Every House Holds a Story

Growing up on Jackie Lane, we had many neighbors who left an impression on me, but none quite like Kenny Young. He lived in the house right next to ours, and though he never had children of his own, he always treated us kids with kindness and patience.

At one point, Kenny’s life changed suddenly when his wife, Joyce, left. She packed up and went her own way, taking one of their two dogs with her—a little poodle whose name I wish I could still remember. What she left behind was Tina, a white Collie mix with a gentle spirit. Kenny kept Tina in his fenced yard, and we kids loved to play with her whenever we got the chance. This was long before my family had our own dog, Pals, so Tina filled that space for a time. I can still picture her trotting across the yard, happy for any attention we gave her.

Kenny himself was just as welcoming. I was a talkative child—probably more talkative than most adults could tolerate. But Kenny never made me feel like a nuisance. He always listened, always seemed genuinely interested in whatever story or idea I had to share. That meant a lot to me. It wasn’t often that grown-ups treated kids as if their words mattered, but Kenny did.

One summer he bought a motorcycle, a real thrill for all of us kids who thought of such things as pure adventure. I’ll never forget the day he offered to take me for a ride down Jackie Lane. The wind in my face, the rumble of the bike, and the sense of being trusted—it all felt larger than life. To this day, that is the only time I have ever been on a motorcycle. That ride stands out as one of those simple, magical childhood memories.

Sadly, after we moved away, I learned that he had died. His house eventually belonged to someone else, and his presence became just another memory tied to that little stretch of street. But for me, Kenny was more than a neighbor. He was a reminder that kindness matters, that listening can mean as much as speaking, and that even small gestures—a ride on a motorcycle, a patient ear—can stay with someone for a lifetime.

In my memories of Jackie Lane, where every house seemed to hold a story, Kenny’s will always be one of quiet kindness—woven into the fabric of my childhood, as much a part of that street as the trees and the laughter of kids playing outside.