Eagle Lake in the Endless Mountains
Tucked behind the tree line at the far end
of the fields that once grew corn, was a magical
spot. Through the tall forest of trees, green with moss on the north side of
the bark, past the ferns and mushrooms, and beyond to a clearing where a small
spring fed pond lives, was my childhood’s version of the most perfect place.
Being there made me happy, content and immeasurably at peace. Quite
simply, I loved being there.
Years later, I was glad to be able to take my own children to
my magic place. Spending lazy summer days there meant my kids fed
the catfish off the wobbly dock, and laughed as the catfishes whiskered faces poked out
of the water to gobble the food that had been thrown to them. It meant
listening for the symphony of bullfrogs at night and in the early morning hours
waking up to a cacophony of birdcalls in the woods. It meant teaching my kids to make
whistles by placing blades of grass between their thumbs and blowing until they made shrill sounds. It meant they got to explore the nearby caves and the shady, mossy woods and most importantly, my kids hopefully felt that same sense of peace that I knew.
Around The Campfire
Just as I had done as a child, and in exactly the same spot, my
kids and their cousins roasted hot dogs over an open fire. There was a
trick to making the perfect hot dog. When
skin was almost black and the meat inside was bursting with juice, it was then
cooked just right. With a bun and a lot of mustard, the first bite made you realize how perfect they were. Earlier, we had thrown potatoes right into the flames and
let their skins blacken. A quick poke told us if the insides were
done. Then we'd roll the potatoes out of the fire and pick them up using another long stick. Breaking the
potatoes open and letting all the steam out, we waited for them
to cool a bit. Then, we'd slather them with butter, salt and sour cream and eat them with
our hands, making our lips and fingers black from the burnt potato skins. In this photo, my kids and their cousins are
having ‘dessert,’- campfire marshmallows, while Uncle Eddie finishes his hot dog!
Uncle Nartcy and Aunt Martha's Farm
Road trips to Pennsylvania always included visits to Uncle Nartcy
and Aunt Martha's farm. Their herding dog, Sport, was an expert on
rounding up the cattle and sheep with just a few quick commands. My uncle grew field corn in rows that seemed to go on for
infinity. My cousins and I played hide and seek in the rows that 'were as high as an elephant's eye.' The care-worn house might
have needed a coat of fresh paint, but flowers were tended carefully and
were bursts colors against the drab house. Just as when I was a kid,
there were litters of kittens to be played with, and chickens to feed, and my kids couldn't wait to do 'farm chores.' The giant barn that held the summer's hay and all sorts of farm
machinery, made the best place to play
during the hot summer days. My cousins and I made tunnels through the
bails, and we took turns swinging like pirates from the rope that was
suspended from the highest rafter. In this photo, my kids and their cousins sit
on the back porch swing, waiting until we can go and see the sheep. For my
uncle and aunt those sheep were just a part of their livelihood, but for my
kids and me, they meant we were on a real farm.
Camping Trips
Packing up the car, with no room to move meant we were on the road to another camping trip. The tent, the stove, propane canisters, picnic
supplies, pots, pans, table clothes, lanterns, towels, clothing and sleeping
bags were jammed into the trunk. Coolers full of food, and anything that
didn't fit in the trunk, was stuffed under foot and between seats.
For my kids, camping was the best when it was with their cousins. Here they are
posed momentarily while exploring the campgrounds before we left for the river
to swim. Whether it was to Standish-Hickey State Park up near Legget,
California, Clear Lake or to the Gold Country, we all knew that the days would
be filled with swimming, exploring and just good fun. Bacon and eggs cooked on the propane
stove tasted far better than those cooked at home. At night, walks in the dark
with flashlights were especially exciting because distant sounds, might be a wolf, or a bobcat, especially if there was
an adult along who seemed convincing. On one occasion we were all scared
half to death by a sudden burst of scampering right behind us in the
darkness. As the kids screamed, they
imagined that the noise might be bears, but it turned out to be a band of raccoons
that had managed to get the lid off of a garbage can.
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