This time of the yer it seems there just are not enough hour in the day or enough days in the month to do all that we want to do, or all that we "should" do.
The tribes will be gathering soon and, like the wind in our part of the country, some will blow in unannounced. We will welcome the newest babe, the matriarchs and patriarchs, and those in between, with the familiar rituals that our family has called "our way." And if we don't, the cry will go up,"But we've always done it that way!"
Rituals do lend to the uniqueness of a family and they help define their connectedness. Holidays provide opportunities for members of the family to participate in those rituals in ways that reaffirm their commitments.
Mothers often measure the passage of time with holiday memory markers. 1955? "Oh that was the year our oldest learned to walk. We had to put the tree in the playpen to keep him away from it."
"Remember how hard the winter of 1979 was? That was the year the kids told us we were going to be grandparents. The snowman they built during their Thanksgiving visit was still standing in the yard when the baby was born in the spring."
"Our next door neighbors, now close friends, moved here the year the kids painted the sugar cookies with undiluted food coloring. The carolers who stopped at our house for cocoa and cookies trooped next door to sing with multi-colored teeth."
Baby's first Christmas. The cradle-shaped ornament dated 1961, triggers memories of a little blond boy, all dressed up in a french-blue Eton suit, peacefully sleeping through midnight Mass.
The loss of a family member sometimes necessitates restructuring of familiar rituals. While our son was bedridden, the last year of his young life, he painted some stained glass Christmas ornaments. He thought he was my favorite child (they all thought that)and when he died I thought so too. A numbness surrounded our hearts and Christmas came that year with uncontrolled tears like the carelessly hung tinsel on the unwanted tree. Christmas afternoon we removed the wreath from the front door and our family drove to the barren cemetery to put it on the grave.
We have kept that ritual. The wreath, a symbol of the circle of life, has provided our family with a way to define a connectedness that cannot be broken by death.
Over the last two decades I have tucked one of those stained glass ornaments in the Christmas boxes so that all the siblings and their children, and soon the great-grandchildren will have one.
Sure holidays are a lot of work, but the memory markers, and the memory makers are what defines the particulars of the group of people called family.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Maturity
This year the season of maturity, or depending on how you look at it, the incipient decline into winter, arrived before the equinox party even got started. An early, record breaking, freeze set the leaves in their place on the apple tree. Because my days begin without my bifocals, the tree, which is full of gray, curled leaves, looks like the back of the perm-haired senior citizens who sit in front of me in church.
On these fall mornings, darker each day now; I pad into the kitchen in my furry for-fall-slippers. I pull up the window blind and with dismay not the minute changes that confirm what I already know. Winter is riding on heavy clouds and muscling her way across the autumn skies. In the yard, that for a short time was brilliant with autumn colors, the trees are bare. Their limbs that stretch skyward in a kind of supplication tremble from the threatening bitter winds.
The children's swing flips wildly in the wind and yet the apples that are black and mushy from the freeze cling to their rightful places. There was a time when the now ghastly appearing tree offered juicy red apples and there was another time, long ago, when voices from the swing cried, "higher, Daddy, higher."
Our weathered birdhouses, once hubs of activity, are now barren, abandoned - true empty nests. My husband ritualistically carries a large pot of bright red geraniums out to the porch each morning and back into the kitchen each evening trying to save the plant, a perhaps himself as well, from the inevitable winter kill.
Webster, that word master guy, defines nostalgia as "a wistful, sentimental yearning for the return of a past period, or an irrecoverable condition." This morning, as I waited for the wafts of fresh brewed coffee, I sighed with despair at my sepia-colored world until I watched a squirrel scurrying here and there searching for something to save for an uncertain future.
Perhaps the irrecoverable condition that fuels my nostalgia is my youth, and yet in the depths of my melancholy there is hope. It is said that hope springs eternal, and while I do not hope to ever be young again, I do tuck hope in with each tulip and each daffodil bulb that I put to rest in seemingly lifeless soil. I will leave the swing in its waiting place and save the birds houses from the ravages of winter so those "empty nests" will be there when spring arrives.
If maturity is defined as "the termination of a period that an obligation has to run," then rumors of my maturity are greatly exaggerated. I have obligations! There are fruitcakes to bake,gifts to wrap, cards to write and seasons of uncertainty to prepare for.
On these fall mornings, darker each day now; I pad into the kitchen in my furry for-fall-slippers. I pull up the window blind and with dismay not the minute changes that confirm what I already know. Winter is riding on heavy clouds and muscling her way across the autumn skies. In the yard, that for a short time was brilliant with autumn colors, the trees are bare. Their limbs that stretch skyward in a kind of supplication tremble from the threatening bitter winds.
The children's swing flips wildly in the wind and yet the apples that are black and mushy from the freeze cling to their rightful places. There was a time when the now ghastly appearing tree offered juicy red apples and there was another time, long ago, when voices from the swing cried, "higher, Daddy, higher."
Our weathered birdhouses, once hubs of activity, are now barren, abandoned - true empty nests. My husband ritualistically carries a large pot of bright red geraniums out to the porch each morning and back into the kitchen each evening trying to save the plant, a perhaps himself as well, from the inevitable winter kill.
Webster, that word master guy, defines nostalgia as "a wistful, sentimental yearning for the return of a past period, or an irrecoverable condition." This morning, as I waited for the wafts of fresh brewed coffee, I sighed with despair at my sepia-colored world until I watched a squirrel scurrying here and there searching for something to save for an uncertain future.
Perhaps the irrecoverable condition that fuels my nostalgia is my youth, and yet in the depths of my melancholy there is hope. It is said that hope springs eternal, and while I do not hope to ever be young again, I do tuck hope in with each tulip and each daffodil bulb that I put to rest in seemingly lifeless soil. I will leave the swing in its waiting place and save the birds houses from the ravages of winter so those "empty nests" will be there when spring arrives.
If maturity is defined as "the termination of a period that an obligation has to run," then rumors of my maturity are greatly exaggerated. I have obligations! There are fruitcakes to bake,gifts to wrap, cards to write and seasons of uncertainty to prepare for.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Piano
The Piano
Marlene had a piano. Marlene had everything. She had a picture in her room that glowed in the dark and a rocking horse with a tail made from real horse hair. Her mother didn't work,and she gave us warm homemade bread after school. However, the thing that Marlene had that I was most envious of was a piano.
When my mother became too sick to work we moved to an apartment building across town. The landlady had a piano. When Mother and I went to visit the landlady I would literally tremble with the desire to play her piano, but I couldn't get up the courage to ask. Then one day, close to Christmas time, the lady asked me if I would like to play the piano while the adults drank their coffee. By the time Mother was ready to leave,I had picked out "O Come All Ye Faithful."
There was a piano in the orphanage where I went to live after Mother died, but the Nuns wouldn't let me play it because I couldn't read music, but at the State School for Girls, where I lived when I was a teenager, I could sign up for one hour a week in the piano room. I discovered that I didn't need to read sheet music. My music was in my head.
There were other pianos in my stops along the way to today, but the first piano I owned was an old upright that had a few missing keys and lots of scratches and dents on its huge frame. It was free for the taking, but the taking wasn't easy and I still have memories of that move in the lower part of my back when the weather changes. That piano and I were together for many "Happy-Birthdays-to-You" and "Jingle-Bells" until the divorce. When the children and I left, we had to leave the old upright behind.
With a new love, came a new piano. My new husband's work took us all over the Northwest and when we stopped at bars and restaurants where there was a piano, I sometimes played for the customers. He gifted me with what I had pined for my entire life, my very own brand new piano.
We moved many times, but no matter the configuration of the steps, porches, and entryways, we moved my piano with us. When the children began leaving home the piano went with them to campus dorms and apartments, and suburbia, but none of them every really learned to play. It sat unused and unappreciated until the next sibling wanted it,but when we learned the piano was in a musty, cob-webbed storage shed, we brought it home again. Although I was unable to stretch my arthritic fingers across an octave, I found a place for it on an inside wall and soon it shouldered the photographs of my growing matriarchy.
Then one day I saw that look of wistful longing on the face of my youngest grandson as he fingered the keyboard.
"Would you like to learn to play the piano?" I asked.
His face lit up from cheek to cheek and he clapped his hands with joy when I told him I would pay for the lessons and that he could come to my house to practice after school each day.
The next spring, at his first recital, he surprised me by playing a duet with his teacher and then he played a small composition that he had written. He was a natural. We moved the piano to his home and now the aged instrument has new purpose. From deep within the old frame comes a new sound. The sound of the future.
Marlene had a piano. Marlene had everything. She had a picture in her room that glowed in the dark and a rocking horse with a tail made from real horse hair. Her mother didn't work,and she gave us warm homemade bread after school. However, the thing that Marlene had that I was most envious of was a piano.
When my mother became too sick to work we moved to an apartment building across town. The landlady had a piano. When Mother and I went to visit the landlady I would literally tremble with the desire to play her piano, but I couldn't get up the courage to ask. Then one day, close to Christmas time, the lady asked me if I would like to play the piano while the adults drank their coffee. By the time Mother was ready to leave,I had picked out "O Come All Ye Faithful."
There was a piano in the orphanage where I went to live after Mother died, but the Nuns wouldn't let me play it because I couldn't read music, but at the State School for Girls, where I lived when I was a teenager, I could sign up for one hour a week in the piano room. I discovered that I didn't need to read sheet music. My music was in my head.
There were other pianos in my stops along the way to today, but the first piano I owned was an old upright that had a few missing keys and lots of scratches and dents on its huge frame. It was free for the taking, but the taking wasn't easy and I still have memories of that move in the lower part of my back when the weather changes. That piano and I were together for many "Happy-Birthdays-to-You" and "Jingle-Bells" until the divorce. When the children and I left, we had to leave the old upright behind.
With a new love, came a new piano. My new husband's work took us all over the Northwest and when we stopped at bars and restaurants where there was a piano, I sometimes played for the customers. He gifted me with what I had pined for my entire life, my very own brand new piano.
We moved many times, but no matter the configuration of the steps, porches, and entryways, we moved my piano with us. When the children began leaving home the piano went with them to campus dorms and apartments, and suburbia, but none of them every really learned to play. It sat unused and unappreciated until the next sibling wanted it,but when we learned the piano was in a musty, cob-webbed storage shed, we brought it home again. Although I was unable to stretch my arthritic fingers across an octave, I found a place for it on an inside wall and soon it shouldered the photographs of my growing matriarchy.
Then one day I saw that look of wistful longing on the face of my youngest grandson as he fingered the keyboard.
"Would you like to learn to play the piano?" I asked.
His face lit up from cheek to cheek and he clapped his hands with joy when I told him I would pay for the lessons and that he could come to my house to practice after school each day.
The next spring, at his first recital, he surprised me by playing a duet with his teacher and then he played a small composition that he had written. He was a natural. We moved the piano to his home and now the aged instrument has new purpose. From deep within the old frame comes a new sound. The sound of the future.
Monday, August 31, 2009
On this Side of the Equinox
My mother-in-law used to say when the moon thinned to a sliver and tipped, the rain would fall. That happened just before the equinox, and my farmer friend said the rain was the equinox storm and not to worry, the sun would be back soon.
Some of us in the autumn of our years have been through an equinox storm and are now basking in the return of the sun for awhile longer.
Seasonal signs that fall has arrived come in Crayola colors called: burnt orange, russet, pumpkin and gold. For some of us in gray and silver.
Harvest is in full swing. White tails flag their way through yards and gardens in search of edibles, and bears search for chokecherries and apples. Wild gobblers strut their fan of feathers as they parade for the hens they hope to impress. Territorial squirrels scurry about filling their pantries and scolding trespassers.
Pigskins fly overhead and shouter-padded young men jam into each other fighting for yardage in the mud, much to the delight of old men tending home fires. As evening begin sooner, rakes are laid aside for the evening news and the weather man's predictions. Should the tomatoes be picked tonight? Will thee be frost on the pumpkin in the morning?
As you meander through the twilight of summer, and find your way through the fog that hangs heavy near the river, search for mums,., apple crisps or cinnamon candles and celebrate your days in the sun.
Some of us in the autumn of our years have been through an equinox storm and are now basking in the return of the sun for awhile longer.
Seasonal signs that fall has arrived come in Crayola colors called: burnt orange, russet, pumpkin and gold. For some of us in gray and silver.
Harvest is in full swing. White tails flag their way through yards and gardens in search of edibles, and bears search for chokecherries and apples. Wild gobblers strut their fan of feathers as they parade for the hens they hope to impress. Territorial squirrels scurry about filling their pantries and scolding trespassers.
Pigskins fly overhead and shouter-padded young men jam into each other fighting for yardage in the mud, much to the delight of old men tending home fires. As evening begin sooner, rakes are laid aside for the evening news and the weather man's predictions. Should the tomatoes be picked tonight? Will thee be frost on the pumpkin in the morning?
As you meander through the twilight of summer, and find your way through the fog that hangs heavy near the river, search for mums,., apple crisps or cinnamon candles and celebrate your days in the sun.
Mellow Septembers
The apples, plucked from the tree and from the squirrels and rabbits, are in a dark room in the basement. We call that room "purgatory" because the items in there have served us well and in time we hope to pass them along to another life with another family. The apples will indeed become heavenly mouthfuls of apple crisps and pies this fall.
The have but one pumpkin on the vine which, in spite of being a potted plant, grew huge leaves that took up too much space on our patio. We are carefully tending to that pumpkin in hopes it might become jack-o-lantern size for our smallest grandchild.
For some of us, the beginning of school means the return to routines. For others it is more poignant. I watch the young mother across the street who peeks from her hiding place behind the drapes to make sure her little boy (the I-can-do-it-myself kid)catches the bus. It is his first year and he leans forward a little seeking the center of gravity for the backpack he proudly carries. I don't see a lunch pail. No Roy Rogers or Lone Ranger metal container to carry the peanut butter and strawberry jam smeared on the smashed slices of Wonder Bread. No air-filled Twinkies to trade for a homemade cupcake. I hear the schools serve breakfast these days so my little neighbor probably takes what I used to pine for - "hot lunch."
It is for sure that September foreshadows changes and even some endings. The sun rises a little later, and a little lower, each morning now. Soon there will be no reason to lift up the shades each morning. Twilight begins to separate families as children are called in from their play sooner and adults have almost completed their seasonal yard work. In my childhood neighborhood the adults devised clever ways to let their children know it was time to come in. Some blew a whistle or rang a bell but my mother turned on the porch light to let me know it was time to come in from the hide-and-go-seek or kick-the-can games. Of course, as I had tried to tell her, if I was hiding I couldn't see the porch light.
On weekends, we stayed out until the last rays of the absent sun filtered light across the prairie and shadows flitting through bare cottonwood trees became monsters waiting for October's Halloween. It was then that we began our search for the biggest pumpkin to snatch from the neighbors garden.
Used to be folks could burn leaves they raked from their yards and that autumn aroma cannot be found in the best of candles. Used to be those same folks lingered at the fire and watch the tiny tendrils of smoke drift into the night sky before they retreated to their winter homes where they began addressing holiday cards that would substitute for the handshakes of September.
The have but one pumpkin on the vine which, in spite of being a potted plant, grew huge leaves that took up too much space on our patio. We are carefully tending to that pumpkin in hopes it might become jack-o-lantern size for our smallest grandchild.
For some of us, the beginning of school means the return to routines. For others it is more poignant. I watch the young mother across the street who peeks from her hiding place behind the drapes to make sure her little boy (the I-can-do-it-myself kid)catches the bus. It is his first year and he leans forward a little seeking the center of gravity for the backpack he proudly carries. I don't see a lunch pail. No Roy Rogers or Lone Ranger metal container to carry the peanut butter and strawberry jam smeared on the smashed slices of Wonder Bread. No air-filled Twinkies to trade for a homemade cupcake. I hear the schools serve breakfast these days so my little neighbor probably takes what I used to pine for - "hot lunch."
It is for sure that September foreshadows changes and even some endings. The sun rises a little later, and a little lower, each morning now. Soon there will be no reason to lift up the shades each morning. Twilight begins to separate families as children are called in from their play sooner and adults have almost completed their seasonal yard work. In my childhood neighborhood the adults devised clever ways to let their children know it was time to come in. Some blew a whistle or rang a bell but my mother turned on the porch light to let me know it was time to come in from the hide-and-go-seek or kick-the-can games. Of course, as I had tried to tell her, if I was hiding I couldn't see the porch light.
On weekends, we stayed out until the last rays of the absent sun filtered light across the prairie and shadows flitting through bare cottonwood trees became monsters waiting for October's Halloween. It was then that we began our search for the biggest pumpkin to snatch from the neighbors garden.
Used to be folks could burn leaves they raked from their yards and that autumn aroma cannot be found in the best of candles. Used to be those same folks lingered at the fire and watch the tiny tendrils of smoke drift into the night sky before they retreated to their winter homes where they began addressing holiday cards that would substitute for the handshakes of September.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Fair Time
"Our state fair is a great state fair, don't miss it don't even be late!"
For me, in the 1940s, the Montana State Fair was the single most exciting event of summer. That excitement lasted until the gates of the fairgrounds closed and the back-to-school advertisements proclaimed the end was near.
Mother loved the fair, and the two of us went every day from the time the gates opened until the fireworks display each night. One year, Gene Autry, on his horse named Champion, led the parade in town which ended at the gates of the fairgrounds. With dozens of other kids, I ran the same route, getting as close to the famous singing cowboy as possible.
There were, according to Mother, rules about going to the fair. First I had to suffer through all the exhibits. We looked at pumpkins and tomatoes, lambs and pigs, jams and quilts, and demonstrations of new vacuum cleaners and slicers and dicers. One year my cousins got a job demonstrating a new bathtub. At the end of the day they looked like prunes, but they were happy prunes as they ran toward the midway with money to spend.
After the exhibits, we went to the cottonwood park and spread out a blanket for our lunch. Mother took out bologna and tuna sandwiches and milk and I dreamed of pronto pups, soda pop and cotton candy that would come later. Mother napped and I fidgeted until it was time for the rodeo and horse racing.
While mother studied the racing program with words like quinella and parimutuals, I climbed under the grandstand to collect empty beer bottles. At two cents each, a sack full would pay for several rides on the midway. The rodeo began with dazzling cowgirls in sequins and white fringes racing around the track on horseback with flags flying above them. Cowboys roped cows, rode broncs and bulls and comical clowns jumped in and out of barrels.
When we left the grandstand area we always stopped at the bingo tent. I had to play too because it increased Mother's chance of completing her set of goblets.
Dinner time! Burgers, and hot dogs, chicken and corn-on-the-cob, choc late covered ice cream bars and cotton candy! The food concessions were on the edge of the midway and I could hear the merry-go-round kaleidoscope and the hawkers in the game booths. Teenagers screamed in terror from high up in a ride called the Hammer. My anticipation couldn't be contained any longer, but Mother had one more rule.
First, I had to ride the Ferris Wheel with her. It was the only ride mother went on and the only one I did not want to go on. I climbed into the rocking wooden bench and watched the attendant lock the bar across our lap. The single bar that was supposed to hold us in. I sat stiffly at the back of the bench as we began our climb into the sky. Each time the wheel stopped to let others on we were a little higher and Mother leaned over the safety bar to enjoy the sights below. She pointed with excitement at the tall buildings in our town while I held my breath while we went around and around. The sweet promises of cotton candy, live pony rides and bumper cars kept me from dying of fear.
Finally! The fair, which is what children call the carnival. Two hours later, after, what mother labeled a "sheer waste of money," we left the midway and scrambled up the grandstand to find the best seat for the night show and the fireworks.
After neck bending aerial displays the fireworks show ended with a ground display of the American Flag and everyone stood up to sing the National Anthem. Then it was all over. BUT not for me! We would be back the next day.
Many years later, I coerced my husband into taking our brood to the fair. Observing Mother's rules we drug our babies through all the exhibits, horse racing, rodeos and homemade lunches before hitting the midway. Then my parental good sense was wafted away with smells of my childhood. After the fireworks,we carried stuffed animals, bowls of gold fish and cotton-candy sticky babes to the car. The next day we went to our bank to borrow enough money to see us through August and the back-to-school sales.
While our state fair is no longer the state fair, and may not be a great fair, I won't miss it. I won't even be late - on senior citizen day.
For me, in the 1940s, the Montana State Fair was the single most exciting event of summer. That excitement lasted until the gates of the fairgrounds closed and the back-to-school advertisements proclaimed the end was near.
Mother loved the fair, and the two of us went every day from the time the gates opened until the fireworks display each night. One year, Gene Autry, on his horse named Champion, led the parade in town which ended at the gates of the fairgrounds. With dozens of other kids, I ran the same route, getting as close to the famous singing cowboy as possible.
There were, according to Mother, rules about going to the fair. First I had to suffer through all the exhibits. We looked at pumpkins and tomatoes, lambs and pigs, jams and quilts, and demonstrations of new vacuum cleaners and slicers and dicers. One year my cousins got a job demonstrating a new bathtub. At the end of the day they looked like prunes, but they were happy prunes as they ran toward the midway with money to spend.
After the exhibits, we went to the cottonwood park and spread out a blanket for our lunch. Mother took out bologna and tuna sandwiches and milk and I dreamed of pronto pups, soda pop and cotton candy that would come later. Mother napped and I fidgeted until it was time for the rodeo and horse racing.
While mother studied the racing program with words like quinella and parimutuals, I climbed under the grandstand to collect empty beer bottles. At two cents each, a sack full would pay for several rides on the midway. The rodeo began with dazzling cowgirls in sequins and white fringes racing around the track on horseback with flags flying above them. Cowboys roped cows, rode broncs and bulls and comical clowns jumped in and out of barrels.
When we left the grandstand area we always stopped at the bingo tent. I had to play too because it increased Mother's chance of completing her set of goblets.
Dinner time! Burgers, and hot dogs, chicken and corn-on-the-cob, choc late covered ice cream bars and cotton candy! The food concessions were on the edge of the midway and I could hear the merry-go-round kaleidoscope and the hawkers in the game booths. Teenagers screamed in terror from high up in a ride called the Hammer. My anticipation couldn't be contained any longer, but Mother had one more rule.
First, I had to ride the Ferris Wheel with her. It was the only ride mother went on and the only one I did not want to go on. I climbed into the rocking wooden bench and watched the attendant lock the bar across our lap. The single bar that was supposed to hold us in. I sat stiffly at the back of the bench as we began our climb into the sky. Each time the wheel stopped to let others on we were a little higher and Mother leaned over the safety bar to enjoy the sights below. She pointed with excitement at the tall buildings in our town while I held my breath while we went around and around. The sweet promises of cotton candy, live pony rides and bumper cars kept me from dying of fear.
Finally! The fair, which is what children call the carnival. Two hours later, after, what mother labeled a "sheer waste of money," we left the midway and scrambled up the grandstand to find the best seat for the night show and the fireworks.
After neck bending aerial displays the fireworks show ended with a ground display of the American Flag and everyone stood up to sing the National Anthem. Then it was all over. BUT not for me! We would be back the next day.
Many years later, I coerced my husband into taking our brood to the fair. Observing Mother's rules we drug our babies through all the exhibits, horse racing, rodeos and homemade lunches before hitting the midway. Then my parental good sense was wafted away with smells of my childhood. After the fireworks,we carried stuffed animals, bowls of gold fish and cotton-candy sticky babes to the car. The next day we went to our bank to borrow enough money to see us through August and the back-to-school sales.
While our state fair is no longer the state fair, and may not be a great fair, I won't miss it. I won't even be late - on senior citizen day.
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Squatters
What seems like a long, long time ago, in a faraway land, my parents and I left the city, pulling a very archaic wooden trailer behind our Desoto. We were in search of the perfect summer getaway.
We drove across dusty dirt roads, always pointing our dreams in the direction of the Rocky Mountains that loomed ahead on the Western horizon. Eventually we arrived in the Sun River canyon. We crept along a narrow roadway that snaked in the same pattern as the Sun River below. We parked our rolling home in a grove of trees at the base of the newly constructed Gibson Dam. Behind that dam was a wilderness that would come to be known as "The Bob."
My father carried boulders from the riverbed and mixed up some cement to create our fire pit. I made a print of my hand in the wet cement and my parents wrote our names. We were squatters and that was our land. We rarely saw any other campers. Mother and I picked wild flowers and Daddy cut fire wood and no one told us not to. We went uphill, away from the river, to relieve ourselves and I learned to carry a shovel to bury my waste. I remember starry nights and blackened marshmallows with creamy centers. After I was tucked into the top bunk I could hear my parents murmuring between music strummed on Daddy's guitar.
This past Memorial Day weekend my husband and I drove out of the city in our motor home searching for our own idyllic getaway. The traffic was heavy with recreational vehicles of various sizes and shapes all apparently headed in the same direction. We left the freeway and continued on paved roads to the campsite we had reserved. We registered at the little hut near the entrance. Name, address, vehicle license, dog licenses numbers and picked up the policy and procedure booklet. Thirteen dollars a night, one week only, gates locked at 10 p.m.
The paved, level spot we decided on had a long distance view of the lake, our own picnic table, a designated fire pit and we were in walking distance to the shower house. We hooked up the water, sewer, electricity, cable and secured our dogs to the post provided for that purpose. At the coin-operated wood dispenser we secured an arm load of wood for our evening fire for only $3.
Our immediate neighbors, in their behemoth motor home, had all of the window shades pulled so we left our blinds up on that side of our motor home. We toured one of those Greyhound bus sized motor homes one time and I wondered if our neighbors had a washer and dryer and spinet piano in theirs.
We burned a few marshmallows and watched the neighbors on the other side tap their keg before we went to bed. The camp host made frequent rounds, even after the front gate was locked, and our weekend was peaceful and quiet behind our window shades.
My dad made up a song for me on one of the nights he strummed his guitar under the stars. To the tune of Clementine:
In Augusta, in Augusta, in the days of '46
lived a couple and their daughter
and they lived out in the sticks.
Had a trailer house, yes a trailer house
and they liked it very much, etc.
A few years ago my husband and I made the trek to the Sun River canyon in search of my childhood. We found a small bit of the fire pit my dad had built and written in the cement was the date, July 5, 1946.
Across a newly built bridge was the campground city. RV squatters had happily paid the rent on a bit of 21st century wilderness.
We drove across dusty dirt roads, always pointing our dreams in the direction of the Rocky Mountains that loomed ahead on the Western horizon. Eventually we arrived in the Sun River canyon. We crept along a narrow roadway that snaked in the same pattern as the Sun River below. We parked our rolling home in a grove of trees at the base of the newly constructed Gibson Dam. Behind that dam was a wilderness that would come to be known as "The Bob."
My father carried boulders from the riverbed and mixed up some cement to create our fire pit. I made a print of my hand in the wet cement and my parents wrote our names. We were squatters and that was our land. We rarely saw any other campers. Mother and I picked wild flowers and Daddy cut fire wood and no one told us not to. We went uphill, away from the river, to relieve ourselves and I learned to carry a shovel to bury my waste. I remember starry nights and blackened marshmallows with creamy centers. After I was tucked into the top bunk I could hear my parents murmuring between music strummed on Daddy's guitar.
This past Memorial Day weekend my husband and I drove out of the city in our motor home searching for our own idyllic getaway. The traffic was heavy with recreational vehicles of various sizes and shapes all apparently headed in the same direction. We left the freeway and continued on paved roads to the campsite we had reserved. We registered at the little hut near the entrance. Name, address, vehicle license, dog licenses numbers and picked up the policy and procedure booklet. Thirteen dollars a night, one week only, gates locked at 10 p.m.
The paved, level spot we decided on had a long distance view of the lake, our own picnic table, a designated fire pit and we were in walking distance to the shower house. We hooked up the water, sewer, electricity, cable and secured our dogs to the post provided for that purpose. At the coin-operated wood dispenser we secured an arm load of wood for our evening fire for only $3.
Our immediate neighbors, in their behemoth motor home, had all of the window shades pulled so we left our blinds up on that side of our motor home. We toured one of those Greyhound bus sized motor homes one time and I wondered if our neighbors had a washer and dryer and spinet piano in theirs.
We burned a few marshmallows and watched the neighbors on the other side tap their keg before we went to bed. The camp host made frequent rounds, even after the front gate was locked, and our weekend was peaceful and quiet behind our window shades.
My dad made up a song for me on one of the nights he strummed his guitar under the stars. To the tune of Clementine:
In Augusta, in Augusta, in the days of '46
lived a couple and their daughter
and they lived out in the sticks.
Had a trailer house, yes a trailer house
and they liked it very much, etc.
A few years ago my husband and I made the trek to the Sun River canyon in search of my childhood. We found a small bit of the fire pit my dad had built and written in the cement was the date, July 5, 1946.
Across a newly built bridge was the campground city. RV squatters had happily paid the rent on a bit of 21st century wilderness.
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