When David Burkhardt received a piece of land from his parents as a young man, he had big dreams. His father, Louis, had purchased several lots of land on the south side of 15^th Street, a western extension of Walnut, just west of Forest. Louis intended to give the lots to his children for their future homes. 

David and his young wife, Ida Mae Stewart, dreamed big. Their budget for building was small, and they certainly didn’t want to go into debt. David had served in the military briefly and his training in accounting had taught him the value of keeping financial accounts “in the black.” 

The piece of land his father provided to them for a home sloped downhill toward the back of the property where a tree-lined creek flowed slowly west. The slope provided an ideal location for a multi-level home, and David knew it. But building one would take time and resources.

Starting small, he and Ida Mae conserved their resources. In 1957, they poured the basement and roofed it over. By that time, they had two little boys. A third would arrive shortly.

Their basement home was simple. The front door faced the backyard, and in front of it, David proudly installed a monogrammed, self-storing screen door. The aluminum screen guard had a large “B” for “Burkhardt” in the center of it. A simple kitchen and bath, two bedrooms, and a living room made up their living space. Fashionable brown and tan checkerboard tiles covered the cement floor except for the bathroom. It had black linoleum with flecks of color in it.

It took David about seven years to carefully work and save money for the upper floor. Then he began purchasing supplies for the main floor of the house above. By then the boys were nearing their teens and the family needed the extra room.

How they lived after the upper floor was completed is hinted at by the then-state-of-the-art intercom system that is still in the home. The master panel in the kitchen allowed for radio music to be piped throughout both floors—and to the outside. The Burkhardts could flip a switch on the intercom speaker in any of the rooms to talk to each other without having to yell.

David had wired the lighting throughout the house with a low-voltage system controlled by relays. The master control panel for the system was in the bedroom. It allowed David and Ida Mae to monitor which lights had been left on—or turned on by a boy sneaking around in the night—in any part of the house. The parents could then turn the lights off with the push of a button.

The intercom system as well as the whole-house fan that David had installed and the ingenious built-in dressers, bookcases, and desks in the boys’ rooms were definitely selling points for us when we were looking at the house. So was the monogrammed “B” on the aluminum screen door. It worked as well for our name as it had for the Burkhardts. But these were all bonus features. As I said before, it was the kitchen that initially told me this was my house.

David Burkhardt had no idea that one day another family would own and occupy this home that he so lovingly and carefully built. He died just two months before I began working in Independence at my new job. By then, the children had moved Ida Mae, to a nearby rest home.  Later they moved her to a much nicer residential care facility.

We didn’t know any of this history when we signed the papers to close on the house. And it was only then that we learned the names of the Burkhardts. To our utter delight, it turned out that they were members of the same church we attended.

I was able to visit Ida Mae a few times before she passed in June of 2019.  By that time, she was only able to carry on simple conversations with me. And it was through those conversations I learned what I have shared here.

The year after Ida Mae’s passing, we all were homebound as the Covid pandemic raged. Two years after that I finally decided to clean and reorganize the garage. Up until then we had just stowed things in it, and it needed a good cleaning.

When I moved out a set of metal shelves by the front of the garage, I found it. There, etched into the concrete floor under years of dust and dirt and leaves, was the date the floor had been poured. It said, “May 1964.”

As the bristles of my broom uncovered the words, the feeling that flowed through my body was a mixture of shock and reverence. I heard the words of a still small voice whisper, “Yes, this garage, this house, was built for you too.” You see, May 1964 was the month and year I was born. I was indeed destined to live in Independence. In this very house.

From time to time since then, David Burkhardt has periodically checked in on the house “from the other side”—the realm of departed spirits. Usually, I sense him when I am in the garage. I can almost see his plaid flannel shirt out of the corner of my eye. And I can tell that he is wondering if I am planning to make major changes to the house.

Not long after we moved in, I decided that the paint colors would stay what they are. David and Ida Mae chose them with love, and they suit me as well as they did them. We have ventured to plant a garden out in the backyard, and some fruit trees, and I feel like David approves. 

And I want him to. You see, I believe in life after death and the resurrection of us all. So, someday I will do a final cleaning. Not to get a deposit back, but rather in anticipation of turning the keys back to the man and woman who gave this house its life. After all, it is their inheritance. I’m just the caretaker.

I hope you will consider this question, and consider writing down the answer for your children and grandchildren: How did you know that your home was meant for you and that you were meant to be here? 

Voices of Independence is a column devoted to telling the inspiring stories of Independence—then and now.

Each published story includes an introspective question for our community—your story matters. Share your answer with Cheri at: [email protected] Please include “City on a Hill” in the subject line. Cheri reads every response and does her best to reply.

About Voices of Independence

Voices of Independence is a monthly column by Cheri Battrick.

Cheri’s column is part of The Independence Standard—where local voices and in-depth reporting come together.

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