This one is a little hard for me. Not because there aren't many, but because there are too many to pick from. Not to make it sounds like I had a wonderful childhood, because some if not most parts were pretty awful. But the good parts, the parts that made me who I am, they definitely out shine the bad parts.
So the best, most positive memory I have revolves around one little quiet town. I spent a lot of summers there and grew into the person that I am today.
Every summer, my sister and I would get shipped to my grandparents house in the mountains above Hoodsport, WA. And by few weeks, I mean usually from late June to early September. And by mountains, I mean literally the mountains. We would get up there and we would be let loose into the woods to climb trees, look for bugs and berries, make paint out of rotten wood and try not to get eaten by wildlife. This was back in the 80's where we didn't have to worry about locking our doors at night, let alone getting kidnapped. The only thing we had to worry about was literally the wildlife. There was one rule, when you were called to come in, you came running.
We learned how to fish and about wild life, and how to use it. We learned what we could eat and couldn't, and how to track animals. But the best part was we learned how to golf. My grandfather, is, well I guess, was, one of the best golfers I have ever known. He always had patience when teaching us. He always knew he needed to carry extra golf balls in his pockets, because at some point, we would put our ball in the woods, or the lake, or through a window (I swear that only happened once). I don't know how many golf balls I lost in that damn lake though.
A few weeks into our summer, our cousin would show up. She was the same age as my sister, but even with the 4 year age difference, they never made me feel like I was in the way. My sister and I were the tomboys. My cousin on the other hand, was always dressed in some sort of dress. The three of us were inseparable. My grandma would send us out to pick blue berries for pancakes. We would come back with a half a bowl of berries, a full stomach and purple fingers. She would always laugh at us, and our purple fingers.
Eventually we grew up, the summers dwindled down to just a couple weeks, then to a week, and then not at all. We grew up and the house got sold. All of those memories were packed into boxes, and put away. My grandparents needed to be somewhere closer to the doctors and the hospital. And somewhere, where they couldn't get snowed in. And somewhere that didn't take a helicopter to get them out if something went wrong, or someone got sick and need a hospital immediately.
But I will always remember waking up in the morning, to the sounds of bacon cooking, Johnny Cash on the tape player, and my grandma whistling in the kitchen. The love that is shared between my grandmother and grandfather paved the path that lead me to my husband. When I was growing up I wasn't basing the picture of my husband off of my father, but off of my grandfather. My first born will be named after my grandfather, not my father. The love between them is a good, strong love. It's the kind of love that is written about.
I have more memories of that quiet little town in the mountains. But I don't want to turn this into a book.
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