My childhood home. It was a grand, old farmhouse. Located at 1297 Old Darby Road (later changed to 2811 Old Darby Road), Darby, Montana, was fondly nicknamed “The White House” – whether by envious neighbors or because of the many people coming and going didn’t matter. To me, it was a palace, an incredible masterpiece that demanded the attention of a four, year old wrapped in the world of make-believe.
It didn’t take long for the oil drum for the furnace outside the window of the family room to be changed into a giant horse, which when painted white to match the siding on the house became the white stallion that would save all the damsels in distress.
The steep, narrow stairs to the upstairs became a perfect “mountain” for those rainy or snowy days on pillowcases or cookie sheets. You took your life in your own hands if you happened to walk around the corner on one of our many sledding expeditions.
The balcony outside my parents’ bedroom hosted many a scene from Romeo and Juliet. Not to mention ways of “breaking” into the mansion when we inadvertently locked ourselves out while playing Sherlock Holmes.
The ¾ wrap around porch was the arena for all of our olympic skating events, basketball tournaments, circus performances on the metal railings, and hours of sanding and painting.
The plaster walls in our bedrooms became wonderful and exciting archaeological digs for those evenings when sleep wouldn’t come and we were to “entertain” ourselves quietly in our beds.
The dungeon, or root cellar, filled hours of imagination as we crawled through spider webs, mouse droppings, jumped from apple barrel to apple barrel, swung from nylons full of onions, and even nursed baby kittens found under the stairs.
I’m sure my parents never dreamed of the games of hide-and-seek in the dirty clothes in the laundry, racing around the “oval” the stairs made of the outside rooms as we screeched and yelled in games of tag, late nights with the older siblings listening to their stories which at times ended in broken windows, the broken tiles on the roof left as evidence of sneaking from room-to-room not in the house but outside on the overhang, or the wonderful telephone games we would play as we shouted to each other through the heater vents.
My childhood home was filled with smells of baking bread, delicious meals, music, laughter, a flurry of activity, loving parents, quiet moments of reading, gospel study, and happy memories. I love and miss my childhood home – even more now that I need to create one of my own.
2 comments:
I have such fond memories of the Demot home. I keep wishing I could create what we had growing up for my kids.
It won't be the same memories, but believe me--they are remembering and making memories of their own. A few months ago I looked out the window and saw the kids "luging" down the street--they had put a laundry crate on a skateboard, had two kids loaded in it (with helmets--a nod to safety?) and were riding it down the hill. Which is actually kind of steep. The only way off was to bail out somewhere...usually after they ran into the neighbors derelict car to stop quickly. I thought our home in Eagle Mountain was perfect for those kind of memories...think I'm going to miss that?!
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