Let me recount an incident that was scary, funny, and sad all at the same time.
By 1995, all of us had blessedly moved out from our home at 841 N. Maplewood, except my brother Joseph, who was out this particular evening, leaving my parents to enjoy some domestic tranquility for the first time in 35-odd years. My brother Mike, a new Bradley graduate, lived in an apartment not far away and was a frequent visitor at home to catch a meal or do some laundry.
On this particular evening, my parents, who were reading the paper and watching television in the family room, heard the back door open and close. As my mom turned the pages of the newspapers, she called out, “Mike?” and received no reply. Not thinking much of this, my parents continued their evening recreation activities. About a half an hour later, my mom said to my dad, “That’s strange that Michael hasn’t come in to say hi.” My dad probably shrugged, and my mom set off in search of him.
She went upstairs and checked his old bedroom. He wasn’t there. She went to the door of her large bedroom. Now my parents’ bedroom was actually composed of two room, connected by a French door way. She flipped on the light in the first room. In the back room, where their king size bed was, she saw a head come up from the pillow.
It wasn’t my brother’s.
Not believing what she saw, she turned off the light and then turned it back on again. Once again, what she thought was a head raised up from my dad’s side of the bed.
At this point, my mom hastened downstairs to summon my dad, who initially had a hard time believing her account of events. After he verified that the head coming up from his pillow was indeed happening, dad called Bradley security, who came to the house in a matter of minutes.
A couple officers carefully approached the figure in my parents’ bed. As they drew closer, one of them exclaimed, “Cornelius! What are you doing here?”
They aroused the man, who reeked of alcohol, from the bed and tried to ascertain why he was in my parents’ bed.
“I was tired, and I wanted a place to sleep.”
As it turned out, Cornelius was a—I don’t know what the politically correct term is now—transient? vagabond? occasionally homeless man?—local person who was familiar to the Bradley police.
I don’t know if this was the last day my parents ever kept the back door unlocked, but it might have been. My mom and dad didn’t press charges. I’m sure my mom prays for Cornelius—the tired trespasser.
By 1995, all of us had blessedly moved out from our home at 841 N. Maplewood, except my brother Joseph, who was out this particular evening, leaving my parents to enjoy some domestic tranquility for the first time in 35-odd years. My brother Mike, a new Bradley graduate, lived in an apartment not far away and was a frequent visitor at home to catch a meal or do some laundry.
On this particular evening, my parents, who were reading the paper and watching television in the family room, heard the back door open and close. As my mom turned the pages of the newspapers, she called out, “Mike?” and received no reply. Not thinking much of this, my parents continued their evening recreation activities. About a half an hour later, my mom said to my dad, “That’s strange that Michael hasn’t come in to say hi.” My dad probably shrugged, and my mom set off in search of him.
She went upstairs and checked his old bedroom. He wasn’t there. She went to the door of her large bedroom. Now my parents’ bedroom was actually composed of two room, connected by a French door way. She flipped on the light in the first room. In the back room, where their king size bed was, she saw a head come up from the pillow.
It wasn’t my brother’s.
Not believing what she saw, she turned off the light and then turned it back on again. Once again, what she thought was a head raised up from my dad’s side of the bed.
At this point, my mom hastened downstairs to summon my dad, who initially had a hard time believing her account of events. After he verified that the head coming up from his pillow was indeed happening, dad called Bradley security, who came to the house in a matter of minutes.
A couple officers carefully approached the figure in my parents’ bed. As they drew closer, one of them exclaimed, “Cornelius! What are you doing here?”
They aroused the man, who reeked of alcohol, from the bed and tried to ascertain why he was in my parents’ bed.
“I was tired, and I wanted a place to sleep.”
As it turned out, Cornelius was a—I don’t know what the politically correct term is now—transient? vagabond? occasionally homeless man?—local person who was familiar to the Bradley police.
I don’t know if this was the last day my parents ever kept the back door unlocked, but it might have been. My mom and dad didn’t press charges. I’m sure my mom prays for Cornelius—the tired trespasser.
The picture above is of the door to the furnace room in the basement of our house. Boo was painted there before we moved in in 1964.
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