7736 Dyer Rd. was the address of my grandparent's farm in Louisville, Colorado. In 1962, Duane and Janice Mullet purchased a 3 acre property just off HWY 36 and built their 3300sqft house (Grandpa says, "1650sqft on the upper floor and 1650sqft in the basement"). Dyer Road was a bumpy dirt road until only very recently when the city paved it. Today, the property is still visible as you drive west on 36. It sits unnoticed to the north just before you crest the hill at a Boulder Valley overlook pull-off.
The home no longer exists. Along with hundreds of other homes in Superior and Louisville, it burned down in the Marshall Fire that devoured neighborhoods from December 30, 2021-January 1, 2022.
The small farm that once lived at 7736 Dyer Rd. is connected to me much like my arms, or my legs, or even my head is woven into me. I wouldn't be who I am without that little farm.
I remember the whining sound of the spring on the backdoor when it opened and the WHAP whap whap of the frame when it closed. I remember feeling thunder rattle windows and running out to the back patio to gather hail. Grandma had a spider plant in a hanging basket over her piano by her Black Forest cuckoo clock in the family room. She kept spoons in a jar in the pantry by the kitchen and they'd be on the table every morning for breakfast. Under the kitchen sink, empty frozen juice carton tubes were kept for grandchildren to use as water cups. The living room and dining room were off limits to children except for special occasions when the fireplace was lit and I could sit on the stone hearth and watch Grandpa bravely add more logs with bare hands. Down the hall were bedrooms and a playroom. Grandma had a bathroom of mauve porcelain and Grandpa's blue bathroom had a bar of Vel soap, cleverly embedded with a magnet, it clung to a small handle by the bathroom sink.
There were 18 steps on the stairway going to the basement. I counted them to distract my mind from the monsters that were waiting to grab me when I got to the bottom. I remember the earthy cool mildewy-ness of the basement where cowboy themed tiles decorated the "boys" bathroom. There was a red sauna light to warm the bathroom during winter, but really it only ever cast a sinister mood and was the ideal home for Lord Licorice from Candy Land. Under the stairs was the root cellar where Grandma stored Ball jars of pickled garden veggies. The dill and peppercorns hung suspended in yellowish green liquid among sliced cucumber and carrots--not appealing to me as a child. I once saw a jar of pickled eggs and thought I would throw-up if I ever had to eat one. I still have never eaten one. Across from the stairs in the basement were two heavy dark wooden barn doors that guarded stored boxes, old toys, a punching bag and pull up bar, and a fireplace that was never used. There was a dollhouse and a ranch corral with a barn "dollhouse" for plastic bulls and horses.
I knew the sound of the garage door and each person's footsteps as they stepped into the house. Grandpa's garage was always neat and tidy. His properly cleaned tools hung on the peg board and his clamp was the only thing on the bench when we wasn't working on something. Even in the winter Grandpa's garage smelled like cut grass and gasoline. In one corner stood the canister for the central vacuum system. In the hallways throughout the house was a hole in the wall with a spring door where the ribbed vacuum hose attached, sucking all the debris to this magical canister that I have no idea how it was emptied or how often. A patient and kind farm dog always lived in the garage. When I was young it was Kari Dog, an Australian shepherd who let me sob into her fur when I found a dead kitten.
In the front yard there was a two beam post and rail fence running parallel to the bumpy dirt road. Near the driveway was a crabapple tree where I got my first bee sting. A hide-a-key kept silent in a wagon wheel by the trash can on the west side of the house. We were never locked out. On the east side of the house, Grandma grew lilac bushes and a cherry tree. A row of mint grew along the house with tiger lilies and snapdragons. A lightening rod became a climbing pole we slid down quickly before grownups discovered children on the roof. Grandma's garden in back to the east was spacious and well tended. Every summer there were peas to shell and onions and potatoes to dig. She grew carrots and corn, zucchini, cucumber, squash. Sometimes we found strawberries while stooping barefoot in the garden. Grandpa hand-cranked vanilla ice-cream and any strawberries not eaten fresh off the bush would end up as topping aside "Grape-nut crunch."
On the west side of the yard stood a small sandbox with swings and a slide. Barn cats often used the sandbox as a litter box, so playtime there was risky. The barnyard sat on two acres to the south with a little red barn and pasture that backed all the way up to HWY 36. Grandma must have liked black and white animals best because she kept barred rock chickens, pekin ducks, Nubian dairy goats, and black faced sheep. She once had a small brown donkey named Barney, but he went up to Montana to stay at her brother's who had more room.
Grandpa and Grandma raised their five children at 7736 Dyer Rd. Michael, Greg, Brad, Brian, and Sharilyn grew up and moved out but brought back grandchildren for visits--18 total. The oldest grandchildren brought over great-grandchildren--37 and counting. Grandpa and Grandma sold 7736 Dyer Rd. in 2007 and moved to Arizona. Even after the farm was sold, kids and grandkids drove by from time to time to take in the home that was family for 45 years.
The trees got bigger. The grass grew longer--Grandpa never kept his lawn that long. Animals were replaced by rotting cars.
After the Marshall fire, my brother Jeremy went back. The house was emaciated and hollow. The chimney stood naked, revealing both the upper and lower fireplaces. The hearth fell through the floor, buried in debris. No sign of the heavy wooden barn doors. No place for monsters to hide. The barn disappeared without a trace.
The pine trees Grandma planted along the west and east survived the fire. So did the mailbox and crabapple tree where I got my first bee sting. The only other evidence that my family existed in this place was a clothes rack Uncle Greg built in 2000.
Jeremy collected one bucket full of bricks for any family who wanted one. Black bricks. They were always black, because Grandma liked black and white things.
