to have fun. Just a piece of chalk and a stone to play hop scotch. I particularly remember riding my bike, first a tricycle beside the house on the sidewalk. I later graduated to a two wheeler. The bike my two sisters and I shared. It was a Christmas present. I was pretty small that Christmas. The bike was our only Christmas gift. I could not ride the bike because I was so small. I was so mad at my parents that Christmas. I did not speak to my parents the entire day. Then in the spring my sisters said to me: “Come down to the playground with us”. They had the bike. I was fuming again. I went anyway. When we reached the playground at the local public school my one sister said: “we are going to teach you to ride the bike”. Fuming again, was this some kind of a sick joke? They said just listen. They taught me to ride the bike standing up instead of sitting down since I could not reach the peddles sitting down on the seat.  It worked. I actually rode that bike more than my sisters did. Riding the bike that way actually gave me strong legs. We also had a red wagon. Remember red wagons?

Another Christmas memory was my Dad singing German Christmas songs. The choir at church singing Stille Nacht (Silent Night) it was so beautiful. In school we would sing Oh Tannenbaum (O Christmas Tree), On top of our tree was either an angel or Christbaumspitze (an ornament with a sphere).

As I look back now, I realize what made Cabbage Hill special was not the church, the houses, the playground, or even the penny candy.

It was the people.

The neighbors who sat on their porches in the evening.

The woman who always seemed to know everyone's business.

The women who baked for church suppers.

The parents raising families in those brick row houses.

The sisters who taught a stubborn little girl how to ride a bicycle.

We often think of home as a place. But perhaps home is really the people who filled that place with life. I suspect many of us carry a hometown in our hearts. A place that shaped us, taught us, and stays with us long after we've moved away.

What do you remember most about the place you called home?

Until next time, stay well, stay safe, and stay connected to those you love.

Be well,

Emma

Emma is the voice behind Sharing with Seniors, a blog dedicated to honest conversations about life in later years. She writes about everyday challenges, meaningful decisions, and the importance of staying connected.