The minivan was
filled with anxious bodies as it rolled over side roads on the outskirts of Ashton, Idaho. The smell of the worn out air conditioner blended not so nicely with the
fragrance of sweaty socks and stale red vines. It represented a very hard
fought journey. My older sister and I would refer to our younger sister as
Nephi, always tattling and making sure we had our seat belts on. Erica and I were
referred to as Lamen and Lemuel by default. But the 24 hour road trip was
coming to a close and grandma’s house was quickly approaching.
School was out for
the summer and we were happy to get out of suburban Chicago for at least a few
weeks. Straight roads with curbs, sidewalks, and fire hydrants were no longer.
Here, roads were curving and natural, making its way around the groves of aspen
trees, juniper bushes, old granaries and feed sheds. Every year the trek is
made from Chicago to Grandma’s farm.
The sound of the
rubber wheels of the van slowing to a crawl on the gravel road, then onto the
fluffy dirt of an eastern Idaho driveway was a familiar experience. One can
hear the willow branches rustling in the wind with light sound of a wind chime
in the dry wind. The willow droops over the front yard of the old farm house. The Teton Mountains stand just outside the door across
from the expansive fields of hay and potato. Though more than 40 miles away,
they seemed just a few miles. The clouds are scattered
in the sky on a late summer afternoon, allowing light to push through and bring
out majestic shapes and textures of the clouds. The sky is open and
unrestricted here. Besides the jutting mountain range in the distance, clouds
were free to roam above the miles of farm land.
There across the
gravel road stood the remains of the old wooden coral. The wooden barn stands
strong and tall despite the missing patches of sheet metal on the roof. An Ice
cold creek snakes around the farm yard. The water is clear and its bed is
sandy. The sand is soft enough to walk bare foot in it perfect for catching
frogs. Despite the cold, it made for a perfect swimming hole. After a long day
swimming in the sandy bottom creek, Grandma made sure none of the sand made its
way into the house. There by the front door, the command was given to drop your
trunks to your ankles so grandma can spray you down.
The house had the
smell of a lot of farming history. A musty smell came up from the potato seller.
A faint smell of burning pine wood came from the wood burning stove in the old
family room. Loaded 22 caliber rifles and 12 gage shotguns lean precariously by
the green painted wooden door as grandkids play on the floor. My cousin Kody and I sat on the hard multicolored rug of
the dusty farm house floor. We sat playing with the small plastic fences,
bulls, and cows that came with a toy set. Grandpa came in, and stood in the
doorway. With a sad complex but minimal visible emotion, he shares the news
that his mother just died in a car accident. He walks onward towards the kitchen
away from view. The innocence of childhood toys with my cousin seemed to
disappear. Mom cried in a way I have never seen. She cried loudly and
painfully, making me confused and feeling awkward. I did not know my Great
Grandmother well. Showing emotion to that magnitude was a confusing thing for
me that I tried to avoid. Feelings I didn’t understand were pushed to the side.
The adventure of grandma’s farm with the sand creek, splintery old barn, half
standing coral, rolling sand dunes, and the distant tree line kept my intrigue.
After a few short weeks at grandmas,
it was time to make the long road trip home to Chicago. The van was packed once
more to make the grueling journey east. The family gathered around and knelt in
prayer. Grandma offered the prayer. She stumbled over her few words and held in
emotions as much as she could. It was the only time I saw emotion from Grandma
May. She wept. Being young I wondered why. I knew we would be leaving, only to
return in one years’ time.
Grandma’s house
brought the emotion of freedom and adventure trickled with subconscious
feelings of appreciation and love for my family. With growing up in a suburb of
Chicago Illinois, I felt that my Idaho heritage separated me from my
acquaintances and friends back at home. I felt pride for my mountain west
heritage and missed the raw west atmosphere that did not exist in suburban
Chicago. My large extended family was there and their raw authentic nature made
me proud of them. They seemed tougher than everyone I knew back at home.
Although
I will not compare the road trip to a treacherous sea voyage, I see Nephi’s
discovery of his new western world comparable to mine. Leaving a land of paved
roads and tall buildings in Jerusalem, Nephi must have seen adventure in this Promised
Land. It was a land where he could unite his family. Old family members died
and were buried there. The trip may have had its rough patches but the wild
west of the Promised Land held an opportunity unlike any other. It was a new
wilderness with new creatures and landscapes. But it is time to load up the van and drive
back to Jerusalem. Threats were made to tie siblings up like Nephi of old but
they were in vain. My annual western voyage and the adventures of the Promised
Land became the location of my scattered and wandering thoughts through the
long school years of suburban Jerusalem.
