I like saying the address, because when my Daddy would tell us stories at bedtime, they were always about his childhood and the scene was always always 381 East 3rd South. Now that I live in Pleasant Grove, I intentionally drive out my way to drive past that little red brick house and recite the address and beginning to all of his stories to myself again. "A long time ago, when I was a little boy at three eighty-one East third South....." I sortof hope that when my boys grow up they'll find themselves in Lindon and drive past Grandpa Fugal's house at 390 North Main and remember that it is the scene of my childhood memories.
Like the time we were babysitting Mae's dog and there was a thunderstorm. Mae was Grandma's college roommate - but I didn't know that, just that she was Aunt Mae and part of our family. Bebe got scared (thunder you know...) and ran away. All of the doors to the house were closed, but with 5 kids in the house, I'm sure my parents didn't really know that she was still inside. I remember being instructed to look everywhere. Even in the gigantic chip barrel. The thought of her in there made me giggle.
When we eventually found Bebe she had run under mom and dad's bed in their room downstairs. They had a waterbed and my dad had built the frame for it. The frame under the bed left some open caverns that could only be entered through the small corner openings and it was DARK under there. I thought she must have been terrified - and she apparently was because someone said that she peed under there. (Though I'm sure they didn't say "pee" because "pee" was a bad word at our house.) I can only remember hearing that it happened, I can't remember at all my mom complaining about having to clean it up - which must have been a miserable job because of the tiny opening. My mom wasn't (and still isn't) big on complaining about things.
I believe we lived in that house for 6 years (with 5 kids!) and I'm sure that was tough for my parents, but I was too young and/or selfish to notice or care about toughness. For me it was just home.
We loved to play cops and robbers and we'd leave a trail of Spencer's Construx leading to our hiding place which was almost always in the creepy under the stairs space of the storage room.
And I still think that yard is one of the most magical places on earth. It has huge trees (seriously SERIOUSLY huge trees,) a water fountain, fruit trees, lilac bushes, a trampoline, the barn and honeysuckle bushes which we'd lay in to hide for some epic games of hide and seek. None of it is well groomed or manicured, most things are run down and tired, but the wild growth of that yard was kid heaven.
Three ninety North Main. I have enough memories there to write all month about nothing but that house with its charming outdated features. The electric heating panel and rotary phone at the bottom of the stairs were particularly fascinating to me - though I still don't really understand why.
I wonder why Grandma and Grandpa chose that house when they were house hunting? Did they see it filled with charm and picture grandkids running around the backyard in the summer and sledding down the hill on the North side in the winter? What was it like when they bought it? Did they make improvements or has it always been the home I knew?
Three ninety North Main. That is where my childhood happened.
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