Some would say it was a dumb idea, but I like to believe that dumb is just another word for adventurous, and well-trodden Westview Drive in humble Milford, Iowa, with its torn up curbs and patched up lines, was the perfect place for adventure. Granted, being pulled along in a red wagon attached to a bike was not the smartest idea, but the fun I had in this little neighborhood made me into the young agriculturalist that I am today. My recent travels around the state and frequent three hour drives to our Enrichment Center in Ankeny have me thinking: if a street could share its stories, whether they be fun, dumb, sad, or bad, how have these memories shaped us into the men and women we are today?
For me, one of the greatest tales on Westview was of a certain “family.” On a similar heated summer afternoon, four young kids, all along the ages of six to nine, were walking along in the perfect family image. The beaming “father” was laughing with his “son” while the caring “mother” was pushing her gigantically oversized “baby” in a comparably small stroller. Neighbors beamed out their windows at the scene, the children becoming the ideal American family.
“I don’t know why you always want to be the baby, Blake, but you’re the only one small enough to fit in the stroller!” squealed the “son”.
I didn’t mind being the baby. It had ultimately more benefits than any of the other family roles. I didn’t have to say anything, I had no responsibilities, and, best of all, I could lay back in a retro-styled stroller while my neighbors took turns pushing me. Who gets the last laugh now?
When it came to laughs, Westview was the holy grail. One spring day, my neighbor’s youngest son, a bouncy six year old, was running about the lawn. The recent morning rain had washed through the streets, settling into the enlarging cracks and crevices. The boy, despite gaping mud puddles, had on his new pair of denim shorts with all his toys scattered about--in particular was his glimmering yellow Tonka truck.
The neighbor’s house sits strangely on a hillish-plot, and like a surfer gracing the tide, the juvenile glided down the cement in his Tonka truck, hitting the v-shaped dent where the street and driveway came together with a forceful thud. He did this enduring task with ease several times: fly down the hill, his blonde hair flowing behind his ears, hit the road with a thud, and then drag the beaten truck back up the hill. You’d suppose a youngster would get bored of the makeshift slide eventually.
Negatory. In fact, his adventure had only begun.
After the twentieth time, he finally caved and decided it was time for a rest. Taking his break on the side of the street, he used his Tonka as a makeshift chair. My mother, being the curious and maternal sort, watched over him through our living room window.
Then, without warning, the kid stood up, pulled down his denim shorts and proceeded to use the yellow truck as a real dump truck. My mom lost it, laughing uncontrollably all about the living room. After peeking out the window myself, I chuckled silently and went about the rest of the day.
We never talked about it again.
In addition to the laughs, Westview is known for its sadder moments. It was the fall of my sophomore year, and I was in the kitchen making my typical breakfast of honey toast and cereal when I glanced out the window. Is that a single snow patch in our backyard? What kind of act is Mother Nature pulling here? I wondered as I checked through the bigger windows, hoping for a better glance. Too “busy” to see myself, I decided to send my brother outside to check. It could have been a rabid creature or something my two labradors heaved up; they’ve been known to throw up leftover fur and bits from racoons they find while hunting. It’s a dog thing.
I made my sandwich while peering out the window, watching my brother creep towards the white snowball. When he got close, I immediately saw his face change from curiosity to complete horror. Could it be something from one of the dogs? Did they get into a fight? I bet Maddie bit off Sam’s leg. She’s the alpha “male”. When Austin came back inside, I could see something was real off.
“So? What is it?”
He took a quick breath in, staring at the snowy patch.
“The new neighbor’s cat must have found a hole in the fence.”
My heart sank like the Titanic. I couldn’t help but imagine the last few moments of that adventurous cat’s life, and bets are that it wasn’t pleasant. Worst off, now we’d have to tell someone. If only I hadn’t seen it, I would have never sent Austin outside. Of course, it would be the Lineweavers’ dogs that kicked the new residents off Westview.
When my dad got home, like children who broke Mother’s favorite lamp, we told him of the gruesome deed. He let out a sigh and went to inform our neighbor of their pet's passing. I recall sitting anxiously on the couch, still imagining that cat’s final moments in my mind.
Only 15 minutes had passed when my dad came back. He was calm, almost serene.
“She understands. The cat shouldn’t have went through the fence.”
Years later, she put her teal house up for sale. The dogs, thankfully, aged far beyond their aggresive years.
The young one across the street is now a seventh grader and understands the difference between a “public” bathroom and a dump truck. At least, we hope.
The family of four is nothing more than a beaten up stroller, locked away in my friend’s old shed. Three of those four have moved on to college, one almost ready to start a family--a real family, that is.
The youthful years have past, but these memories have left a heavy impact on my life. A street, like the rest of us, has a story to be told: it can hold so many memories, even with periodical floods that seem to wash everything else away. So many of us move away from our homes for college or go on other adventures, never giving our communities a proper thank you. Therefore, I thank you, Westview, in remote, rural Iowa, for being the greatest keeper of heartfelt secrets, gardener to many beautiful flower beds, and storyteller for all ages.
Blake Lineweaver
Northwest State Vice President
