chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

summer vacation…

Big Basin drawing by j.i. kleinbergEach summer, the three of us went on a driving trip, my father behind the wheel, my mother at his side, me in the back seat. Mostly we went to national parks, or similarly park-like places, where we stayed in cabins and walked among large trees. We didn’t camp, my father declaring that the Army had used up his patience for hard ground and sleeping bags.

My memory of these trips is a badly edited slide show: driving through the desert in a sandstorm; counting squirrels outside our cabin in Yosemite; stopping in Las Vegas, where it was 117 degrees and raining, the hotel swimming pool crowded; a doe and fawn, accustomed to people, coming within touching distance; watching an electrical storm cross the Grand Canyon from our table in the lodge dining hall; scooping summer snowballs from a shaded roadside slope; laughing about the thick, cardboard-like pie crust in Bryce; a family friend holding me up as we tandem water skied on Lake Tahoe; dancing to Roy Orbison under the stars at Arrowhead.

There are few photographs from these trips. My mother sketched or painted; my father read and napped. I watched for animals, which, in spite of the nearness of my parents, I felt to be my closest kin.

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