Our house

A Father's Day segment on the CBS Morning Show featured a reporter returning to help his own father clean out his childhood home. One his father built. His dad's health is such that he needs to move closer to a relative - somewhere that isn't 2 stories, now that he uses a walker.

The reporter reminisced about his childhood home and talked about how safe he felt there. That took me to my own "Wayback Machine". Click on the link to see more on this term - Yes, my life has deep roots in cartoons. It explains a lot, no?

The Bullock home was my own safe fortress. My Dad (and Mom, because she was there more due to Dad's life on the road) was it's king. Even though Cindy told Betsy that a monster was in our closet (therefore Bets always had to sleep with it closed), I felt safe there.

Like the CBS reporter, our house was designed and built by a father. Not mine, but my mother's - Herbert Leslie Morehead. It was a modern design for Atlantic, Iowa in the 1950's. That flat roof brought headaches in years to come, but the unique style was always pleasing to the eye.

With my grandma Morehead when we remodeled the house

One memory I have is the sound of the screen door slamming behind me as I dashed in for a drink of water, use the bathroom, grab a bite, many times a day. I bet we drove Mom wild. The action was outside - in the "woods" the thin strip of trees on the lot next to ours. Or in the sandbox, swing set and playhouse designed and built by our grandfather. And that was just in our yard.

Take our yard and multiply it times about 20 - due to the post World War 2 families clustered in the neighborhood. Each day was an adventure. Would the Mallon boys try to encroach on our pretend family with a house in the woods? Our dog Jud always barked at that crew! Maybe Patrick Hayes would ride his bike down the street. The Reinertsons were always visiting from next door. Perhaps something was up across the street - at the Tylers and Westbrooks. Or I might head to Fairlawns where we knew who lived in every single house! Graysons, Fausts, Wereshes, Smiths, Bredensteiners, Van Nostrands, the Hensley boys, Drakes and oh so many more! We wandered randomly on our bikes too - into storm drains. I learned how to cross barbed wire fences.

But at the end of the day, the house at 202 Crombie swallowed me up. I had a much-needed bath. My Dad my come in and say "I'm getting a drink of very, very cold water now...and then pretend to throw it on me...or really do it!" Oh how I'd scream! Mom would say, "DAVE!" Miss you Dad.

Happy Father's Day to the bestest daddy.

Bemidji 1991