Two to three weeks of my summers as a child were spent going between two sets of Grandparents, one in a little town in Utah called Nephi and the other in a little town in Montana called St. Ignatius. The drive from Klamath Falls Oregon to either one of these places was long and tedious, especially to a child. To help the drive go faster, my parents would load up the old Rambler station wagon with luggage on top and sleeping children in the back. Those were the days when no seatbelts were required. We'd be lifted out of our beds with sleepy eyes and carried into the back of the Rambler where a bed had been made up for us.
Driving during the middle of the night was no easy task for my Dad who had often put in a full days work. To stay awake, he would pull into a gas station and buy a bag of ice. Chewing ice while he drove, helped him stay awake. Sometimes, I would wake up and crawl over the seats into the front of the car and sit next to my dad. The two of us would sit together in the glow of the dashboard chewing ice and talking.
It made me feel special to be with him like this, watching the yellow lines of the highway go by, eating ice and looking for deer on the road. He would tell me stories and we would share secrets as we talked quietly in the night while the rest of the family slumbered. It made me feel important. Try as I might though, the yellow lines would begin blur and my head would nod and my eyes would close. But I'd go to sleep happy and loved sitting next to the man who was my father.
Saturday, October 31, 2015
Cow pies
Montana. Just saying the word conjures up all kinds of memories. Grandpa's pipe, Little Grandma, raspberries, carrots and shucking peas. Hugs, laughter and lots and lots of love. But one of my favorite memories involves firecrackers and cow pies.
As a young girl, I grew up in Oregon. Every summer, we'd make the long journey from Klamath Falls Oregon to St. Ignatius Montana where my Grandmother lived. We always went around the fourth of July and we were always on the lookout for Black Cat fireworks. Those were the best. My dad liked fireworks just about as much as me and my brothers it seemed, because he would always buy lots of them. In addition to firecrackers and other fireworks, we had to make sure we bought several "punks". Punks were long sticks that were used to light the fireworks. They were slow burning and safer than matches. They reminded me of incense sticks.
After purchasing our fireworks, we'd climb back into the car jittery with excitement, because not only did we have our firecrackers, but we were going to Grandmother's house and we knew what adventures lay ahead. Adventures of mischief, mayhem, secrets and hours of fun.
My brothers and I grew up in a rural city. My Grandma lived in the country surrounded by cows, and tractors and wide open spaces. Most of those spaces were filled with hay bales and cows. Cows leave behind cow pies. The pastures were filled with them. To my brothers and me, this meant hours of fun. We would head out of Grandmother's house armed with matches, punks and firecrackers. The goal being, to find a cow pie that was fresh, but not too fresh. It had to have a crust on it that would be strong enough to hold a firecracker in place. Once in place, we'd light it and then see who dared to stay the longest before running as fast as our legs could carry us. Sometimes I just couldn't wait around after the fuse was lit and I would squeal and high tail it out of there. Other times I felt brave and would stick around as long as I dared before running.
At the end of the day we'd go walking through the pasture back to Grandma's house happy and satisfied and covered in bits of coupe. But, we didn't care. Tomorrow would be filled with more dares and laughter and cow pies
As a young girl, I grew up in Oregon. Every summer, we'd make the long journey from Klamath Falls Oregon to St. Ignatius Montana where my Grandmother lived. We always went around the fourth of July and we were always on the lookout for Black Cat fireworks. Those were the best. My dad liked fireworks just about as much as me and my brothers it seemed, because he would always buy lots of them. In addition to firecrackers and other fireworks, we had to make sure we bought several "punks". Punks were long sticks that were used to light the fireworks. They were slow burning and safer than matches. They reminded me of incense sticks.
After purchasing our fireworks, we'd climb back into the car jittery with excitement, because not only did we have our firecrackers, but we were going to Grandmother's house and we knew what adventures lay ahead. Adventures of mischief, mayhem, secrets and hours of fun.
My brothers and I grew up in a rural city. My Grandma lived in the country surrounded by cows, and tractors and wide open spaces. Most of those spaces were filled with hay bales and cows. Cows leave behind cow pies. The pastures were filled with them. To my brothers and me, this meant hours of fun. We would head out of Grandmother's house armed with matches, punks and firecrackers. The goal being, to find a cow pie that was fresh, but not too fresh. It had to have a crust on it that would be strong enough to hold a firecracker in place. Once in place, we'd light it and then see who dared to stay the longest before running as fast as our legs could carry us. Sometimes I just couldn't wait around after the fuse was lit and I would squeal and high tail it out of there. Other times I felt brave and would stick around as long as I dared before running.
At the end of the day we'd go walking through the pasture back to Grandma's house happy and satisfied and covered in bits of coupe. But, we didn't care. Tomorrow would be filled with more dares and laughter and cow pies
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