Lucy Reflects

I remember pulling up to the house. My father in full command of our 1967 Vista Cruiser station wagon filled with my four sisters, five brothers, my mother holding a baby and no one wearing a seat belt.

We pulled up to the curb at 121 Snowball Drive, our new house, and nothing ever felt more like home since.

I was 6 years old and #8 in the lineup. It was well into summer - the yard big and green. For a short moment, we all just stood in what seemed like a drunken nature stupor, trying to decide which way to run and explore.

My first stop was an old wooden monkey bar set on the side of the house near an apple tree. A monkey bar set in our yard, how could it get any better? My brother Patrick (#7) and I played on the bars, hands getting blistered by the old wooden wrungs but not caring. Then we made our way into the backyard, where a stone wall stood three-feet high and ran three quarters of the length of the yard, ending at an enormous tree with giant elephant ear leaves. Tied to the lowest branch was a rope swing with a thick, soft knot. There was a little hill perfect for launching yourself onto the rope and swinging far out over the shade-covered grass. I’ll never forget that rope and all the hours we spent swinging. We came up with all sorts of games centered around its flight path. How high could you go, could you catch a ball thrown from the side with one hand, could you kick a ball rolled up the launch area and how long could the dog hold onto the rope with her vice grip jaws and swing?

The rest of the yard had sycamore trees that were perfect for climbing, pine trees that were great hiding spots, and beautiful forsythia bushes with jackets of bright yellow. The front yard had the best hill for rolling down and the prettiest giant weeping willow tree. Oh, the hours we spent hanging on its wispy branches.

My Dad called us all over to the garage and said he had a surprise. It was something very few people had at their house and it could be dangerous, so he wanted us to all pay very close attention. ( When he spoke, you listened and paid attention with razor focus ).

I will never forget that first time we descended into the bomb shelter.

Built in the mid ‘60s in response to the Cuban missile crisis, the bomb shelter was the kind of thing urban legends were made of. From the garage there was an 8-by-4-foot steel door that lifted from the floor. There was a flight of rickety wooden steps that lead down a concrete stairwell into a cold, damp and dark hallway. There were no hand rails, so you either held onto the moist, cold concrete walls (nope, not doing that) or just carefully balanced to the bottom of the steps.

There was one bare lightbulb that gave off just enough light to see a few feet ahead. Dad led the way with all of us Indians behind, to a door that was more like a hatch to a submarine. It had big steel arms about every two feet that had to be lifted to open the door and led into a large dimly lit concrete room. A safe was built into the wall at the far end of the room and a set of metal bunks attached to the wall like a submarine. On one side was a hand crank that spun a big metal wheel which at some point served as an air-filtration system. It was dank, cold and sticky. I’m sure there were spiders hiding in the dark. It echoed loudly when we spoke. It was the most awesome place on earth. Just outside the submarine door was a ladder that rose up through a concrete tube to a hatch that opened on the side yard. (The parties we had down in that bomb shelter is a story for another time). We hadn’t even stepped foot inside this house, but we already knew we could not have found a better place on earth to live.

The house was large and open compared to our crammed current house. It was like a castle. The fire place had a slate mantel and big windows. There were three huge bedrooms on the main level and two full bathrooms. Upstairs were four more bedrooms and another full bathroom. In the large bedroom upstairs was another surprise, a set of monkey bars built into the ceiling with big florescent lighting for all-night swinging (or so we thought …). It just couldn’t have gotten any better, until while swinging on the monkey bars, we got our first glimpse out the window of the treasure that waited for us across the street.

A huge park known in the neighborhood as the greenbelt, but simply known to us as “The Woods,” had acres of giant trees and trails and a creek that meandered through it. There were rock crossings, trees that hung out over the water, ducks, frogs, climbing rocks, turtles and fish. At one rock crossing was dead man’s hill, a long steep hill that led up to the elementary school (and where #10 broke his leg when he was 6). There was mermaid rock, a rope swing and lots of other hideyholes. A bridge that joined Forsythia Gate with Snowball Gate was the perfect place to fish, find treasures, skim rocks and play in the water. Miles of trails led to secret neighborhood forts, hang outs and winding bumpy trails to ride our bikes on adventures. When there was a big storm, our little Queen Anne creek turned into a raging river … for a day or two anyway.

I walked to school on fall mornings with friends and came home at lunch for a little cherished one-on- one-time with mom. When summer hit and school was out, it was up in the morning for cartoons and a bowl of cereal then out to play in the woods or down to the public pool. At 10-years-old, you could go to the pool without a parent and join the big kids picking strawberries at Styers Orchards. We stayed out all day with a pitstop for lunch, then back out until dark. Somebody would have a game of capture the flag in the backyard, but before long, it was pitch dark and time to head inside and collapse into bed. It was controlled chaos from morning until night.

The grab-it-and-growl suppers for 12, TV in our backroom, Charles Chips, Skoshi our dog, Saturday morning chores done to John Phillips Sousa (until my Dad started playing golf on the weekends) and sitting around the living room with Mom in her gold chair listening to music (she loved the Moody Blues) or listening to her tell us about the latest book she was reading. She would always look preoccupied but if you tried to sneak in late, she was right there in her chair with a martini and “the look” over her glasses.

We moved to that house in 1968, the fall of my first-grade year. I have so many treasured memories that all sort of comingled into a feeling. A sweet, wonderful love that fills my heart. Each stage of my life, different memories bring me back to cherished times that I carry with me every day. I believe that my mom and dad, my brothers and others I’ve loved and lost use those memories to let me know they care and are still with me. My brother passed away January 21, 1982. Although that may seem like a bad thing, to us it was God’s way of letting us know, its ok, Tommy is home.

My brother (# 6) now owns the house and maintains it with reverence, much like the loving hands of a curator at a museum. That feeling of home for all of us is summed up with one number - 121.

We’d like to hear from you, what are some of your favorite childhood memories?