What usually took a couple hours turned into a five hour carving marathon. Luca, Lincoln and Anna wanted to try their hand at pumpkin carving.

What I didn’t anticipate was that carving was the sideshow.

The kids really wanted to design their pumpkin. And design they did until black and purple Crayola marker covered their pumpkins. I didn’t dare ask how they knew where to cut. I gave each them a tiny pumpkin saw from one of our many carving kits and they went to town without cutting off any fingers.

Most years, I carve a couple of pumpkins. Last year I waited until trick or treaters began showing up before I finished this pumpkin. Tonight, I goofed around with the kids and finished one pumpkin. I like how his hair turned out.

On my way to the shower each morning I pickup wooden blocks on the stairs. It’s not uncommon to find toy cars scattered around the floor of my bathroom which I pickup and place on the sink hoping they’ll magically drive back to their garage while I shower.

I pickup blankets in the hallway, Cocoa Puffs on the couch and quarters in my shoes when Kai finds the change jar. 

But when it comes to getting control of the shoes in this home I give up. I’m outmatched and outnumbered.  I concede defeat at the hands of one yellow rain boot I fished out of the dog’s water bowl. And you, black boot with the scuffed toe, I promise to walk right by you the next time I catch you chillaxin in front of the TV.

I could go around our house and pickup shoes for three hours. It’s a part-time job without compensation or 15 minute breaks. Every drawer, closet, couch, cupboard, and laundry chute contains at least a couple of shoes that don’t match. My house is a landmine of shoes I’m clearly unable to navigate.

 
A sight never before seen at our home

I swear strangers are planting boots, slippers and tennis shoes around our house when I’m gone because I don’t recognize half the shoes I trip over. I’ll pickup a shoe I’ve tripped over ready to yell at someone, but I have no idea to whom it belongs.

I remind Lincoln to put on his shoes before school and he’ll frantically search the house looking for a matching pair that 1. Fit 2. Are not Crocs 3. Free from dog poop. When he’s near tears because he can’t find a pair he’ll say, “But, I can’t find ANYTHING to wear!”.

“Did you check your closet? You know, that area in your room where you organize shirts, pants and SHOES??”

Blank stare. I might as well be speaking Mongolian.

Shoes in the closet? Nobody would think to look there. 

And why would they when they’re just as likely to find a pair on top of the piano.

Picture by Gretchen Koenig

The kids love the rides at the mall.

Whether it’s a Jeep, taxi, ice cream truck or fire engine, all they do is rock back and forth for a few minutes when fed a couple quarters.

But what happens when you have more kids than quarters?

You load your two youngest in the approved seats and plop your two oldest kids on the hood and hope mall security isn’t around.

The trip took just under 30 minutes. Past Weber State College and along the road leading to the Wilshire Theater before turning onto HWY 89.

Next up were two steep hills. Down one into strong wind gusts passing through Ogden canyon and then up another marked by a water tower. We weren’t far from Hill Air Force base where my grandfather worked for many years. As a young boy I’d glance to the sky hoping to catch a glimpse of an F-16.

My sisters were relegated to the bench seat facing  backwards as my father drove the station wagon. Being the oldest child had its privileges. My father taught drivers education, but that didn’t stop us from encouraging him to speed down the hills.

“Come on Dad! Let’s do a hundred. No cops around!”

Usually, he was too busy playing air piano on his leg to songs like “Horse With No Name”. One time we coaxed him up to 85. I doubt the old wagon could go much faster even with a favorable wind. 

I took this journey from Ogden to Bountiful hundreds of times. Both sets of grandparents lived just blocks from each other. We’d stop to visit one and then the other.

But this last trip left me feeling empty.

We took the same route. Weber State is now a University and the Wilshire was torn down to make room for an Albertsons. The station wagon was replaced by a U-Haul. Nobody was forced to ride backwards. This time it was just me and my dad on our way to grandma’s home on South Davis Blvd.

Grandma has been living in a care center for the past two years and is ready to sell her home after realizing her heath will not allow her to return to the place she calls home.

My dad and I were there to pack and remove the last few items. I emptied jugs of water that looked like those found carrying moonshine on the Dukes of Hazard. I unplugged and packed a dual cassette player and boxed issues of National Geographic that were nearly my age.

Could it be that 40 years worth of memories can be neatly packed into a few cardboard boxes?

I ran naked through my first sprinkler at this home surrounded by dozens of oak trees. I experienced my first train set and learned to love homemade lemonade. I spent hundreds of hours playing my grandpa’s Atari 2600. My body could barely contain the excitement when he took me to Gibsons to purchase Asteroids after I helped mow his lawn. I sat on the leather seats of his gold Grand Marquis and bopped up and down on the ride home. A happier 10 year old boy could not be found that day.

But the joy of that young boy was replaced by a feeling of emptiness this weekend as we loaded the few remaining boxes onto the U-Haul. I took one last walk around the house. The grandfather clock wasn’t there to remind me of the time with its chimes. The pool table was gone as was table with thick glass top.

The house will be put up for sale in a few days. And the next time I return to Utah, it could very well belong to another family.

But I realized something this weekend.

It’s not the house or the yard. It’s not the oak trees, light blue shag carpet or water fountain off the back deck.

It’s all those sticky vinyl seat station wagon trips with my family. It’s the time spent listening to my grandma and grandpa tell me stories of their lives. Like how my grandpa earned two dollars a day picking fruit. Or hearing my grandma describing the feisty personality of her own mother.

They knew how to listen as well. They were never distracted by a cell phone or text message. When I was at their home, I was their main focus, and I loved it.

As we made our way back to Ogden, I decided it was best to refrain from asking my dad to speed down the hill into Ogden canyon.

But I did look to the sky thinking about my grandparents and searching for that elusive F-16.

The time is 1:22 am.

I should be in bed. Instead I’m reclined on my parents couch listening to this song that fits my mood this evening.

The kids are sleeping on the guest bed; their legs and arms twisted together like a German pretzel. Only my dog is awake to keep me company. And the second I stop rubbing her ears she’ll roll over and begin to snore.

We’ve spent the week with my parents in the home in which i grew up. It looks just the same down to the hole in the bathroom door I kicked in while wearing cowboy boots about 20 years ago.

I left Ogden for Seattle in 1994. I don’t know why I expect the town to remain the same, yet I’m always surprised when one of my old hangouts disappears. I wonder if I’ve changed as much as the town has?

Two people who haven’t changed are my father and mother. My father still wakes and retires early while my mom stays up late reading anything she can get her hands on. They both seem relaxed and content. Their 18 grandchildren keep them busy and entertained. As we sat together in the kitchen thumbing through old yearbooks and news articles my grandfather collected, I thought to myself how lucky I am to have such amazing parents.

I visited my grandmother tonight at the care home. She held my hand as my father wheeled her down the hallway to her room. It took a moment to sink in that she was in a wheelchair. We chatted for a few minutes before saying goodbye. In the back of my mind, I wonder if each visit will be the last.

While everyone but me was running errands this afternoon, I sat on the front porch. The same porch that served as a reprieve when I’d upset a sibling or parent. I spent many hours on that porch chatting with girlfriends knowing my oldest sister could see my every move through the kitchen blinds.

As I sat there on the porch, a warm gust of wind blew petunia petals across my father’s immaculate lawn. My parent’s wind chimes danced in the air creating notes that made the neighbor’s bulldog bark.

As I stood up to go back inside, I swear I caught a glimpse of my sister’s eyes staring back at me.