Entry #29 • July 7th, 2026

"He didn't look like the grumpy old man I had remembered."

Come with me down memory lane.

My parents bought the house they raised my brother and me in when I was a couple of years old. We stayed in that home throughout my entire childhood. All of my childhood memories with my family are anchored there.

I moved out when I was 18, got married when I was 19, and had a baby just 10 months later…still 19 years old. When I was 21, my husband and I moved back to my hometown of Grand Junction, Colorado…and back into my parents’ house. We needed a landing place while we got our feet under us. We’d been living in Mexico, where my husband is from, and were returning to the U.S. with nothing…starting over in our very young marriage with two small children.

We stayed with my parents for about a year while we waited through the VERY slow immigration process for my husband to receive his work permit so we could begin making a living again. From there, we moved into a low-income apartment, where we spent the next four or five years slowly, yet intentionally, building our businesses…and our family. After those years in the apartment, we found ourselves back at my parents’ house. We needed another place to land while we made some significant shifts in our businesses, including moving Colorado Baby into its current location in historic downtown Grand Junction.

Once again, we lived with my parents for about a year, this time with five small children. During that year, we were able to further establish our businesses, save a little money, and begin casually exploring the possibility of buying a house. It was 2014. We’d been married for nine years and had five children, all under the age of 8 years old.

Every avenue we explored to get a mortgage led to another roadblock. Turns out, having profitable small businesses, no debt, and zero credit history doesn’t impress the banks. We were probably some of the safest people to give a mortgage to, but because we hadn’t played America’s debt game, we couldn’t get one.

We resigned ourselves to finding a house to rent and hoped that someday we’d be able to buy a home if things worked out.

Deep down, though, I knew what I really wanted.

I wanted to buy my parents’ house.

Maybe someday there would be a creative way to make that happen.

A House Worth Hoping For

So many aspects of my childhood home felt perfect for raising a family in…my family in.

The house isn’t huge, but it’s a good size with multiple bedrooms. It’s deceptively spacious because it has a full basement, essentially doubling the size of the home. (Full basements aren’t very common in the western United States like they are in other parts of the country.)

The house was built in the ‘70s, so it’s in one of the “older neighborhoods.” And by older, I don’t mean run down. I mean from a time when neighborhoods still had individual character. Homes weren’t nearly as cookie-cutter as they are today. Houses had decent-sized yards. My dad still had the chicken coop…and still had chickens, just like when I was growing up.

Not only did the house have a great yard, but it nearly backed up to miles of undeveloped public land that anyone could access. As a kid, I practically lived out there. I rode my bike, hiked with my dog, rode horses with a friend who lived a neighborhood over, built tree houses, caught crawdads, released butterflies, and hunted for fossils from times past. I longed for my kids to have a similar childhood with easy access to the vast outdoors we are so blessed to have here in Colorado.

As an adult, there was another part of my childhood home that I came to appreciate: the neighborhood. As a kid, I couldn’t have cared less—it was just normal to me. But as an adult, I realized what a gem it really was.

Our house sat on a dead-end cul-de-sac. Rarely did random cars come up our street—just the people who lived there. My brother, a few neighborhood kids, and I rode our bikes up and down that cul-de-sac all the time. We were all over the street because it was so quiet, safe, and secluded.

It was one of those neighborhoods where people put down roots and stayed.

There was Mr. Thomas, the elderly man who lived two doors down. He didn’t move away, per se. He passed away when he was realllllly old. (He was probably in his 80s, but I was a teenager, so he seemed ancient.) There were the Andersons, who handed out homemade caramel apples every Halloween.

Those are the two neighbors from my childhood who didn’t make it into my adult years—or at least not very far into them.

But the neighbors on either side of my parents’ house? Still there.

The two directly across the street? Still there.

The neighbors next to the Andersons? Still there.

The Wells, who lived two doors down from Mr. Thomas? Still there.

Nearly all the same neighbors were living there throughout the years we bounced in and out of my parents’ house—first with two kids, then with five. They watched my children grow up right in front of them, just as they’d once watched me grow up.

Even the grumpy old husband and wife across the street.

I held a slight bit of disdain for that couple.

They moved into the house when I was about 10 years old. Before that, my best neighborhood friend had lived there. It was her house. But I was too young to understand the complexities that followed her broken home life. Her parents went through a nasty divorce, she eventually moved away, and new neighbors moved in.

They didn’t have kids…and they definitely didn’t like kids.

They were always barking at us when we’d ride our bikes along the side of their property to get to the public lands behind the neighborhood. We frustrated them so much that they eventually put up a fence—illegally—to block our access.

I remember my dad being upset about it.

“They can’t block access to the canal…grumble grumble…dad speak…grumble grumble…”

That’s about all I remember.

All I knew was they’d made it really hard for us to ride our bikes the way we had for yearsssss before they came along.

Pfft.

Thankfully, another neighbor whose property also bordered that area gave us permission to pass through, and that’s how we reached the public lands for the rest of my childhood.

Now, return to 2014 with me, when we found ourselves looking for a home to rent since a mortgage wasn’t in the cards.

An acquaintance of ours posted on Facebook that they were moving out of their home and looking for tenants, “if anyone knows someone looking.” We reached out, and within a few weeks we were signing a lease and moving into their house.

Their house became our home for the next five years.

During that time, we welcomed our sixth child into the family and, for one of those years, my cousin’s son also lived with us. At one point, that meant we had seven kids living in that little house. It was about 1,100 square feet with three bedrooms and one bathroom. It was a tight fit…but we made it work (thanks to multiple bunk beds).

Those were truly precious years, and so many memories were made there.

In August of 2019, we were celebrating one of our boys’ birthdays at a local park. As my mom and I were talking, she said, “Hey…are you guys still interested in our house? I think your dad and I are ready to start considering the idea of downsizing. Maybe a condo or something.”

Wow…how badly I wanted to make that work.

But I knew we were no closer to getting a mortgage than we’d been five years earlier.

“Yeah, we’d definitely be interested, but I’m just not sure how we could make it work.”

She assured me we’d figure that part out over time. Right then, she just wanted to know if we were still interested. We both agreed it was something we could begin looking at over the coming year or so.

I remember that conversation clearly. It was a Tuesday—the last Tuesday of the month.

The very next day, something wild happened.

My mom called me, almost breathless.

“Megan, I…I…cannot believe this. Betty’s house is up for sale. There’s a For Sale sign in the yard. It wasn’t there yesterday. They put it there today…!”

Mr. Thomas had been gone for years. Sometime after he passed away, a new neighbor moved in. That’s when the house became “Betty’s house.”

My parents had become close friends with Betty, and she would often tell them, “One day, I want Megan and Alberto to buy this house so they can live in the neighborhood.”

Betty grew old, as we all do, and passed away several years before this fateful day in 2019. Her house had changed hands at least twice. Every time it went up for sale, I’d quietly wish there was some way we could buy it.

But it simply wasn’t possible.

By then, we had six kids. The house was far too small for our family. If only Betty could see us now.

But this time…

This time, when it went up for sale, it was different.

A Different Kind of Homecoming

“Megan…what if we bought Betty's house and you guys bought ours?”

I reminded her, “Mom, unfortunately we’re just not able to buy a house. I’d love to. That’s my dream. But we can’t.”

Honestly, it felt like a pipe dream at that point.

She countered, “What if you guys rented our house from us for a while? Then maybe we could turn it into a rent-to-own deal or something. I guess what I’m really asking is…if we can make it work, would you consider moving into our house if we bought Betty's?

“It would be perfect for your dad and me. It’s smaller, all one level, has a smaller yard…overall, it’s a really great house for us to retire into. We’ve talked about it for years, and now it’s up for sale. There’s no way this is random.”

I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was divine timing.

We had JUST talked the day before about the possibility of my parents downsizing and us moving into my childhood home sometime over the next year. And now the house they’d had their eye on for years had suddenly gone up for sale?

“Okay…yes. If we can keep the rent close to what we’re paying now, then yes…I think we could actually do this.”

By Thursday—as in, the very next day—my parents had put an offer on the house.

And by Saturday, despite several offers, the sellers accepted theirs.

They loved the story: that the house was going to their own neighbors, making it possible for us to move into my childhood home.

By mid-October, my parents had closed on the house and were knee-deep in the process of clearing out more than 30 years of memories while both still worked full time.

Meanwhile, I was in my third trimester with our seventh child, trying to purge and pack the house we were living in while preparing for the move. I was also heading into the busiest season of the year at Colorado Baby: mid-November through Christmas.

In the end, it all worked out, and we moved into my childhood home in mid-November.

It was surreal making the house ours—with our furniture, our family photos, our personal belongings…and even our own chickens.

Setting up my kids in their bedrooms—including my own childhood bedroom, still decorated the way it had been when I moved out—felt dreamlike.

A few weeks later, we welcomed our seventh child into the family.

That seventh child is now 6½ years old. His age is an easy marker for me to remember how long we’ve been living in my childhood home as a family.

Over these last 6½ years, we’ve seen some of the neighbors who had been there since I was a child pass away. Ed, right next door, passed away a couple of years after we moved in. The Wells passed away within the last two or three years.

Despite losing those neighbors, there are still at least seven homes occupied by the same people who lived here when I was a kid.

It’s such an interesting phenomenon that I’m raising my kids in my childhood neighborhood alongside many of the same neighbors.

Two sets of neighbors whose kids I played with growing up have grandkids…just like my parents.

And the crazy part?

Those grandkids play with my kids.

I don’t know…there’s just something about that.

The neighbor kids I played with…our kids are playing together.

My parents are both retired now and get to enjoy my kids wandering down throughout the day to talk with them, help them, or simply sit on the porch drinking hot cocoa together.

The whole thing is wildly idyllic.

My kids have spent countless hours, days, weeks, months, and years riding their bikes on the same dead-end cul-de-sac where I rode mine.

They’ve gone on hikes and explorations “back in the hills,” just like I did.

They hunt for fossils, lizards, and crawdads, and dream about building a treehouse…just like I did.

The other day, my daughter found a bunch of scorpions back there and came home to show me the pictures she’d taken.

I couldn’t have been more proud.

There was, however, one unexpected twist.

That grumpy old husband and wife?

I dare say they softened toward my kids over the years.

My boys would offer to help them with yard work, which they always seemed to appreciate. And my kids have definitely provided endless entertainment as Gary and Bobbie sat on their front porch watching them ride bikes, shoot hoops, and play in the dirt of our front “yard.”

My kids never knew them as the grumpy old husband and wife.

They just knew them as Gary and Bobbie.

Maybe they weren’t so scary after all.

They never barked at my kids for riding their bikes.

While I never really interacted with them much, I was always glad to know my kids were quick to help them and stop to chat.

A few years ago, Bobbie knocked on my door.

I hadn’t seen her up close in…forever.

She wondered if I could help her call her landline phone company. Her phone wasn’t working, and she didn’t own a cell phone.

I welcomed her into my home while we sorted things out with customer service.

It was the most I’d ever interacted with her.

And I am ashamed to admit that.

Across the Street

Just a week ago, my son Joseph (18) asked me one night, “Hey…can you check the obituaries? I haven’t seen Bobbie in quite some time…”

My heart instantly sank.

I reassured him, “I read the obituaries regularly, and I haven’t seen her in them…”

I started Googling, and after just a few minutes, I looked at Joseph with shock on my face.

“She died. She died about a month ago.”

His face instantly fell. He quietly excused himself and went outside to sit on the porch in the dark for a while. I sat in my recliner, absolutely stunned.

My neighbor…my neighbor for the last 30 years…had died a month ago, and I had no idea.

I felt like a loser neighbor, I can tell you that for sure.

And how was Gary doing? We had to check on him.

A few days later, I headed out to take one of my boys to an appointment, and Gary happened to be driving up the street in his truck. I waved as he passed and thought to myself again…

I’ve got to check on Gary.

During dinner that evening, I decided I was going to pack one of my glass Pyrex dishes with a hot meal and take it over to him. Partly because I genuinely wanted to care for him. Partly because I hoped it would open the door to finding out how he was doing. And partly because by taking it over in a glass dish instead of something disposable, I’d naturally create another opportunity to check in on him. Either he’d bring the dish back across the street, or I’d walk over to pick it up.

When dinner was over, I packed up the food, took a deep breath, and walked across the street. I brought my two youngest boys with me to help break the ice.

I walked up to the door, knocked…

…and held my breath.

Gary answered the door while trying to hold back Tucker, his little white dog, who was barking like crazy at us.

I held out the hot dish and said, “Hi Gary…I’m so sorry to hear about Bobbie. I wanted to bring you some dinner.”

He looked genuinely surprised. Then a smile slowly spread across his face.

He thanked me and told me how kind that was.

I stared at him in disbelief.

He didn’t look like the grumpy old man I had remembered.

He looked old alright…really old. Like Mr. Thomas old. But there wasn’t a shred of grump in him. He looked like an old man just trying to live.

We ended up talking for about 15–20 minutes. I told him, again, how sorry I was about Bobbie. I let him know my boys would be happy to help with anything he needed. I assured him they weren’t half bad at keeping a house clean.

He smiled. “I can actually keep up with the cleaning pretty well…but I could really use some help mowing. I can do the riding mower, but there are parts I still have to do with the push mower.”

I told him my boys would be over every week to help.

Then I said, “I brought your dinner in a glass dish. Tomorrow we’ll bring another meal in another glass dish, and we’ll pick this one back up. We’ll just keep trading a meal for an empty dish.”

His eyes got so wide.

“…Wow. Thank…thank you. I never did the cooking. Bobbie always cooked.”

He told me how shocked he still was that she was gone. How sad he’d been. They’d been married for 56 years, and he felt completely lost without her.

I remembered they never had children, so I asked if he had any family here in town. He didn’t. His sister and brother-in-law live on the other side of the state. They’ve come to check on him, but for the most part…he’s alone.

Several times during our conversation he told me how kind and polite my kids are. How helpful they’ve been over the years.

I told him Joseph had asked me the week before to look up Bobbie in the obituaries because he’d been worried about her. I told Gary that’s how we’d found out she’d passed away and how crushed we all were. I also told him Joseph had taken it especially hard.

Gary looked at me and simply said, “Bobbie really appreciated Joseph.”

Shoo-wee…

I’m writing through tears.

I don’t even have words.

These grumpy old neighbors…my kids had quietly won them over. They had nestled their way into their hearts. I knew it had happened to a degree, but I don’t think I’d ever really stopped to see it fully.

At first, that realization filled me with guilt.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something else. Maybe I hadn’t seen my neighbors as clearly because of old hurts. Maybe because life with eight kids and two businesses is simply full. Whatever the reason, it hadn’t kept me from teaching my children to notice people.

They’ve taken meals to new moms with me, sat with me as someone grieved the loss of a child, and helped me pack up a friend’s storage unit before she moved away.

And while I wasn’t looking…they quietly carried those same values across the street.

Where I couldn’t be…my kids had been.

Maybe that’s part of what this verse means:

As I wrapped up talking with Gary, I reached out and hugged him. It’s amazing how much healing can be found in simple human touch. I told him again how sorry I was and reminded him we’d be back tomorrow with a meal.

He blinked back tears and thanked me once more.

As I walked down his driveway, I realized something.

Parts of my childhood had just been healed.

And while I wasn’t looking, my children had quietly become the kind of people I’d always hoped they would be.

And just like that…

I was home.

My childhood home.
​

-Just Me[gan]