I remember my great grandma Anderson's house from my childhood. It was right down the street from my house, somewhere in between Thomas, Riverside and po-dunk nowhere West of Blackfoot. The front yard was shrouded with bushes and trees, making it dark enough to scare any child from it's shadows. The porch was on the side, and the several fountains that lived there were always running, providing hours of entertainment and soaked clothes.
Their house was the only one I hav ever seen that had a garden indoors. Rather than have pots in plants, there was a gray brick wall with dirt in the middle that supported what must have been 50 philidendrons, ivy, and other tropical plants. For a child, it was an indoor jungle. All the grand kids wondered why we all could not have a built in jungle at our house.
The back room houses a wood burning stove, but since we were never there in the winter I don't know if they ever used it. There was a tin, or box (my memory has already started to fade) filled with Lincoln Logs. REAL Lincoln Logs, not the modern plastic so-the-kids-don't-get-splinters Lincoln Logs, the real wooden deal. They were scarred with dings and dents from countless forts, garages and barns.
In the back yard grew an ancient Weeping Willow tree, the kind you see illustrated in children's books. Long dragging, yellow branches really did make it look sad. But then again, how could any tree with a tire swing be sad? It took some effort, and the flexibilty only a child posesses to climb into, but, if it were not filled with water from an afternoon storm or morning sprinklers the black rubber and thick yellow rope was the best place to spend a summer afternoon.
We drank water straight from the hose . . . it was so cold an actually clean enough to not send everyone who saw us into a panic. That was some of the best tasting water I have ever had.
I never realized that the field behind the back yard was their's too. And my great grandpa had probably spent hours in the vintage farm equipment that now sat collecting rust and bee's nests. Those are the stories I wish I knew now; how that tractor ended up there and the days spent working the earth. The stories we rolled our eyes to as children are the stories we wished we had payed better attention to now. History should never be allowed to die.
The last time I saw my great-grandpa he was sitting at his usual perch, a soft covered rocking chair in the family room of my grandma's house. The thought occured to me that I should hug him and say goodbye. But then, being shy, I figured I would do it next time. Of course, I did not get a next time because he died not long after. My great-grandmother sold the house and moved in with family members.
Awhile later I learned that their old house had burned to the ground. The person who had purchsed it claimed it was an accident, but there was speculation that it was set on purpose for insurance money. As silly as it sounds, I was upset. I drove by, wanting confirmation, and sure enough, the home where I had spent so much of my time was now nothing but a pile of blackened wood and concrete foundation. In a way it was a symbol that everything comes to an end, and a lesson in enjoying what you have while you have it.
I miss that house, but more importantly I miss what it represented. I experienced so many classic childhood "musts" there, and I will always remember those things. ..
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