Writer's Workshop Wednesday

Here's my contribution to last week's assignment.  So far my prompts have prompted memories from my childhood.  I will have to pick a new theme next week....

 

Memories of my childhood summers are littered with various vacations traipsing through the midwest in modern cowboy fashion- our various station wagons hitched to our tent trailer, exploring new roads that lead into the great wide open.  That old tent trailer would be packed tight, every nook and cranny crammed with all the accessories needed to travel with 4+ children.  We would drag that trailer into wooded campsites where my dad would assume the air traffic controller position, waving his arms in frantic gestures to guide my mother as she backed the trailer into just the right spot.  The next hour would be spent watching the trailer emerge from its tightly-wound cocoon into patched-canvas splendor amidst a cacophony of familiar shouts:

"Is it level?"
"Crank it higher!"
"Someone come over and pull the flap down before the whole thing blows away!"
"I'm hungry!"
"Can we do something fun yet?"

These and other elements of our family vacations remained constant as we journeyed through famous western landmarks.  The Vancouver Wax Museum, Mount Rushmore, Yellowstone National Park, Lewis and Clark Caverns, Salt Lake Temple Square, Going-to-the-Sun Road, Hungry Horse Dam.  These, and many other natural and man-made wonders we viewed through the windows of our trusty family wagon.  These scenic vistas remain catalogued in my mind, and if I concentrate I can call up the colors of the windswept plains or smell the sulphur fumes of Yellowstone or feel the desolation of Devil's Tower all around me.  But these require actual effort to recall.  The most vivid memories are snapshots of time, small interactions with my family floating easily into view, surprising me by creeping in when I least expect them.  These memories I recall instantly.

Two such memories were born on our trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota.  They frame the entire trip for me, perhaps because the first occured shortly after leaving home, and the second involves the return drive.

We set out from home at the usual vacation departure time - early, but later than we wanted to.  We wound through sleepy Southern Alberta towns, conversation increasing gently as we neared the United States border.  By the time we proclaimed our destination and intentions to the uniformed guard on duty, everyone was awake and itching to move within the confinement of the car.  This was, of course, in the days before car seats and seat belts had been established as vital, lifesaving devices, so we kids usually laid out a bed in the back and took turns lying in it.  There was also the dreaded middle bench seat, or "the hump" as we affectionately referred to it.  These combined with ever-shifting alliances amongst siblings made for a constant musical chairs feeling in our seating arrangement.

We were now an hour or two into Montana, well on our way.  I was seated beside my brother in the backseat, grateful that he had the Hump all to himself.  I don't even remember the circumstances surrounding the event.  Perhaps we were arguing over something trivial.  Maybe I was pestering him, pushing exactly the buttons I knew would send him.  What I do remember is his sudden eruption of anger, a sure sign of having reached the edge and fallen over.  He grabbed my right hand and, poised for certain payback, forced my baby finger backward until it flattened against the hand itself.  It all happened so quickly I only had time to scream as the pain exploded through my throbbing extremity.  My mother turned around to survey the damage while my father pulled over, muttering in exasperation.  Upon inspection, the finger was declared sprained.

"But," my mother sighed. "We're in the States now, so you'll just have to deal with it.  We're not going to a doctor here!"

Dealing with it meant folding a dishtowel from the stocked trailer into a make-shift sling to hold my arm at a ninety degree angle and avoid the pulsating rush of blood into the sprained finger.  Perhaps this memory remains so sharp because the sling features prominently in many of our pictures from Montana to Mount Rushmore and back again.

At the tail end of our journey, we visited Wall Drug.  It was basically a large drugstore dressed up as a mid-western mainstreet circa 1800's.  It offered various enticements to children that reflected the same era - candy sticks, old fashioned lollipops, black licorice, and various toys.  My siblings and I clutched our small reserves of American money, perusing the shelves and purchasing souvenirs such as leather change purses or fancy postcards and pens.  But we all wanted one thing - the biggest jawbreaker we had ever seen.

It was huge - almost the size of a baseball, white with multicolored flecks.  We pooled our change together and, I'm sure much to my mother's chagrin, purchased the enormous candy rock.

The plan was simple.  One of us would start the licking and then it would pass to the next person in the row, and so on and so on.  At first the licks were regulated - 10 licks then pass it on.  The allotted time began to stretch as our tongues turned raw and interest waned.  But the drive home was long, and we kept at it.  By the time the border was in view, only a grape size jawbreaker remained.

To this day I can't see a jawbreaker without thinking of this enormous specimen. 

I know my memories are enlarged and made more incredible simply because when you're little everything seems enormous and dramatic, but I love when they float across my mind.  When my kids start getting silly in the back of the van or begin buying every candy in sight with their long saved allowance on the way home to Grandma's, I think of what I remember most from my own childhood vacations.  Then I take a breath and step back, because these are the memories they will think of when they get older, hopefully with a smile.