this way to the water, part one

A forty-five minute drive, it always felt like an eternity for seven people packed into an old specimen of a conversion van. The kind with swivel captain seats, a table, and every shade of brown, with a door that needed your entire body weight to successfully close.  Forty-five minutes with no air conditioning, bickering children, and the multitude of emotions that it took to prepare for such an outing just simmering in the atmosphere.  Did we have listen to music? Did the tape player work? Surely this van model wasn't updated with a CD player, so it's possible we drove each other crazy the entire way.

We would drive through the town I was born in, sometimes we'd pass the exact house in a neighborhood ending with word Heights.  It was fixer-upper before that was cool, which really meant it was all they could afford and it was likely the home where my strong distaste for roaches was also born. I wonder what that drive was like for my parents,  was it sweet with memories of first steps and simple Christmas mornings with their oldest (and of course, greatest) children?  Or perhaps, it was bittersweet with that state of we're just married, completely broke, and we'll have another mouth to feed soon.  Bittersweet, indeed.   I have one sole memory of that home, which happened on my third birthday.  I was wearing a red dress and watching The Adventures of Zorro with my brother Josh, my first memory.  All the rest of them were the times we drove through town with my parents pointing out the window, silently thanking God we had moved beyond that season.

So, this frequented route, it might been eternity and I wonder if the unspoken wish of all seven people was, if we could just get to the water (will the van break down again?), where we are all free (where I don't have to sit next to my brother), where there is enough space for our large tribe, everything we are, and all that we carry (especially the weights unseen).  

And then at last, we'd round a strip of weathered beach houses, with screened porches and towels drying in the sun, one last collective of the luckiest, grandest evergreens and then blinding, dazzling blue as far as the eye could see and golden, sparkling sand below.

The next obstacle, perhaps harder than wrangling seven people, lunch, and all the things. was to find a parking spot.  We'd shout out, here, there, right here!  Clearly, we thought that Dad was blind.  Upon finally parking, which could be a challenge on a sunny, weekend day on Lake Michigan, we'd fling open the doors before the engine settled into silence and we'd rush with reckless abandon, only to be immediately called back to assist with the small monument of items being unloaded from the van.

Out on the sand, rushing bodies slowed as each step pulled you down, forcing you to connect to the earth, catching eager steps off guard.  It was impossible to ignore the connection of feet and sand and shoes always got in the way.  So, with full arms and shoes removed we would at last be free.

Let me say with certain expertise, there is one and only one acceptable way to first engage with the chilly waters of the Great Lakes.  You must run as fast, nay, faster than you ever could, all the way in, past your knees, thighs, waist, and the jump, sinking into a place where the water swirls up around you, until you are fully under, a baptism.  Only then could you rise up, totally and completely chilled, filled with utter delight and ready for the beach.  No one ever told us this, but we all knew.  It was coming home to the deep, endless energy of the wind and the water and the sun.

These were the best days of my childhood.  This was gold, but if I have romanticized beach days, and it's possible that I have, I can also see this part now.

My mom would gaze at the horizon and take slow walks to collect driftwood.  The lake held the attention of everyone, requiring for only a short time, nothing of her.   The water surrounded by rich green trees, jagged rocks, and smooth sand, here she could breathe. The water could hold every bitter, broken, and beautiful thing we exhaled.  The water would carry it all and wash it again and again, until it was smooth, shiny, and bearable enough to pick up once more-- until, we were cleansed with the courage to continue.  I've never considered myself to be much like her, but as you read these words, you know, this is also me, flesh and blood and soul.  This is where we saw our mother full of peace and I am certain she glowed in the sun.

My dad crashed into the waves with us for hours, laughing, and saving us from when the undertow was a sneaky foe. He lifted us and launched us into the water that rushed in our noses and we had to stop, gasping for air, only to ask, again!  Then he'd lay on the sand, muscles exhausted and battered, but renewed by joy and laughter and light.  

I remember holding my son, he was four and every tiny muscle was clenched around me and we crashed into the salty Atlantic waters that terrified him and equally delighted him, as long I was near. I suppose my dad was like that too, with five growing children in the waves, here, not much mattered, not money or future or anything at all.  He could be our safety and at the same time, be childlike and free.

At the end of the day, we'd pile into the van, sunburned and full of sand.  We'd stop for pizza, where my brother and I would select Ironic, by Alanis Morissette on the jukebox. I can give you no good explanation for this. There would be no leftovers and we'd fall asleep in ten minutes, as the quiet night sky hummed gently over us all.

In the Great lakes state, water was everywhere and if it wasn't in sight, it was just a short drive.  We swam in lakes, beautiful and clear.  We canoed in rivers. We ate fish that we caught ourselves and watched fireworks from sailboats and lighthouse piers. (I married a boy from Kansas, who watched fireworks in fields and for the life of me, I still cannot understand.) To the west were the sandy dunes, to the North was the dramatic and rocky Superior.  To this day, my only sense of direction is connected to water. West to the ocean, East to the Ocean, North to the lake. I don't know how to get anywhere else.

When we drove through the Upper Peninsula, along Route 2 on family vacations, we frequently pulled over to wash our toes in the icy waters and explore the untouched beached that dotted the horizon. For miles, there were only trees  and then a break of light and sparkling blue.  My mom took our pictures posed just so, on rocks jutting into the water, with our profiles against the horizon.  Our life mission was to thwart such photos and we were successful.  We climbed fallen trees and high rocks and were never told of things too high or unsafe.

This was my childhood and the story of my family didn't have perfect ending, but this is all true.  I carry it for safe keeping, always. If a person has a True North, mine is the water and if you look closely, most of my art, most of the favorite days, and my biggest dreams are about finding my way back.

end of part one.