Wednesday, March 8, 2017
I Think Finn Is Lying to Himself About His True Motivation
"I always give you kisses when I want something because I love you."
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Del Mar Drive
At church, we were asked to attend the personal history writing class. This is what I wrote in response to the question to tell about my neighborhood.
I grew up in the 80s, which from my current perspective seems like the age of free-range children, unhampered by rigid restrictions like "bedtimes" and "playdates" and concern for things like "bad guys." One exception on the "bad guy" thing: there was a brief period circa 1984 when Salt Lake City grew deathly afraid of kidnappers. My mom packed us all in the car and we traipsed down to the City and County Building to get fingerprinted and to get our pictures taken. I don't remember my ID card, but I remember my little sister Marissa's, because at one, she was wearing my heart-shaped, rainbow-strapped, My-Little-Pony purse in her picture, and though I wanted it back for mine, she screamed until my mom let her have it. I found this injustice supremely unfair, and as far as I was concerned, Marissa and Mom were the bad guys, not some distant and imaginary "bad guy" who might pick me up in a dark-windowed van.
But other than 1984, the 80s were full of free-range children. From 4:00 pm until nightfall, Del Mar Drive was a haven for children, and the lack of supervision seems simultaneously wonderful and shocking. The Moresheads had four kids; the Paulsens had five kids; Spencers had six, Healeys had six, and the Larsons had five. That's 20 children who ran up and down the street, and that's just counting the regulars. I'm not even counting the Buckhouses, the twins who lived next door, the Ekdales, or the Greek girl who wasn't allowed to leave her driveway, but who was allowed to roller-skate in a circle in front of her house.
At 5:15, Jann Moreshead would ring a bell at her door and shout, "Supper is ready!" The Moresheads were Presbyterians on a street full of Mormons, and in my 6-year-old mind, supper is what Presbyterians called dinner. This is the only difference I could identify between our two religions, a difference which I'm sure had more to do with where Jann grew up that any difference in creed, but seemed perfectly logical as Protestant vernacular.
Healeys had dinner at 5:30 (their rigid schedule was both touted and threatened in my home on a regular basis--they also went to bed at the unheard of hour of 7:30 while we Paulsens stumbled into our rooms around 9, or 9:17, or 9:52). Spencers ate around 6 and the Larsons disappeared soon after that.
We went in for dinner whenever it got dark around 7 or 7:30. I'm not certain if this is because my mom like a busy and full life, whether that was chairing the Save-Wasatch-Jr-High Committee, or talking one of her students down off of whatever emotional or academic ledge they faltered on. But the romantic writer in me (and who's to say the romantic writer isn't accurate?) likes to think it was because that's when Dad got home from work. For much of my childhood in the mid-80s, Dad was working on the Emma Eccles Jones Education Building on Utah State campus and left home at 4:00 am to drive to Logan and then returned after dark. We went in to feast on spaghetti or beef rollups whenever the family was all together.
That's what I remember most about Del Mar Drive--playing unsupervised hide n' seek or tag or kick-the-can while my buddies disappeared one-by-one, my belly hungry but full of excitement because soon Dad would be home.
I grew up in the 80s, which from my current perspective seems like the age of free-range children, unhampered by rigid restrictions like "bedtimes" and "playdates" and concern for things like "bad guys." One exception on the "bad guy" thing: there was a brief period circa 1984 when Salt Lake City grew deathly afraid of kidnappers. My mom packed us all in the car and we traipsed down to the City and County Building to get fingerprinted and to get our pictures taken. I don't remember my ID card, but I remember my little sister Marissa's, because at one, she was wearing my heart-shaped, rainbow-strapped, My-Little-Pony purse in her picture, and though I wanted it back for mine, she screamed until my mom let her have it. I found this injustice supremely unfair, and as far as I was concerned, Marissa and Mom were the bad guys, not some distant and imaginary "bad guy" who might pick me up in a dark-windowed van.
But other than 1984, the 80s were full of free-range children. From 4:00 pm until nightfall, Del Mar Drive was a haven for children, and the lack of supervision seems simultaneously wonderful and shocking. The Moresheads had four kids; the Paulsens had five kids; Spencers had six, Healeys had six, and the Larsons had five. That's 20 children who ran up and down the street, and that's just counting the regulars. I'm not even counting the Buckhouses, the twins who lived next door, the Ekdales, or the Greek girl who wasn't allowed to leave her driveway, but who was allowed to roller-skate in a circle in front of her house.
At 5:15, Jann Moreshead would ring a bell at her door and shout, "Supper is ready!" The Moresheads were Presbyterians on a street full of Mormons, and in my 6-year-old mind, supper is what Presbyterians called dinner. This is the only difference I could identify between our two religions, a difference which I'm sure had more to do with where Jann grew up that any difference in creed, but seemed perfectly logical as Protestant vernacular.
Healeys had dinner at 5:30 (their rigid schedule was both touted and threatened in my home on a regular basis--they also went to bed at the unheard of hour of 7:30 while we Paulsens stumbled into our rooms around 9, or 9:17, or 9:52). Spencers ate around 6 and the Larsons disappeared soon after that.
We went in for dinner whenever it got dark around 7 or 7:30. I'm not certain if this is because my mom like a busy and full life, whether that was chairing the Save-Wasatch-Jr-High Committee, or talking one of her students down off of whatever emotional or academic ledge they faltered on. But the romantic writer in me (and who's to say the romantic writer isn't accurate?) likes to think it was because that's when Dad got home from work. For much of my childhood in the mid-80s, Dad was working on the Emma Eccles Jones Education Building on Utah State campus and left home at 4:00 am to drive to Logan and then returned after dark. We went in to feast on spaghetti or beef rollups whenever the family was all together.
That's what I remember most about Del Mar Drive--playing unsupervised hide n' seek or tag or kick-the-can while my buddies disappeared one-by-one, my belly hungry but full of excitement because soon Dad would be home.
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