The Summer I Truned Ten

 Sheryl and I were sharing weekly writings with one another-both fiction and nonfiction. I'm posting this story I wrote in Oct. so I don't forget how to post to my blog. (good enough reason, I guess) It's been so long since I've done much writing, and I think it would do me good to start again. I'm not sure why I'm a "Matthew" in the story. I just write stories as they come to me.

The Summer I Turned Ten

          Around the time of my tenth birthday, my Mother started calling me Matthew or Matt rather than Matty. I was glad because Matty is kind of a baby name. I liked Matty o-k until I was about five, then it was a little embarrassing. My Dad has always called me Matt, and my then eight year old twin sisters, Rea and Rae, usually called me something like skunk breath or fart man. I guess I can’t complain because, in my mind, I thought of them as piss and pot—get it? Piss Pot! Ha. I'd be in trouble with my parents if I had actually said that out loud because, being the oldest and the only brother, I was somehow supposed to set a good example.

          My sister, Lulu, who was three at the time—oh, three and a half---she was quick to correct me, just called me Map because that’s how she first learned to say it as a baby. We became so used to it that we didn’t even realize she was saying Map instead of Matt. Lulu has always been a pretty sweet kid. I can remember when Mom brought her home. She looked so foreign and fragile that I kept my distance from her at first, but before long, she and I were best buds.

          Well, my story is actually about our July trip to see Grandpa (my Dad’s Father). We always visited him two times a year: once in July and once at Thanksgiving. We’d pile into our old Nash, me in the back between piss and pot, and Lulu in the front between Mom and Dad. We would always have popcorn for a snack, and we actually got a bottle of soda pop each---each. Mom would pack up a picnic lunch for us to eat at a little roadside spot about half way to Grandpa’s. That was one highlight of the trip—sitting down at a weather-worn picnic table with our favorite food. We could run around a bit after we ate, and there was an old outhouse nearby we could use. The twins wouldn’t go near it, of course, but I was sure happy to have it there.

          On your mark; Get set; Go! We would begin the terrible four and a half hour drive. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my Grandpa, and I loved all the adventures on his farm, but the drive! Four and a half hours! Sitting between piss and pot! But you haven’t heard the worst of it: the last hour was on a winding, gravel road. It switch-backed right up a mountain side with nothing to protect us from tumbling off the ledge, plummeting to our bloody, broken deaths. I hated that gravel road for so many reasons: most of us would get car sick; in the summer we would nearly get heat stroke because we had to leave the windows up because of the dust, and in the winter, I just knew it was only a matter of time before we skidded on the snow and over the edge. I was sure that we’d be buried until spring. Then some poor family would see our car and try to help us, but they’d find our perfectly preserved bodies, with faces frozen in horrid screams. I think I felt as sorry for that imagined unfortunate family as I did for my own.

          On every trip something unpleasant happened. We had the flat tire summer, the chains required winter, the most of us have just come down with the chicken pox July. (Can you imagine the miserable itching we experienced sitting in that Nash, driving on that hot, dusty road! (I think that trip won the Disaster Trip Trophy). We had many other such hard luck stories, and this “the year I was ten” was no exception.

          When we were about 15 minutes from our picnic spot, it started to rain, what I mean is, it started to pour. Dad had to pull off the road at the longed-for picnic spot because he could no longer see through the waterfall that gushed over the windshield. So there we sat, starving. Someone, not me, no not me, suggested we have the picnic in the car. It will be fun. That must have been Lulu talking. Now, have you ever tried eating greasy (sorry Mom) fried chicken, potato salad, and cherry pie in an old Nash crammed full of tired, surly people? Close your eyes, and imagine it. Yes, it was that bad, and more.

          After we finished eating, the rain stopped, the sun shone brightly, and we drove on without pausing to use the outhouse. It wasn’t long before we stopped at a filling station and tried our best to clean up from the picnic disaster. It was difficult because, as is often the case, the facilities at the station were more disgusting than we were.

          What next, you may wonder---the gravel road? Oh, no, not yet. Lulu, sweet little Lulu, had a plan. Daddy, could we please stop to see the animals this time. You never stop. Please. The animals she was talking about were at a roadside attraction that was soon coming up. The hanging-by-a-thread sign promised coyotes, wolves, and other wild beasts. We also have the best, fresh water around. Come in and wet your whistle.

          Dad gave in. I think it was because we didn’t get our picnic, and we really, really needed a break. So the six of us emerged from our clammy seats and single-filed into a building that was not much more than a storage shed. Dad paid the man. (I have no idea how much it cost, but as we soon learned, whatever the fee, it was too much). Behind the building were five cages. One of them was large enough to hold a pathetic looking coyote, and beside it was something in a cage labeled wolf. Was it? Who knows? One small cage had a de-smelled skunk; one held a sickly rabbit, and the last cage was empty, except for the flies that were scavengering for goodies buried within long-ago dumped feces of some sort.

          I’ll summarize here: It smelled shit-bad; the animals were trapped zombies, and Lulu started to howl. She felt so bad for those creatures. We all did. We quickly crowded back into the car, and without taking time to have that best, fresh water to drink, we sped off, (or rather, sputtered down the road). Lulu continued to sob and plead for the lives of those creatures. Finally, Dad had an idea. He would call his good friend who lived in that area, and make sure authorities of some kind would arrest that bad man and let the animals go free. (Dad really knew they would have to be put down, but he decided it was o-k to tell Lulu the animals would be free because, after all, they would be free of their hell homes). Lulu stopped crying and we resumed our trip, a little more somber and less contentious than before the animal incident. (By the way, I later learned that my Dad’s friend did, in fact, follow through, and the animals are now in a better place). I was proud of my Dad and his friend.

          So, have you been waiting for the gravel road part of my story? Picture this: we’ve already been on the road for hours; the warm potato salad is catching up to us; Rea threw up on my left leg, and Mom is getting a headache. With the interior car temperature shooting up by the minute, we begin our climb up the treacherous road, and now rather than fearing a disastrous plunge, I think I’m almost hoping for it. We do, finally, finally, make it to the top, unscathed, except the car is overheating, we’re overheating and someone must have stepped in something back at the faux zoo.

          Grandpa was always out to meet us as we drove up. How did he know the moment of our arrival? Perhaps his two dogs gave him a heads up. I loved those dogs. Rea and Rae preferred the kittens, the baby chicks, and the rabbits. They ran off to find them the minute the car came to a stop. Grandfather always looked pleased about their enthusiasm. My parents made their way into the house with Grandpa to chat and catch up on the news about Aunt Rhonda and Uncle Wayne. Lulu was content to play with sticks and rocks and, especially, tiny frogs. During the July visits, I always hurried for the creek: the trickling, life-giving marvel. It was a cooling place against the sun, and a thinking place—a shelter against my sudden growing pains, and a safe haven to consider my emerging awakenings

          When we were at the farm in the winter, it was sledding and snow forts. Everyone came out to play. Everyone. The snow sparkled and the hills seemed to echo our laughter. It was truly breathtaking. Sometimes Grandpa and I worked our way up one of his little hills looking for animal tracks in the snow. He loved teaching me about nature, and somehow, now that I had turned ten, I was beginning to understand how important these lessons were on so many levels.

          The evenings, whether in winter or summer, provided cozy intimacy. It was then that our family was enveloped by a quiet unity, a harmony that was often lacking in our boisterous daytime lives. In the summer evenings, we sat out on the porch while the mountain breeze lulled us into a comfortable peace. In the winter, Grandpa’s wood-burning stove warmed us—body and soul. I can still remember some of Grandpa’s fireside stories. He shared his escapades in such a way that I often felt as if he and I were living the adventures together.

          This July, like those visits in the past, we had five days to play and visit and discover and explore.  I don’t think any of us ever wondered what heaven will be like. We got to visit it twice a year.

          When it was time to leave, as we were walking out to the car for another round of thank yous and goodbyes, Grandpa took my hands in his hands. It was then I became aware that he was aging; his skin seemed paper-thin, and his hands trembled a bit.  He leaned down and whispered gently, “I love you, Matthew,” and I replied, “I love you, too, Grandpa.”

           In that moment, something remarkable happened for the first time in my life; my childish, self-centered perception of the world widened so as to allow me to experience an elementary appreciation for the gift of love.

          Now, as a man who has seasoned over the years, I’ve come to recognize that the brief flash I experienced as a ten year old was a rarity because most profound insights come to us in nearly imperceptible increments.  However, throughout my life, I have been blessed to have experienced other such sacred moments of brilliant clarity. This extraordinary spark kindles within each of us, a yearning to be a better self. These divine revelations endow us with miraculous visions of humanity at its eternal best.

          My first such awakening was the summer I turned ten.