The hum of the engine, the subtle roar of the tires on the ribbon of asphalt so close beneath me, the warmth of the heater, curled in bliss in the unspeakable dark, my parents’ near and murmuring voices above me… the quieting, winding down of the engine, jostled as we were turning at last onto the crunching gravel, travelling so slowly up the lane to the maternal home and Christmas…
The night of magic in Holladay when I awoke in the midnight world of fragrant grass and whispering trees, and knew that someone had a beautiful life (would I?)… the smell of the chlorine and wet cement in the dressing room at Lagoon… the exhilarating newness of the playground at Murray Park, with the little stream to float on, the happy children floating by…
The cement step of the little rock drinking fountain at Memory Grove, drinking in the liquid canyon coolness… the alpine crispness, the echo of happy voices across the dark water at the Yankee… bouncing upon the fragrant red earth baking in the sun, the sudden stillness as the car went silent in the dappled light of low branches of apple trees as old as my father, feeling his relaxation into relief, into a once again return to the paternal home…
The magic of Christmas, jewel tone lights sparkling in the magical snowy darkness… driving up Christmas Lane… crying for the ugly Christmas trees in the tree lot… my father putting the lights in the little putz houses with bottle brush trees and a church that was lit from within with a warm glow… the quiet slurping of pre-dawn hot chocolate before we were released into the Christmas morning living room… my father’s delight while playing slot cars on Christmas day…
I am made of these things, of these happy, happy memories.
Fishing at the Yankee 1966
Twilight in the Underworld 
Leave a Reply