On my way back home from a wedding in northern Iowa last month, the ideal timing for a sandwich stop put me right about at my hometown of Ames. I thought to pop in on my Uncle Sam, who still lives there with his wife, but fresh colds put the kibosh on that plan—they’d caught something nasty and recommended I steer clear. With another destination in mind, I entered town from the back end, and with goosebumps forming on my arms, parked my car next to my childhood home on the corner of Storm and Stanton, just a few blocks south of Iowa State University, Lake LaVerne, and the Campanile tower. I took note of the newly shingled roof on “our house,” the tiny front porch that had once seemed so large, and the freshly painted fire hydrant on the corner where I had posed for birthday photos until the age of seven.
Maybe it was the perfect 81-degree, wispy-cloud weather that had me entranced—or the generous number of bite-sized, tile-roofed Tudor-style homes seemingly designed for a colony of gnomes. I’d never noticed there were so many of them. Or maybe it was the enormous blooms in everyone’s swoopy, immaculate summer gardens that had me abnormally mesmerized, but I swear, the neighborhood had never looked better.
I was suddenly in no hurry to get back to Fairfield, and took my sweet time strolling around. Over to Ash, down Graber, east all the way to the “C.Y.” Stephens Auditorium, and back again through the shaded lanes around Triangle Park.
With my dopamine on “full dump” mode as the Campanile marked the half hour with not-so-distant bells, recollections arrived in waves, whispering to me from the deepest trenches of my brain which houses had been home to my childhood friends. So many of them. This blue two-story was where Lisa Horton and I watched The Smurfs on Saturday mornings and where I ate my first forbidden bowl of Cocoa Puffs.
The boxy brown house with a shaded patio was the home of April Fatka, who once permed her hair like Orphan Annie. A generous soul, she let me try on her wooden clogs and invented thrilling games about werewolves in the shadows of her yard.
The humble cream-colored house on the other side of our block was the home of little first-grader-with-the-bowl-cut Jeffrey Woodland, whom my mother babysat once or twice, and who, after observing the photograph that my half-hippie parents kept of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, referred to him by earnest mistake as “Home-a-Crotchee.” The things I hadn’t laughed about for decades.
And then there was the Millers’ House, only very recently vacated by Marty and Marsha, dear friends of our family and stalwarts of this small city. In this house that will always be the Millers’ House, delicate china dolls had been fervently adored, KISS album covers had been ogled, and southwest-style living room rugs had been tromped and stomped upon by a herd of small girls pretending to be horses.
Uncontrollable noises were coming out of my mouth as I turned each eerily familiar corner, and I considered that some of the current residents might be observing my odd behavior through cracked curtains. “Officer, there is a strange woman pacing back and forth on our block, taking pictures of our homes, making gasping sounds, and wiping her eyes.”
I amused myself by preparing a response for any possible accusations. “I’m sorry, officer, I used to live here. A long time ago. A block away from Crawford School. And it’s all … just … too damn beautiful. Please, can I sit on this random person’s porch for a while longer?”
Among the most important remaining Ames landmarks for this ’80s kid is the dead-end street where Stanton Ave. sputters to a stop and spills into “The Field.” This great, grassy place—owned by ISU but which every neighbor, in my time, claimed as an extension of their own backyard—had also been the site of college-student soccer practices of yesteryear, and mulberry sampling, kite flying, and rainbow viewing by every kid within a five-block radius. At the far west end, the last remaining pair of mammoth multistory “suitcase” dormitories look, to this day, like they’re waiting for a giant—or a god—to reach a beefy hand down from the heavens, grab the “handles” on top, and lift them right off the grass for a trip to the Hamptons.
That field is full of good memories, but the dead-end street that leans out to meet it is specifically tied to one.
Low to no daily traffic at Stanton Ave.’s end made that humble stretch of road the perfect spot for a kid like me to learn how to ride a bike. And learn I did, after a warm spring storm, on a crusty little pea-colored contraption that was two wheezy breaths away from the city landfill.
This “bike” had no pedals to speak of, but still boasted two wheels, a wobbly seat, and functional handlebars—just enough parts holding together for five-year-old me to figure out, when no one was even paying attention, how to lift her bare feet off the ground for a few seconds, and then a few seconds more, and steer into a smooth “coast.”
Oh, the swell of pride when I realized my toes didn’t need to touch the pavement at all anymore, save the occasional paddle to pick up some speed. I was gliding on glee, dodging deep puddles, and weaving around the other kids who too had blasted from their houses during those final drops of rain to reclaim this patch of pavement on their own two wheels.
I finally belonged among them, cruising on my own steed with bent-up fenders, rusty spokes, and white handlebar tassels tossing in the wind. That green lil’ dead-end hand-me-downer’s hand-me-down was my sweet, sweet ride now—a point of passage to a brand-new kind of field. It was my own little scoot-along Harley, till the seat popped off and it finally did the dumpster dive. But in a neighborhood full of families, I knew the next set of wheels was not far away.
Before long, with my kid brother buckled into the baby seat behind Dad, the whole fam was taking single-file bike rides across town. I remember being impressed with my father at the courage it must have taken to see his family safely across (transcontinental!) Lincoln Way and onto campus for a look at the infamous Lake LaVerne swans.
*
That day a few weeks ago, when I walked around in my earliest memories, there was a small house for sale just steps away from the one I grew up in. “Mrs. Beatty’s House,” to be exact, once belonging to the old woman who’d gifted me a trio of miniature glass perfume bottles—and my first taste of homemade, old-fashioned divinity candy.
Driving away from the place that was still commanding a notch of my heart, it was hard not to wonder just how much they wanted for that little yellow house.
