Growing up I lived on a dead end dirt road. Literally. The road was a dead end and it was dirt. Our house was the first one on the right. It sat on a small rise of land. The front yard was a small patch of grass inside a split rail fence. The drive was to the left of the house and you could park one car there,two if they went one behind the other. In back was a much larger area, but very little grass. Mostly just hard packed dirt and a large patio. The clothesyard was there too, off in the rear right hand corner. Beyond our back yard was another dirt road, no houses on this one, and then Northwest woods.
If you continued up this road you would find two more houses on the right and two on the left. That was it. The whole neighborhood. A little pocket of humanity and we all knew one another. Out of the other four homes, two were stable. George and Francis Rollings lived in the first house on the left. Uncle George,as us kids called him, passed away when I was fairly young but his wife Francis lived there. She was a kind lady with funny ways about her. At least we thought she was funny. She drove a Jeep. Not the Jeep most think of today, but the Jeep that looks like a big station wagon. Geez, I hope everyone knows what a station wagon is. I don't think they call them that anymore. Across from her was Donald Norton. Norton, as we all called him for reasons I have no idea about, was a confirmed bachelor. He worked for the town and pretty much kept to himself. Every Thanksgiving my Mom would make a plate for him and one of us kids would take it to him. He always seemed to be home. Oddly, he seemed to me one of the smartest guys I knew, book wise I mean. Very informed about current events and always quoting people. I heard him speak at length on several occasions. Years later I was told he had a passion for the drink at one time. This was during the time he would make these speeches. Could have been, but I was still impressed. It has been a number of years since I last saw the man but think about him every now and again.
The house next door was a different matter altogether. The first people I remember living there was a family of four. The had two boys. I won't mention names as the boys I'm sure are still living. The parents got divorced. The events leading up to that divorce weren't pretty I can assure you of that. I remember some of it and it was like a made for tv movie. The next people living there was a larger family and appeared to me a rather transient bunch. I never had many dealings with them. The only other home was at the far end of the road. At the very end in fact. It was owned by a man I only knew as Paco. He was an artist of some kind. He painted those abstract things that looked like spilled paint to me. He and his family would only be there on weekends and sometimes a few weeks in the summer. It was Paco that started building a fallout shelter in his backyard. As far as I know it was never finished. After Paco, the house was rented out. It was always rented to, what we would call section 8 families today, but welfare folks back then. I recall a couple of them.
I was remembering all this as I put up my Christmas lights. I remember we were the only house on that road to put up lights. Dad would put one string across the front of the house. They were those big bulbs ( C7 ) in all colors. There was a wreath, handmade, on the front door and some greens under the windows. That is about the extent of the outdoor decorations I can remember. I do think one year we strung lights on that split rail fence but wouldn't swear to it. Whatever the case, it was definitely a simpler time. Few pictures of this house exist. I can still see it in my mind though. It did look inviting with those strings of light across the front as you walked up the dirt road. I knew the fireplace would be lit and a dish of hard candy was sitting on the coffee table. All the indoor Christmas decorations would be on display and the tree in the far corner, by the staircase. Fond memories of a time gone by. A time I try to recreate every year. I think most of us do. Christmas past revisited.
If you continued up this road you would find two more houses on the right and two on the left. That was it. The whole neighborhood. A little pocket of humanity and we all knew one another. Out of the other four homes, two were stable. George and Francis Rollings lived in the first house on the left. Uncle George,as us kids called him, passed away when I was fairly young but his wife Francis lived there. She was a kind lady with funny ways about her. At least we thought she was funny. She drove a Jeep. Not the Jeep most think of today, but the Jeep that looks like a big station wagon. Geez, I hope everyone knows what a station wagon is. I don't think they call them that anymore. Across from her was Donald Norton. Norton, as we all called him for reasons I have no idea about, was a confirmed bachelor. He worked for the town and pretty much kept to himself. Every Thanksgiving my Mom would make a plate for him and one of us kids would take it to him. He always seemed to be home. Oddly, he seemed to me one of the smartest guys I knew, book wise I mean. Very informed about current events and always quoting people. I heard him speak at length on several occasions. Years later I was told he had a passion for the drink at one time. This was during the time he would make these speeches. Could have been, but I was still impressed. It has been a number of years since I last saw the man but think about him every now and again.
The house next door was a different matter altogether. The first people I remember living there was a family of four. The had two boys. I won't mention names as the boys I'm sure are still living. The parents got divorced. The events leading up to that divorce weren't pretty I can assure you of that. I remember some of it and it was like a made for tv movie. The next people living there was a larger family and appeared to me a rather transient bunch. I never had many dealings with them. The only other home was at the far end of the road. At the very end in fact. It was owned by a man I only knew as Paco. He was an artist of some kind. He painted those abstract things that looked like spilled paint to me. He and his family would only be there on weekends and sometimes a few weeks in the summer. It was Paco that started building a fallout shelter in his backyard. As far as I know it was never finished. After Paco, the house was rented out. It was always rented to, what we would call section 8 families today, but welfare folks back then. I recall a couple of them.
I was remembering all this as I put up my Christmas lights. I remember we were the only house on that road to put up lights. Dad would put one string across the front of the house. They were those big bulbs ( C7 ) in all colors. There was a wreath, handmade, on the front door and some greens under the windows. That is about the extent of the outdoor decorations I can remember. I do think one year we strung lights on that split rail fence but wouldn't swear to it. Whatever the case, it was definitely a simpler time. Few pictures of this house exist. I can still see it in my mind though. It did look inviting with those strings of light across the front as you walked up the dirt road. I knew the fireplace would be lit and a dish of hard candy was sitting on the coffee table. All the indoor Christmas decorations would be on display and the tree in the far corner, by the staircase. Fond memories of a time gone by. A time I try to recreate every year. I think most of us do. Christmas past revisited.
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