In the House of My Father - A Memoir

It's interesting, how some things are exciting and enjoyable, no matter how many times I do them. Almost every summer, my family drives out to Utah. The journey through the humid lands of Kansas and the flat expanses of eastern Colorado is long and tedious, but the sight of my grandmother's house in the Salt Lake Valley makes the travel worthwhile. As my parents park the van and begin to unpack, my mind goes back to the many memories of this place.

Before I even enter the house, the crisp, dry Utah air, refreshing and invigorating, fills my lungs. Save for a small patch of green grass, the front yard is blanketed with a thick blanket of evergreen bushes. Standing like giants over them are two monstrous pine trees, maybe fifty feet tall.

The door opens up to a brown sea of carpet, leading to the living room. Small squashy couches encircle a glass coffee table, on which are stacked books or a copy of the Salt Lake Tribune. Next to a large glass door leading to a balcony, an old white leather recliner waits for someone to rest in it. It's extremely comfortable, the kind that I could sit down in the evening and just fall asleep. The ceiling has large dark brown wooden beams running from a central beam, like some strange ribcage of an ancient animal.

Just beyond is the kitchen, where an old black-and-white TV sits on a reddish-brown countertop. I can remember my grandmother standing in that room, listening to the news as she prepared a large cream of mushroom chicken dinner...she always went to the trouble of fixing my family a bite to eat, even when we insisted on making our own food. Also on the counter is a staple of any Utahn household: a small white metal and plastic bread machine. I remember my grandfather and me making some bread, seeing the man who had been a scientist and engineer for the space program slowly measuring the sugar, then just saying, "Ah, it's close enough," and dumping the whole thing in. Everything here is decades old, certainly not in today's styles; perhaps that makes it feel comforting and permanent.

Upon entering the guest bedroom, I am faced with beige - everything; the walls, the floor, the sheets, the room is layered with the color. This is where my grandpa and I spent a day building a small hot air balloon from balsa wood and a plastic bag.

As I walk down the cold green stone steps towards the basement, the cluttered scene is hits my eyes. Books and magazines are scattered on the floor and couches, left behind by my sister and her husband when they moved to DC. Hopefully they have gotten all of their belongings packed by now.

A darkened room, my grandpa's study, is at the far corner of the basement; tons of his sketches and engineering papers rest there, covering his ancient grey Atari computer. No one has really gone inside since he passed away. An old wooden crib, probably fifty years old or so, blocks the path into the room.

So many memories and so many stories are in the house. It's not only the comforting colors and soft architecture of the building, but the thoughts that are conjured up when I remember my past vacations there. My parents call me to get my bags, and I pick them up and walk towards the door.