My Personal History Part 1

I was born in Logan, Utah, which was where my father was born, and where his father was born. My great grandfather was born one county over (though my great grandmother was born in Logan, Utah), and his father, the first "Anderson" in my line (his father was Andreasen), was born in Denmark.

My mother was not expecting me to be born that day. She also wasn't expecting to shout profanities at the doctor. Then again, she didn't expect the epidural to not take, so between contractions she would apologize profusely, trying to convince this man delivering her child that she didn't usually speak like a sailor.

I, like most of you, do not remember my early childhood. All of my memories start when I was at least 3 years old.

Our house in Logan had an attic, or some kind of storage area that was only accessibly by ladder. I never went up there, so I don't know what it was like. But I do remember that there was an electronic car toy, with a steering wheel and a throttle lever and buttons that made noise. You know, the kind of thing that 3 year olds are all over. Well, it went missing for the longest time. But one day someone — I think my dad — brought it back down from that attic. And wouldn't you know it, that thing still slapped.

My bedroom house had an interesting layout, with a shared closet between the adjoining bedroom, kind of like this.

But what was most interesting is what was above the closets — a long, narrow tunnel that went the whole way across. I remember that it was used to store bins and boxes and stuff, but at one point my parents decided to should store my brother up there.

Which is to say the outfit it with a mattress, fan, and light, along with a ladder and that's where he slept.

And you know what? It was so unfair. I wanted to sleep in the cool closet loft tunnel thing. He had a fan. The injustice of it all!

I managed to climb up there all by myself at one point, and I got thoroughly chewed out for it. What if I fell? What if I got stuck? What if I got injured?

None of these arguments made sense. For one thing, none of that happened. For another thing, did my parents think that I, a 4 year old big boy, was incompetent or something?

(Just so the record is straight, my parents were absolutely right.)

This idea of me thinking I can do something and just doing it came up again. I had a big-wheel trike. That thing was the best. I would drag it (or a similar one, I can't remember if it was the same one) up my grandparents long, steep driveway, take a seat, and scream gleefully as I flew down the hill. We might have even had a competition between me and my brothers to see who could go the farthest.

On one occasion, I decided to ride around the block. I knew the way, I had done this ride before supervised by my parents. How hard could it be?

So I hopped on my bike and started pedaling. I hadn't even made it to the first turn before my mom comes sprinting up behind me, yelling at me to stop and turn around this instant. Unfortunately, my bike failed me, my mom caught up, and she dragged me back to my house. My bike was hung on a hook in the garage, where it remained until we moved.

I don't remember having too many friends at that time. There was one girl whose mom would babysit me now and then. I recall little about those times, aside from one episode where she was sick in bed and her mom asked me to bring her a glass of milk. With ice in it. That sounded like just about the most disgusting thing I had ever heard of.

I also don't remember playing with my brothers too much, though I'm sure I did. But at that young age, I definitely had feelings of loneliness. At one point, as I lie on a bed thinking to myself, I came to the realization that I was the only actual person that was really alive and really having a conscious experience. Everyone else was... just there I guess. I was unsatisfied by this, and decided that they must be witches. Yeah, that sounds right. Everybody else are witches.

Four years old and I'd already discovered Solipsism .

In due course, my father decided to do something very un-Anderson-like. He left Logan.

He quit his job at the family seed store, he and my mom packed us all up, and we drove the 100-someodd miles south from Logan to Pleasant Grove. This was a kind of escape, a chance to make something new of himself. New house, new neighborhood, new career, new church, new friends, new everything.

It was very brave. But I don't remember thinking that at the time. All that I thought was how weird it was to have the cat drive in the car with us, and how cool it was to eat our first dinner in our new house on boxes instead of a proper kitchen table.

Four years old was a good year for me.