Two sisters, the first day of summer and a log cabin. These are the things memories are made of! But first...to get there. The anticipation was almost unbearable but thanks to our parents, the car ride there was always part of the summertime pleasure.
As we made our way through the sun-baked farmlands, Mother would “ooh and ah” over the abundance
of wild flowers lining the highway, calling them by name and wishing that she
could stop and pick a bouquet to take with us. Dad would critique the progress
of the potato plants and the wheat fields, rather like checking the oven to see
if the homemade bread was almost done.
Our hometown radio station would be playing on
the car radio.
Occasionally we would stop at a small town on the way and pull into the A&W Drive-In for cold, frosty mugs of root-beer, no ice, the
thick glass mugs were so cold that ice wasn’t necessary. A car-hop would bring a tray and attach it
neatly to the outside of Dad’s open window. Dad had a special way of savoring
things and enjoying this refreshment was no exception. For two giggly girls and
our amused mother, his obvious pleasure was as delicious to us as the root-beer
itself. When we had drained every last
drop and the empty, frostless mugs were retrieved by the car-hop, Dad would pay
the bill, tell her to “Keep the Change” and we’d be on our way.
We’d cross the bridge that dissected the river and the conversation would stop as two little girls filled their lungs with air, held on and made a summer wish to be awarded if we could hold our breath form one end of the bridge to the other. And then we would begin our assent up the foothills to gradually enter
the forest. The pines would be sparse at first, embracing large meadows and
peaceful ponds but soon we would be enveloped by the majestic firs. Mother
would congratulate the trees for “listening to their mothers and standing up so
straight and tall.” Dad would say something about soldiers standing at
attention and a sort of painful silence would fill the air. (Dad was a combat
soldier in World War II). Somberly, we would crest a hill and then, suddenly, Dad would break into song;
“When you’ve
climbed the highest mountain, when a cloud holds the sunshine in. . . Suddenly
there’s a valley, where love and hope begin. Touched only by the seasons, swept
clean by the waving grain, surveyed by a happy blue bird and kissed by the
falling rains. When you think there’s no bright tomorrows, when you feel you can’t try again.
. . Suddenly there’s a valley, where hope and love begin.”
All was well, we
were safe; a little family together and we would soon be at the gate that led to a summer of adventure. I loved to hop out of the
car and “ride” the gate after Dad used his key to open the padlock and remove
the chain. Passing through Ghiberti’s
wondrous Gates of Paradise in Florence couldn’t compare to the anticipation of
a little girl knowing that a summer with her sister in the forest lay just
beyond that simple metal gate!
A long, bumpy road led us into the forest where a few cabins
lay nestled in the trees. A far cry from the huge homes, condos and tennis
courts there today! Soon we were pulling
up to the fairy tale cabin Dad and Grandpa had built with their own
hands. My sister and I would burst out of the
car and promptly set about doing the things that memories are made of.
While Mother and Dad unpacked the car we would run to
do forest inspection. First “tight-rope” walking on the logs lined up to mark
the parking area, and down the lane balancing on more logs to the big swing
built between two giant lodge pole pines, with long chains and a green wooden
seat…room for two girls. But I’d lay on
the swing on my tummy first and my sister would wind up the chain, around and around
I’d go and then….spin spin spin. I
honestly don’t ever remember us being screaming little girls but we sure
did laugh, right out loud a lot. Fun was all around us! Next we’d set the squirrel box. An apple crate that we would prop up on its
side balanced by a stick with a string attached. We’d get it ready now, because
after breakfast the next morning we would take one of Dad’s pancakes, put it in
the box and carefully walk with the end of the string behind a tree and hide
and wait for a squirrel to take the bait.
When he did, we’d pull the string, down came the box and we Got
‘im! Now what? We never really knew so we’d tiptoe over,
listen to him inside nibbling on the pancake, slowly pull up the box and squeal
as he ran free and up a tree. Sort of
catch-and-release squirrel hunters I guess.
We would run down the path to the lake and out onto the
docks where we would lie down on our tummies and watch the minnows darting
about in the green water. Then we’d sit
up and dangle our feet in and hope the minnows didn’t nibble on our toes. Fishing was a big part of the warm summer days and we became quite masterful at it! Mostly from the boat but sometimes from the
docks we would dangle our lines and catch some beauties. We could catch them, gut them and clean them
and even thread a worm on our own hooks.
The fish were plentiful and dinner was caught fresh daily!
The shady forest floor was always
strewn with wildflowers and we would pick a bouquet to take back to Mother inside
the cabin…blue lupine, silver bells etc. etc. etc. She would arrange them in a copper mug and
put them up on the fireplace mantel.
After
dinner we would do the dishes with boiling water that had been heated in a
kettle on the stove and poured into a dishpan and we would have to toss the
soapy water out the door when we were finished.
There was electricity in the house but no plumbing which also meant no
bathroom. There was a public bathroom
down the lane near the swing. It was
shared with people from neighboring cabins.
The evenings at the cabin were blissful. A roaring fire, curled up in a blanket on the
buckskin sofa with the picture of a horse stitched into the back. Listening to cowboy songs playing on the
stereo, songs that lonesome cowpokes would sing sitting around the campfire on
starlit nights far from home.
“I'll keep rolling
along - Deep in my heart is a song - Here on the range I belong -Drifting along
with the tumblin’ tumbleweeds.”
Time for bed – Dad would pull the ladder down from the
ceiling and two little girls would ascend the rungs to our loft bedroom. A pitched roof allowed just enough room for
our two beds. Oh how I loved it when the
rain pitter pattered against the tin roof at night time. The loft was open with a single rail made
from a lodge pole pine going the full width of the room. As we lay in bed, the shadows from the flames
in the fireplace danced spritely on the walls and ceiling and made the shadow
of the cuckoo clock loom large. The cuckoo would check on us every fifteen minutes
while lulling us into contented, peaceful sleep...
...To this day I can close my eyes and experience day break at the cabin. The heady smell of cold
ashes in the grate, now only a fragrant memory of pine logs blazing cheerfully
in the stone fireplace the night before.
The squirrels outside the log cabin chattering back and forth seem to
know that my Dad would soon be making pancakes. It always seemed to me that the
darling chickadees, high in the pines were looking in the windows and calling my name. Popping out of
bed I scurry over to the log railing to gaze down over the cozy cabin
scene. Sunbeams, spotlighted by the
morning sun, stream in the picture windows and dance across the buckskin
sofa. The cuckoo clock, still dutifully
pushing the minutes around, reaches the cuckoo and makes him open his door to
sing good morning, “cuckoo cuckoo.” The wildflowers from yesterday’s stroll in
the forest, hanging limp now, are still fragrant in the copper mug on the
mantel.
Listening closely I hear the only human sound…the soft, rhythmic, ever
comforting snore that I know to be Dad’s. I carefully push down the ladder;
quietly descend each rung and finally tip-toe across the polished floor in my
bare feet. At the door I slip on my Keds and then slowly twist the doorknob, funny, the door never seems to creak
during the day. Once outside, I take a deep breath filling my lungs and soul
with fresh mountain air, aromatic with pine pitch and a hint of the rich high mountain
soil, thickly carpeted with pine needles. Little droplets of morning dew
sparkle on the steps and on the leaves of the wild strawberries.
There, hear
that? That’s the embracing quiet of a forest morning. I meander down the lane to the little bathroom
in the forest and when I return the household is beginning to stir and I know
that breakfast will soon be served. Oh
breakfast in the forest is the best. My sister and I would sit at our table outside and savor Dad’s pancakes shaped like bunny
rabbits with gooey maple syrup, hash browned potatoes and bacon and of course
ice cold milk in white mugs.
I actually don’t ever remember not knowing how to swim. From the time I was four years old I was
flying behind Dad’s speed boat standing on a surf board attached by a ski rope
to the boat and a rope with a handle attached to the front of the board to keep
me steady. Around and around the lake we
would go! Zig zagging this way and that;
lake water spraying my face and sunshine kissing my nose. Dad told me not to
fall off because the big old fish would bite my toes! So when I misread a wave
from the wake of the boat and tumbled in I would take a deep breath and tip
upside down and watch underwater to make sure no one was down there ready to
nibble on me! I’d be retrieved bottoms
up each and every time!
Oh the memories! As a little girl running through the forest I thought the summer days would never end, that we would always be going there, always be together, always picking wildflowers to put in a copper mug for the mantel.
I'm reminded of the saying: "Sometimes you will never know the true value of a moment until it has become a memory."
It will soon be summer. My dear sister and I took a walk together today. A walk along the lake, not the same lake of our youth but one that is just as beautiful and once again, after more than 40 years living apart, we are together by the lake. We paused for just a moment by an old wooden dock that was moving slowly up and down from the little waves that gently reached the shore from a boat that had passed in the distance. The sound, the gentle swoosh swoosh swoosh took us right back to those summer days filled with the precious moments that are now memories and I made a mental decision to value that moment right then and tuck it away with my other sister memories.
WRITING ASSIGNMENT #15 - FATHER part 1 of 3
Who was your Father? (Full given name), Birth date and birth place
Who were his parents?
Who were his brother(s) and sister(s)?
Describe how your father's parents, brother(s) and sister(s) looked. Don't just describe a photograph, paint a picture with your words as to how they looked...to you!
Write a memory of your father's about his parents and/or his brother(s) and/or sister(s) that he shared with you.
What did you call your Father?
What did he look like? Again, paint a word picture. (we'll get to his personality and your relationship with him in part 2 and 3 so just stick to a physical description here)
Where did your father go to work every day?
What did he do? Did his work interest you?
