Places I Think I Remember.

Driving around the streets of Salt Lake City, I’m constantly hit with the notion that there are places I’d been as a boy, but don’t really know for sure. The memories aren’t vivid or necessarily meaningful, but it’s interesting which details stick with a little kid.

On 700 East at around 1700 South? I think Dad had a friend named Ron Ewell who lived on one of the side streets. This particular street conjures up memories of rose bushes and rusty chain link fences. I don’t remember much other than that except Dad took us there the day our dog Yogi was killed by a car on Indiana Avenue. I thinkn Mom and Frank wanted us kids out of the house so they could perform the burial. Mark, David and I played Kick the Can in the road with Ron’s boys. I don’t think I even knew their names.

300 East and 800 South? Mom and Frank had some friends named George and Midge. They had a teeny house with gnomes and plastic turtles peeking out from the petunia beds. Their living room was mint green and there was a Jesus figurine on their black and white television. I think.

Highland Drive and Crystal (maybe Parkway) Avenue? Grandma Chase had a walkout basement apartment. I remember watching “Gentle Ben” and Disney’s “Wide World of Color” on her console TV. Her ceilings were quite low and gave me the ability to pick my brother Rusty up by the ears and knock his head on the ceiling with a gentle “bonk.” We’d also tromp around the living room—his feet on top of mine—as we stomped around like conjoined giants. Before Grandma moved there, it seems she lived in a ‘50s rambler on a winding road at about 4500 South and 900 East. It’s pretty foggy, but I remember Sesame Street babbling in the background.

At 900 South and about 300 East? Mom and Frank had some friends with the best tree house ever filled with curtains, furniture and a colony of Box Elder bugs. We spent the night there with a bunch of other kids one weekend. I think our parents had all made the trek to Wendover. I don’t know who was put in charge of us, just that there was a mass of wall-to-wall sleeping bags on the floor.

2300 East and Wasatch Drive? Somewhere around the area where the Old Mill sits, I seem to remember the house where Dad wooed (and later married Raelene). Was there a big yard and gravel driveway? And ducks? I think so. Maybe not. I was only five.

2nd Avenue and “C” Street? On the corner sits a big old house that I recall being my Great Grandma Aggie’s nursing home. She shared a room with a couple of other residents, but the entry hall was strewn with crying, drooling, forgotten old people. It’s since been turned into a single-family home. I wonder if the new owners knew its sad history.

For some people a certain smell can trigger a memory—good or bad; for others it’s a certain piece of music that does the trick. For me, a rose bush by a rusty chain link fence does it every time. 

Demolition Derby.

I bought my first real car when I was 18. It was a lemon yellow Volkswagen Rabbit.

One night while I was asleep I heard a huge crash in front of the house. “Oh, no” I thought, “Someone hit our garbage cans!” I looked out the window to see a car speed  away. “No! Someone hit my car!” There was the Rabbit, facing the wrong direction on Pueblo Street with its rear end bashed in. The side of my brother’s pickup truck was also munched.

My family got up to take a look. A clue: There were red paint chips scattered among the wreckage. Mark and I got in the car with Frank to prowl the neighborhood in search of a red car with a smashed front end. Nothing. We went home and back to bed.

The next morning we went out to take another look. There was a note on the windshield that said “Sorry. I swerved to avoid a dog and hit your cars.” His name and number were scrawled at the bottom of the note.

He was a kid who lived just around the corner. His car was blue car with a red front end. Although nothing was said specifically, it seemed like a night of underage drinking had a lot to do with it. Frank took care of the matter with a phone call to the kid’s mom and the insurance company and all was settled. I’m sure the kid got a stern talking to or a swift kick in the ass.

•••

Later that summer Mom, Frank and I were sitting on the front porch with Scamp, our little terrier. We were in the middle of watching a torrential rainstorm, when we heard a loud crash in the intersection. The same kid who had slammed into our cars had just smashed another.

He got out of the car and said something to the other driver then went door to door to use someone’s phone. No one answered at any of the homes so he was forced to come to our house and use ours. As he stood awkwardly on our front porch waiting for the police to arrive. He tried to make conversation. “That’s a cute dog. What kind is it?” Frank dryly replied, “It’s a Swerve-to-Avoid-a-Dog.”

Manna for Mom.

When I was a kid, religion was always a confusing thing to me. My Dad was a Mormon who took us to church on weekends and Mom was some sort of Flying Spaghetti Monster worshipper who showed us her own views on life during the other days of the week.

As a teenager, I was basically a good kid but subject to the peer pressure of my schoolmates. Therefore, I would occasionally don my clip-on necktie and head over to the Edison Ward in hopes of getting invited to a dance or a maybe a sledding outing. I never believed any of the teachings. It just seemed like the popular thing to do.

One Sunday morning at breakfast, Mom asked if I would please go to church that day. I never got the impression she was that interested in my eternal salvation so I was somewhat taken aback. That Sunday was an important one. It was Mother’s Day and the church leaders were handing out free tomato plants. Those long, leggy plants were given to the kids to show their Moms their undying gratitude—their thanks for being born and being put up with. Being a dutiful, grateful son, there was no question I would go to church that Sunday—and I did.

You see, Mother’s Day was the one day a year my Mom received a blessing from above—or at least from Redwood Nursery.

Oh, Puck!

When my brother Mark and I were 12 and 14 or so, we would hit the Golden Eagles hockey games at the Salt Palace. We bought tickets but rarely sat in our assigned seats. We’d run up and down the aisles doing things like tormenting the organist on the mezzanine or marveling at the players sitting on the bench.

Every game, we’d find ourselves rinkside putting our faces against the chain link barrier shouting at the action—and wincing as the players as they came crashing into the boards. 

One game, a referee made a particularly bad call and the fans really let him have it. As he skated toward us Mark loudly taunted him with some sort of snottiness. The ref looked none-too-pleased at the two of us little brats.

The next morning as we sat at home watching TV, the doorbell rang. Mark went to the door and opened it to see the ref from the night before looming in the doorway. Mark nearly crapped his pants dreading the grisly fate that awaited him. They engaged in another stare down.

Then the ref asked if our parents were home. His side job was selling Cable TV.