Spanish Fork Bank Breakdown

In the fall of 1975 my family was in the process of moving from Heber City, Utah to Spanish Fork, Utah. My dad had been transferred to the Spanish Fork branch of First Security Bank and he and my mom had decided to build a new house a few blocks away from the bank after failing to find a home in the area that they wanted to purchase. When it came time for school to start my brother was a freshman at BYU and I was a junior in high school. It was determined that even though our house possibly wouldn't be completed until the start of 1976, I should begin the school year at Spanish Fork High School. This was not a very popular decision with me. I was still technically living in Heber, where all of my friends were, but spent most of my days in Spanish Fork, where I knew no one and I didn't like it.

Each morning we would arise early and my dad, my brother and I would head down Provo Canyon. My brother was dropped off at BYU and then my dad and I would continue on to Spanish Fork where he would deposit me at the High School before going on to the bank. I usually rode in the back seat of the car where it was easy to go back to sleep until we arrived in SF. I can still vividly remember the sound of the tires crossing over the cattle guard at the foot of the Spanish Fork freeway exit. That dreaded noise indicated that it was time to sit up and face a new day of anonymity at my new school when all I wanted to do was continue sleeping or go back home. When the school day finally ended I would walk the 2 blocks to the bank where I would check in with my dad, if he wasn't helping a customer, and then I would take up residence in the employee lounge in the basement of the bank until 5:30 or 6:00 PM when my dad could leave work.

As this daily schedule continued I began to feel that the bank was my home away from home. There were frequently treats on the lounge table that I could indulge in and always a pot of coffee percolating on the counter. I have never drunk coffee in my life, but that smell seemed very comforting to me for some reason, and made the little space seem almost homey. As I would sit and do my homework or read a book, the bank employees would wander in and out and ask me about school or my day. There were several women who were especially kind to me and I began to look forward to my visits with them. As I entered the bank in the afternoon I could always count on being greeted warmly by someone as I passed through on my way to the stairs. The bank started to become a place where I felt like I belonged, while I often spent the rest of the day trying to figure out where I fit in. I would still have preferred to be a Wasatch Wasp, but my time at the bank made the thought of becoming a Spanish Fork Don a little less painful.

At the end of December my family finally moved from Heber, where we had sold our home, and took up temporary residence in Payson, Utah with my Grandpa since our house still wasn't finished. Now that we actually lived in Utah County, my days at the bank became fewer and further apart since my mom or my brother could usually pick me up as soon as school got out. Then in February of 1976 we finally became official Spanish Fork residents and my afternoons at the bank became a thing of the past. However, every time I visited the bank, I still felt like I was welcomed as a member of the family and I continued to feel like this was a place where I belonged.

Fast forward 35 years - I haven't lived in Spanish Fork for close to 30 years, my dad hasn't been the manager of the First Security Bank there for more than 25 years, and it has probably been at least 15 years since I have actually been inside what is now the Wells Fargo Bank at 99 North Main Street in Spanish Fork. I have promised my sister that I will stop there on my way to Idaho and sign some papers that need to be signed in order to stop my dad's retirement checks that my mom has been receiving each month. The person I need to talk to is helping another customer and so I take a seat and wait for my turn.

The bank has been remodeled several times since the months that I felt like I practically lived here. The bathroom isn't where it belongs and the back stairs to the basement have disappeared. All of the higher management desks are now surrounded by clear plastic sound walls that present a somewhat stand offish attitude and all of the tellers behind the counter look like they could be my sons. I am treated cordially and with respect, but no one is welcoming me home as their long lost family member. As I sit with my back to the large bank vault, that is still right where it is suppose to be, and watch the familiar wooden gate, protecting the front staircase, swing back and forth behind an employee on his way to the basement break room, I am hit by a wave of nostalgia and homesickness that takes me by surprise.
I miss my dad.
I miss my mom.
I miss my friends at the bank.
I miss the feeling of belonging that I use to feel in this building.
I even miss those long ago days as a Spanish Fork Don that ended up being much better than I could have imagined during the final months of 1975.

I feel the tears begin to well up in my eyes and hope that I can complete my transaction before I have a complete breakdown. Thankfully, it is soon my turn to be helped and I maintain my composure until I walk out the back door, which isn't suppose to be there by the way, and into the parking lot. The youngest daughter seems to be OK with the fact that I feel the need to cry from Spanish Fork to Bountiful and since she is the one driving it doesn't matter that I can't see anything anyway.

Today I am thankful for

a daughter that is willing to stop and shop the sales with me.
a daughter that makes hotel reservations and knows how to order pizza.
extra McDonalds napkins.