There once was a small glass bluebird hanging above the deck at my grandparents’ “cabin” near the Snake River. Of all of the details I remember about this little Eisenhower-era two-bedroom trailer, this bluebird was always one of my favorites. As a child, I was lifted up on my father’s shoulders to touch the beautiful bird. I’d beg to swat at it with my chubby little hands again and again, to make the bird sway and the chimes below it dance and sing. We drove up to Palisades each summer, and as I grew up I watched my parents perform that same ritual with each of my younger siblings. I remember with pride the summer I was tall enough to reach it on my own.
After college, when I had married and moved far away, my husband scheduled a surprise trip to Palisades, our six-month-old son in the back seat, cutting his first tooth. Tears filled my eyes as I watched my husband lift my boy into the air to take his first swat at that beautiful bluebird.
When my grandparents passed away their property passed to my father. Last year, he told us he was considering selling it, so we made plans to travel the long distance to stay there one last time with our three children. “I need to warn you,” my Dad said. “It has changed a lot.” Even with his warning, I wasn’t prepared for the shock I felt upon seeing it again. Much of the forest had been removed in our 8-year absence and there weren’t as many animals.
Palisades Lake was still a beautiful sight from the deck, but it was hard to see through the buckets of unseasonal rain that kept falling for hours. And the bluebird was gone. When I called my parents to ask about it, I was told that the bluebird had fallen from its perch and broken, never to make its sweet music again.
I don’t know what it is that causes us to cherish our childhood memories so deeply, but when I heard that I felt a deep personal loss. I spent a day and a half crying with the rain that never stopped. I mourned my grandparents. I mourned the changes my childhood paradise had undergone. I mourned the memories of Palisades my own children would never have. I mourned the bluebird.
My husband could see how deeply I was affected, and held me quite often, and then finally he said something very wise. “You know, our children don’t know they are missing anything. You remember this place as it used to be and you’re sad that it is not the same still, but to them this is a wondrous new place, full of excitement and possibility. They can’t have your memories, so let’s give them theirs.” Of course, he was right. So the third day, though it was still drizzling, we decided to leave the cabin and go adventuring.
Adventuring is something we make time for during every trip. We pack the car with kids, snacks, sunscreen, jackets, and camera, and take off in any direction that looks promising. We never know what we’ll find, who we’ll meet, or what will happen, but we are never disappointed.
This time, we decided to more fully explore the Snake River Valley, which had held me captivated from the backseat of my childhood road trips. It holds a kind of mystery for me still. It’s such a beautiful place, with hardly any people in it, I was certain it was hiding wonderful secrets.
Rather than staying on the main highway that cuts directly through the valley, we decided to head off into the mountains, picking a road which made its way through farmland and then up into a green canyon.
This close-up look at land that stretches for miles and miles with only the occasional barn, was just as fascinating for my kids as it was for me. They pressed their noses against the windows and yelled at each other whenever they saw something new.
I smiled for the first time in days as my son began telling us his plans to become a farmer when he grows up. I felt my throat catch when my daughter asked if she could take a baby goat home with her. I looked at my husband and saw that he was wondering the same thing as I: Will they remember this?
When we reached the canyon we discovered empty campgrounds next to a small stream. We decided to stop and continue adventuring on foot, despite the mud (and the mosquitoes).
Kids make a lot of noise, especially my kids, and since no one was around, I let them wander freely knowing I’d hear it if something either dreadful or exciting happened. I watched them disappear into the thick willows at the water’s edge, swatted at a mosquito, and then strolled through the campground hand-in-hand with my husband. It didn’t take long before we heard the shriek, “Mom! Dad! You’ve gotta come see this!”
We followed the sound of their voices to the stream’s edge. It was swollen and roaring so we had to shout to make ourselves understood. My son was standing on an enormous boulder at a bend in the stream, and pointing down into a pocket of deep water at its base. “Mom,” he shouted to me, “We just found the PERFECT fishing spot.”
Call me sentimental, but that moment is crystallized in my mind now. The rain, the mosquitoes, the rushing stream, the ecstatic look in my son’s big brown eyes. It was a new memory, shared only between the members of our little family, and it was just what my aching heart needed. It was a new bluebird.
The stillness of it didn’t last long. Only a second later, my daughters were throwing rocks into the very spot their brother had declared perfect for fishing. First there was horror, and then there was laughter. Before I knew it, all of my children had removed shoes and socks, and were up to their knees in icy mountain water. One moment more, and my husband had joined them—everyone throwing rocks into the water to see who could make the biggest splash. Before leaving, my son made us promise that we would come back to this spot someday, with our fishing rods.
It’s now been months since we took that trip, and my son can barely remember what he ate for dinner yesterday. But he still gets out his fishing pole from time to time and asks when we’re going back to the Snake River.
Memories are delicate things. They sway in the breeze and chime out a song to remind us how sweet life is. I never can tell which memories will crystallize in my children’s minds, but I can ensure that there are plenty to choose from.
We travel and go adventuring together, in spite of the sacrifice, the work, the drama, and the cost—in spite of the circus it is—because we long for new memories to take home with us… like little glass bluebirds.
*Originally Published in Vacation Rental Travels Magazine.
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