LJ Idol Season 8, Week 30, Vacation
The mountains were blue in the distance. It was an exciting thing after driving out of the desert. We’d been on the road a while in this big adventure. Our cat, Maggie, had already escaped the car once, and ran into the desert. Luckily we were able to get her back.
I was four years old and this was a big adventure, our first family vacation, except without my father. I didn’t know that really we had left California to escape him and all of the abuse. For my mother we were fleeing and running to safety, but to me, we were on a huge adventure. As we drove, my brother read a chapter book from the front seat, The Ghost in my Soup. I lay with rapt attention, propped on pillows in the back seat. We had taken a lot of clothes and other items with us. I’m not sure, even to this day, if my mom planned to stay in Arkansas, where we were headed, but we certainly had enough supplies.
When we arrived in Colorado I fell in love. The mountains were beautiful and the mountain town of Gunnison pulled me in. I told my mother that when I grew up I was going to live in Colorado. She was amused, but I felt like she dismissed my longing for the place. I meant serious business. I was sad when we left Colorado behind.
Next we were driving through the fields of Kansas which I felt were very boring, so again I was caught up in the story my brother read from the front seat. I remember little about the book now, but it was something about a family being haunted by a ghost. I wasn’t scared. I liked stories beyond my years and mostly understood them just fine.
When we pulled into my grandparents house in Northwest Arkansas it was late at night. The first thing I remember was having Sprite and m & m’s for a late night snack. I knew I had died and gone to heaven. Let the spoiling commence. In the early eighties there were a series of commercials about the green m & m’s being the lucky ones. I began sorting through them, picking out the green ones for my aunt’s softball team to eat so they could win. In those days I was still able to distinguish the colors well enough to sort them, and something about rubbing the round, but irregular peanut filled candies between my fingers was soothing. It had been a long way on the road, but I had missed my grandparents who had moved to Arkansas about two years earlier. They were so welcoming that I began to think we’d stay there for good.
During that summer we caught fireflies, or at least I held the jar while those that could see caught them. One night we had a whole jar full and my mother read to us by their light. I remember being able to see some of them fly away when we opened the lid to set them free.
We watched my aunt play softball. Helped my grandpa in the garden. Had our first experience with a cow getting butchered and getting fresh beef. I think it bothered my brother more than it did me, even though he was almost five years older. We were in the pool, almost like fish, and one night went skinny dipping to avoid bringing any chiggers into the house after a fire fly hunt. Apparently chiggers are even worse than ticks. We had big family cook outs, and I enjoyed girl time with my mamaw as she’d paint my nails. My poppy gave me rides in the little wagon that got pulled behind the tractor. I remember admiring everything my poppy did. I wanted to grow up to be like him. Even more than that, he was a man that could be admired for the way he lived his life. He kept a careful eye on us when we went to the lake to swim, and I remember me getting too close to a snapping turtle being a big deal, even though I just wanted to check it out. I was always a wildlife lover. It’s something I inherited from my mom, who inherited it from her dad, my Poppy.
I can remember running up and down the hall of the house, playing dress up with mamaw’s dresses, and sitting listening to country music as Poppy would sing along to Willy Nelson. It was so far removed from California where my father was abusive and addicted to drugs and alcohol. Where he poured a dark shadow over our lives like a lava flow spreads over the land. Still, I thought of it as a vacation and nothing more.
I do not know how long we stayed, but soon we were going home. My mom and dad must have made up with each other, lies and untruths mending what had torn our family apart. We packed our bags for California again. I took with me a story book, made on construction paper, with pictures and largely printed words with black marker so I could read them. It was the story of my trip to Arkansas that my family had put together for me. I treasured it.
We trekked back to California, over the plain flatness of Kansas, the beautiful Rockies, the desert, and toward the coast, the place we called home. Yet I never seemed settled there, and as soon as I was an adult I moved to Colorado, leaving California behind. I had made a promise to return there. It had been a place that had started the healing of my soul, on this vacation, this flight from harsh words, hard blows, and the screaming that had been my life for the first four years, and would continue to be, once we returned to California again. When I think of vacations, I always think of that one, my first. Vacations really should bring peace, and I strive to make sure that every one does when I take them now. Each time I vacation I try to build memories just as I did on the flight from my father, and I’ll always remember vacations as healing experiences.
I was four years old and this was a big adventure, our first family vacation, except without my father. I didn’t know that really we had left California to escape him and all of the abuse. For my mother we were fleeing and running to safety, but to me, we were on a huge adventure. As we drove, my brother read a chapter book from the front seat, The Ghost in my Soup. I lay with rapt attention, propped on pillows in the back seat. We had taken a lot of clothes and other items with us. I’m not sure, even to this day, if my mom planned to stay in Arkansas, where we were headed, but we certainly had enough supplies.
When we arrived in Colorado I fell in love. The mountains were beautiful and the mountain town of Gunnison pulled me in. I told my mother that when I grew up I was going to live in Colorado. She was amused, but I felt like she dismissed my longing for the place. I meant serious business. I was sad when we left Colorado behind.
Next we were driving through the fields of Kansas which I felt were very boring, so again I was caught up in the story my brother read from the front seat. I remember little about the book now, but it was something about a family being haunted by a ghost. I wasn’t scared. I liked stories beyond my years and mostly understood them just fine.
When we pulled into my grandparents house in Northwest Arkansas it was late at night. The first thing I remember was having Sprite and m & m’s for a late night snack. I knew I had died and gone to heaven. Let the spoiling commence. In the early eighties there were a series of commercials about the green m & m’s being the lucky ones. I began sorting through them, picking out the green ones for my aunt’s softball team to eat so they could win. In those days I was still able to distinguish the colors well enough to sort them, and something about rubbing the round, but irregular peanut filled candies between my fingers was soothing. It had been a long way on the road, but I had missed my grandparents who had moved to Arkansas about two years earlier. They were so welcoming that I began to think we’d stay there for good.
During that summer we caught fireflies, or at least I held the jar while those that could see caught them. One night we had a whole jar full and my mother read to us by their light. I remember being able to see some of them fly away when we opened the lid to set them free.
We watched my aunt play softball. Helped my grandpa in the garden. Had our first experience with a cow getting butchered and getting fresh beef. I think it bothered my brother more than it did me, even though he was almost five years older. We were in the pool, almost like fish, and one night went skinny dipping to avoid bringing any chiggers into the house after a fire fly hunt. Apparently chiggers are even worse than ticks. We had big family cook outs, and I enjoyed girl time with my mamaw as she’d paint my nails. My poppy gave me rides in the little wagon that got pulled behind the tractor. I remember admiring everything my poppy did. I wanted to grow up to be like him. Even more than that, he was a man that could be admired for the way he lived his life. He kept a careful eye on us when we went to the lake to swim, and I remember me getting too close to a snapping turtle being a big deal, even though I just wanted to check it out. I was always a wildlife lover. It’s something I inherited from my mom, who inherited it from her dad, my Poppy.
I can remember running up and down the hall of the house, playing dress up with mamaw’s dresses, and sitting listening to country music as Poppy would sing along to Willy Nelson. It was so far removed from California where my father was abusive and addicted to drugs and alcohol. Where he poured a dark shadow over our lives like a lava flow spreads over the land. Still, I thought of it as a vacation and nothing more.
I do not know how long we stayed, but soon we were going home. My mom and dad must have made up with each other, lies and untruths mending what had torn our family apart. We packed our bags for California again. I took with me a story book, made on construction paper, with pictures and largely printed words with black marker so I could read them. It was the story of my trip to Arkansas that my family had put together for me. I treasured it.
We trekked back to California, over the plain flatness of Kansas, the beautiful Rockies, the desert, and toward the coast, the place we called home. Yet I never seemed settled there, and as soon as I was an adult I moved to Colorado, leaving California behind. I had made a promise to return there. It had been a place that had started the healing of my soul, on this vacation, this flight from harsh words, hard blows, and the screaming that had been my life for the first four years, and would continue to be, once we returned to California again. When I think of vacations, I always think of that one, my first. Vacations really should bring peace, and I strive to make sure that every one does when I take them now. Each time I vacation I try to build memories just as I did on the flight from my father, and I’ll always remember vacations as healing experiences.