I remember when I was in the second and third grade. We were living in Sioux City, Iowa, in a big house that seemed to an eight-year old boy to go on forever. I remember the first time I saw it, too. We were there looking around the outside of the property with a real estate agent; to me, the grounds appeared vast. I eventually wandered away from the grownups and my younger brothers and stood at the side of the house looking into what I remember were dense, black woods. I stared deep, imagining all kinds of forest creatures that were watching me from the darkness, waiting for their chance to rip my throat open and drink my blood. Looking back, maybe mom should have kept me away from those vampire movies.
Anyway, I decided to let the monsters know I was there and let out the loudest “I’ve fallen off the edge of this cliff” scream I could muster. Then I waited, but nothing happened. Then something did. But it wasn’t a monster; it was my father, who came running full speed around the corner of the house to my rescue. I’ve never gotten that image of him rounding that corner in a dead sprint out of my memory. When he saw that I was not killed, he said, “What in the hell are you doing?”
“Uh.”
It wasn’t the answer he was looking for, and he shook his head and went back toward the front yard, in a slower and much more natural looking motion than the one in which he’d arrived.
That house, as best I remember, was very large but all on one level. It also had a huge basement that had a concrete floor. I also remember a room at the very back of the basement that was small and dark and creeped me out, kind of like those woods. But I never screamed down there; seeing my dad run that one time had been enough.
Those, as H.I. McDonnough reflected so well, “were the salad days.” Dad was at the top of his game. Not only did we have a big house with a scary room and some scary woods, there was also a party barge and a little airplane.
And there was this guy named George who took care of our big yard. George was a happy man and a big man. One of his favorite things to do was to pick me up and hold me upside down by my stomach until I turned bright red; then blue, because I got to where I couldn’t really breathe at all.
George also had a small handicap, which was, he couldn’t hear a thing. So I could scream as loud as I wanted to and he’d just hold me upside down and laugh. For some reason that I never quite figured out, dad never came running when George was squeezing the life out of me.
George used to take my brother and me to get ice cream in his truck. That mom allowed this to take place tells you what kind of world we lived in during the ’60s – a much better one. Everyone trusted everyone, and this was even after Dick and Perry had visited that farm in Kansas, but before the Manson family, who were probably the reason we all began locking our doors.
But in those days, Sioux City was a great place to be a kid. Plus, it snowed a lot. We’re talking real snows, not this quarter and half-inch stuff down here where the Delta begins. It snowed on top of snow; and covered us up for months. I didn’t see much of George during those cold months, which at least let my breathing pattern return to normal.
We eventually left the big house and the woods, and the scary basement, and George and all the snow, after four years. We headed to Oklahoma and eventually back home to Little Rock, as mom was determined not to raise “Yankees.” There are many things I appreciate my mother for. Getting dad to bring us back to Arkansas has to be near the top of the list.
Love you, mom.