One of my earliest childhood memories finds me nestled in the back of a wood-paneled station wagon with my brothers and sister, crocheted afghans pulled to our necks, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the car, and little padding for our backs. Above us, centered in the beam cast from streetlights and traveling cars, our hand-shadow puppets danced across a stage until the miles found us far from home in the dark. Eventually, sleep would drag us into her arms, leaving our parents to navigate the balance of the drive in the quiet of each other’s company.
The rumbling of rocks and dirt under slow-moving tires signaled that it was time to hoist ourselves from sleep’s grasp so we could catch a glimpse of the trees. They loomed above us, then as fast, disappeared. It seems to me now that it was there suspended in the minutes before arrival in the hush of the car, that we came to see that all that is sacred is first rooted in peace. I imagine my toddler-self holding her breath the length of that dirt road until the car made its way to the grassy driveway. Once parked, the journey from Connecticut to Pennsylvania behind it, the V-8 engine was safe to sputter, cough, and gasp its way to rest.
In a rush, we would leap from the car where the scent of fresh-cut grass filled us, and the tick from the now stilled motor provided percussion for the chorus of humming crickets. In the dark, our dad made his way to the porch. We would wait until the familiar creak of the screen and sticking of the wood on wood from the shoved-open front door would bring him, and seconds later, all of us, into the light.
As soon as we crossed the threshold, enthusiasm and restlessness from the journey scattered us through the farmhouse like spilled marbles, the odor of the centuries-old wood walls intoxicating as the cool summer night air.
Our parents, exhausted from the drive, would herd us all up the stairs to the sleeping porch. One by one, we would take to our beds, the excitement of having arrived at the farm swallowed in exchange for the promise of a song.
In the glow of the single bulb burning behind him in the hallway, our father filled the doorframe. We could just make out his dad-song-gestures, a pantomime of buttoning up his vest and chopping the Douglas Fir, each timed with the words to his trademark singing of the Logger song. Like a quilt, our father’s singing voice spread over us and across to the meadow below, then, with a whisper of night-night, he was gone.
And there, shoulder to shoulder with my siblings, sleep would pull me into her arms again.
Oh yes. That wood panel station wagon. The rear facing backseat no seatbelts. I was between my siblings during late night surprise trips in the summer to get ice cream.
Isn’t it incredible how going for ice-cream back then was a surprise? 🙂
What a lovely post, Elin!
Thank you, Nancy.
Elin,
Beautiful, nostalgic writing. There is something so comforting about this post. It drowns out the noise and sadness on the planet. It reminds us of the protection of our parents that made us safe inside ourselves. That’s how we become safety nets for our children and for others that we wish to help. Blessings on your family and the person you became. There are always bumps in the road, but this road was a little bit of heaven. Beth
Beth, thank you so much, sincerely your comment means so much. <3
What a sweet and wonderful memory!I almost felt like I was with you, so beautifully written!
Thank you, Haralee, very appreciated.
You just brought me back to my own childhood, a time of pure joy, excitement and adventure and believing that my parents could solve all of life’s problems. And they did. How wonderful to have visited that time again with you. Your writing is so gorgeous, Elin. Keep it up. The world needs more of you.
Oh my goodness, Cathy, that is just as it felt too. Thank you for your kind words.
You’ve captured that “oh to be a child again!” feeling that I get so often. It’s a lovely look back and it pretty much made my afternoon. Already. xo
Aw, you just made my night, thank you! xo
So poetic your words. I felt like I was being taken back in time. To be a child, safe, secure and in the arms of those who love us fiercely. Enjoyed this!
Indeed, fiercely is exactly the right word too. Thank you, Michelle.
Swept away again by your beautiful stories, Elin! I can almost see, feel, and hear your father in the doorway near the end. Masterfully woven tale. Thank you!
Oh he was larger than life to me, I so miss him. Thank you, Ruth. xo
Such precious memories. Love reading this blog as it brought me back to similar times in my life.
Thank you, Ellen, I am so glad my words brought you back to happy times.
The “sacred”, familiar moments that you’ve described so vividly endure in your peaceful writing, Elin, invoking the comforting porch of childhood.
Love that expression, Rod…”the comforting porch of childhood,” beautifully put. Thank you for your kind words too.
Beautifully recorded memories of a special family time. We never had the wood paneled station wagon, but I sure wanted one!
Thank you, Cathy.
that was so beautifully written- I could see the whole thing through the eyes of the child that you were at the time.
Thank you, Leanne, I appreciate your being here and your kind words too.
A post I thoroughly enjoyed reading. You took me with you back to childhood.
Thank you, Toni, I am glad you enjoyed it, thanks for your comment today.