Ohio's foreclosure crisis is like the red and white house I let flies into when I was a kid, because, like most of my cousins, I never remembered to close Grandma's screen door.

Back then, the great, big old house on Cleveland's east side contained an untold number of places for hide and seek.

My cousins met there all the time.

In the summer, we would track in smashed mulberries on our shoes from the tree at the corner. The juice stained the carpet.

We jumped from the house's wooden porch railing and road on its squeaky front gate all the time being nagged to stop.

Now the house is virtually empty -- no wires, no pipes and no wood paneling.

Scavengers looking for a quick buck ravaged ...

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