Memories of Scott By Children and Grandchildren
Share your favorite memories of Dad\Grandpa here. E-mail them to lputman@lcsd2.org.
LANA:
When I was about 7 or 8 years old, something went onto the roof of the pink house that was not supposed to be there. I don't
remember what it was, but it was important to Dad that it be retrieved. Dad wanted me to get on the roof so I could collect
whatever it was. I was terrified, because the ladder wasn't high enough for me to use. So Dad was going to lift me up from one
of the highest steps and place me on the roof. I remembered thinking that I was surely going to fall if he tried to lift me and I
was resisting from a fear so great, I remember it vividly to this day. Then Dad told me to trust him and that it was going to be
fine, that he had me and I wasn't going to fall, that he wouldn't let me fall. I must have believed him because I let him lift me to
the roof, as shaky and completely helpless that I felt physically.
For all the years that I lived at home, Dad was always building or fixing something. He was the hardest worker I ever knew and
sacrificed for the comfort and happiness of his family all his life. He was also the scariest person in my childhood because I was
always afraid I was going to bring him the wrong tool when he asked for it, and inevitably, at least 80% of the time, I brought him
the straight screwdriver instead of the Philip's because I was so nervous that I probably didn't really catch his description. But
the 20% or fewer times that I met his expectations, I felt extremely validated. He had that kind of influence on how I felt about
myself.
One of the saddest memories I have about Dad is after he had built our house in Indian Hills. He was creating these wonderful
large, round steps in the grass, forming a pathway from the sidewalk to the porch and around the front of the house to the
driveway. At least that's my memory of where they were placed. There were quite a few of them, and he made them all,
kneeling in old overalls and placing the small and medium-sized stones into the wet concrete form. By the time he was finishing
up the project, his knees were so badly burned from whatever it was in the concrete that ate through his overalls. It took quite
a while before his knees healed. It hurt my heart so badly that my father was in such pain and suffered so much for so long for
those steps. For a long time, I couldn't walk on them without feeling that pain in my heart.
One of my favorite childhood memories is when Dad would take the family for rides in the car in the evening. It didn't matter if
we were driving up the canyon, with all the sweet smells of the flora and the river, or just laying in the back of the station
wagon like comfortable sardines and watching the streetlights play across the roof as we would pass them. I always felt very
disappointed when we got back home.
As young children, a rare treat was to each have our own ice cream bar. Once in a while, Grandma Anderson would send a letter
with as many dimes taped on it as there were children in the family at the time, and Mom and Dad would use the dimes to buy
ice cream for us. My main memory is of Milk Nickels, which were chocolate-coated vanilla ice cream on a stick. Along with this
glorious treat would come the usual anxiety, wondering if Dad was going to take a bite out of each one after he took the paper
off the ice cream and before he handed it to us. It didn't happen all the time but often enough that I worried every time. I
learned later that Dad would never buy one for himself, but at the time, I was always very angry about it and felt cheated,
especially given that by the time he had taken all the bites, he probably had more ice cream than I did. I also learned over the
years that Dad never bought things for himself-never. I wish that I had understood his selflessness in those days; I never would
have begrudged him any of those little pleasures.
LANA:
When I was about 7 or 8 years old, something went onto the roof of the pink house that was not supposed to be there. I don't
remember what it was, but it was important to Dad that it be retrieved. Dad wanted me to get on the roof so I could collect
whatever it was. I was terrified, because the ladder wasn't high enough for me to use. So Dad was going to lift me up from one
of the highest steps and place me on the roof. I remembered thinking that I was surely going to fall if he tried to lift me and I
was resisting from a fear so great, I remember it vividly to this day. Then Dad told me to trust him and that it was going to be
fine, that he had me and I wasn't going to fall, that he wouldn't let me fall. I must have believed him because I let him lift me to
the roof, as shaky and completely helpless that I felt physically.
For all the years that I lived at home, Dad was always building or fixing something. He was the hardest worker I ever knew and
sacrificed for the comfort and happiness of his family all his life. He was also the scariest person in my childhood because I was
always afraid I was going to bring him the wrong tool when he asked for it, and inevitably, at least 80% of the time, I brought him
the straight screwdriver instead of the Philip's because I was so nervous that I probably didn't really catch his description. But
the 20% or fewer times that I met his expectations, I felt extremely validated. He had that kind of influence on how I felt about
myself.
One of the saddest memories I have about Dad is after he had built our house in Indian Hills. He was creating these wonderful
large, round steps in the grass, forming a pathway from the sidewalk to the porch and around the front of the house to the
driveway. At least that's my memory of where they were placed. There were quite a few of them, and he made them all,
kneeling in old overalls and placing the small and medium-sized stones into the wet concrete form. By the time he was finishing
up the project, his knees were so badly burned from whatever it was in the concrete that ate through his overalls. It took quite
a while before his knees healed. It hurt my heart so badly that my father was in such pain and suffered so much for so long for
those steps. For a long time, I couldn't walk on them without feeling that pain in my heart.
One of my favorite childhood memories is when Dad would take the family for rides in the car in the evening. It didn't matter if
we were driving up the canyon, with all the sweet smells of the flora and the river, or just laying in the back of the station
wagon like comfortable sardines and watching the streetlights play across the roof as we would pass them. I always felt very
disappointed when we got back home.
As young children, a rare treat was to each have our own ice cream bar. Once in a while, Grandma Anderson would send a letter
with as many dimes taped on it as there were children in the family at the time, and Mom and Dad would use the dimes to buy
ice cream for us. My main memory is of Milk Nickels, which were chocolate-coated vanilla ice cream on a stick. Along with this
glorious treat would come the usual anxiety, wondering if Dad was going to take a bite out of each one after he took the paper
off the ice cream and before he handed it to us. It didn't happen all the time but often enough that I worried every time. I
learned later that Dad would never buy one for himself, but at the time, I was always very angry about it and felt cheated,
especially given that by the time he had taken all the bites, he probably had more ice cream than I did. I also learned over the
years that Dad never bought things for himself-never. I wish that I had understood his selflessness in those days; I never would
have begrudged him any of those little pleasures.