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God’s Country - Part Three

After we returned from the park refreshed and rejuvenated, we had dinner and the kids and I headed off to the local bowling alley. Like the city park, the bowling alley is an altogether different experience than one we would have if we were at home. It has only six lanes and one young, very helpful, amazingly polite, teenage girl working the counter. I thought she was a patron when we first walked in. In fact, I wasn’t sure the place was even open.

Ours was the only car in the parking lot, which really wasn’t a parking lot at all, but a short, dusty, gravel strip just in front of the building, with no defined spaces or even a curb, that left the car sticking out into the road a bit beyond my comfort zone. As I got out and reminded the kids to lock their doors (no automatic locks in my car, unfortunately), they laughed and Velma snickered, “Lock it for who? There’s nobody around!”

When we walked in the door, one lane was in use, by the aforementioned young girl and a friend of hers, and there was no one in sight to hand out shoes or take our money. She turned slightly, saw us standing at the counter, probably looking a little lost, and made a beeline in our direction. Her voice was friendly and lilting as she welcomed us and asked our shoe sizes. She gathered the shoes from behind the counter, and I had a moment where I was sure the giggles welling up inside of me would come right out.

The shoes were all different, every single pair–not like the bowling shoes I’m used to. A couple were solid white, with white laces, and looked almost like tennis shoes. My pair were tan with blue stripes, like I’m used to, but had velcro instead of laces. And up above the counter was a sign, hastily scrawled in blue marker, that detailed all of the culinary delights to be had here. Nachos with cheese, $1.25. Super Ropes, $0.75. Soda Pop, $1.00. And a slice of Totino’s Party Pizza, in tonight’s flavor of Combination, $1.50.

Nowhere in sight was the neon lighting or the disco ball that keeps the lanes awash with swirling color at our bowling alley at home. No loud carpeting with cartoonish bowling balls and pins in all shapes and sizes. No large bank of garishly bright blue lockers. No walls and walls of bowling paraphernalia for sale. No game room with pinball machines and Dance, Dance Revolution operating at maximum decibel levels. No army of sullen teenagers, pants hanging down around their ankles, piercings in every possible spot, looking put upon at every opportunity.

In fact, there was nothing on the walls except a couple of posters announcing recent bowling events around the country, and an interesting assortment of trophies. Also conspicuously absent was the heavy smell of smoke, rising from the carpet, seeping from the walls, and dripping from the ceiling, that still permeates the bowling alley we frequent despite the fact that it’s been a non-smoking establishment now for several years.

There was no music, just the sound of the ball rolling and the pins falling, that satisfying SMACK and SNAP as the ball meets its target. The snack machine was still the type the kids thought was antiquated, one that only accepts coins–no bill changer or credit card slot–and it was full of candy bars in all shapes and sizes. No Cheetos or Lays or Sun Chips. No Twinkies or Planters Peanuts or Trail Mix. All chocolate. My kind of place.

I dug in my purse for my debit card, and she smiled at me with a smile that said, “You are clearly not from here.”

“You pay at the end,” she said, “and I don’t have a credit card machine, just cash.” I nodded, feeling sheepish, and put my debit card away.

We spent a few minutes finding bowling balls that fit us and weren’t too heavy, and then we went to our designated lane, lane number six. I was pleasantly surprised to see that they did have a computerized scorekeeping system, and the lanes looked very new, wooden planks freshly polished and gleaming. I typed our names in, and we began.

Our first several rounds were dismal, so dismal in fact that the polite young gal stole quietly over to our side of the alley and gently offered to move us to the side with bumpers. At first I resisted, but the kids begged and pleaded until I finally gave in. We moved to the side with bumpers and spent the rest of the game laughing at the sheer number of times a single throw could bounce off of the bumper sides; at our ability to throw a ball that could miss the bumpers entirely and still land in the gutter at the very last second; and at the odds of throwing a ball that hit each bumper at least twice and only knocked down one pin.

Halfway through game number two, people started to arrive. First came the aforementioned army of teenagers, only they weren’t sullen at all… and they weren’t really an army. Maybe ten of them total. They were freshly scrubbed, polite and respectful, tastefully dressed, there to have a good time. And they actually bowled! Shortly thereafter a couple of families arrived, one with young children, and one with tweens.

They waited patiently as we finished up our game, changed back into our street shoes, and went to the counter to pay. There I got the best surprise of all. The tab was exactly twenty-three dollars and thirteen cents… for four of us! For two full games! And for shoes! It would have easily been over $50 at home.

We walked out into the cool evening air just after nine, happy voices, laughter, rumble of the ball on the lane, and the crash of the pins following us out the door, propped open with a rusted coffee can full of sand, to let the air circulate. There was still some sunlight left, though it was fading quickly behind the mountains. As we piled into the car, backed out, and headed back to my Grandad’s house, we were all smiling. There was no conversation, just contented silence and I contemplated leaving city life behind. The slower pace, the clean air, the friendly atmosphere…

This was the kind of burg where I could spend a lifetime.

God’s Country - Part Two

For a city girl, used to the hustle and bustle and noise of thousands upon thousands of cars, the road was isolated and empty. It was a serpentine ribbon, stretching out for miles and miles in front of us, looping down through valleys and up again over the next rise–not a car in sight except for ours. Aside from the sound of the wind against the car and the hum of the road rolling out underneath us, it was quiet. No horns, no backup signals, no airplanes, no sirens, no jackhammers… nothing. There is something singularly spectacular about driving like that — no noise, no cars, no stoplights, no city. Just us and the road… and a canopy that must rival Montana’s Big Sky–deep, deep blue; stretching as far as the eye could see; perfect white, fluffy, cottony clouds chasing shadows across the hills like children playing tag or hide and seek.

By the time we reached our destination and turned off of the highway into the sleepy little town my Grandad calls home, I already felt like a new person. The girls wondered when we might go to Wal-Mart and I laughed, a long, deep, belly laugh–the kind that had them laughing with me, without really knowing why. I explained that there was no Wal-Mart here, no K-Mart, no Target. Too small, too rural, and probably too wise to let them build here. They looked horrified and I smiled at them in the rearview mirror as I assured them they wouldn’t miss it, not even a little.

As we drove, the kids commented on how old everything looked, like the houses had been there for a very long time–and they have been. I remembered our trip in November, turning up a side street and marvelling at the deer, five or six of them, just standing in someone’s front yard like they belonged there.

The downtown buildings are stately–tall, red brick structures that have been in place since the 1800’s. What used to be a hotel, a sundry, and a saloon, is now a gift shop, an art gallery, and a sporting goods store. But the character of the place, the charm, the throwback to times of the Cowboys and Indians, is still there in spades. I could picture folks walking the dusty street in front of the shops, the river pouring through the center, horses tied to the railings perhaps, as piano music flooded out of the saloon’s swinging doors.

We stopped in to say hello to my Grandad and drop off our things and then we headed to the city park to stretch our legs. The kids needed some time to run and play and my Mom and I needed to walk after sitting for so long. This city park is distinctively different than any of the parks in our fair city. It sits in the middle of a small valley, on the edge of a stream that gurgles and bubbles invitingly. It has all of the playground equipment any kid could ever want–tire swings, regular swings, giant teeter totters, and a huge metal structure that’s part fort, part spaceship, with rings to hang on, rope ladders to climb, tall metal slides, steps, and even a fire pole to slide down.

It’s the kind of play structure that our city has been replacing with short, plastic, snap-together configurations that keep their legs cool when they slide down, but seem to lack the imagination and fun of the “old fashioned” kind. The kids talked about it for the entire week preceding the trip, and they could hardly wait to get there once we arrived. Their eyes lit up like it was Christmas as we walked, and as soon as we came over the ridge, they ran down the sloping hillside as fast as their legs would carry them.

We spent well over an hour playing there, letting the last remnants of the car ride seep out of our bodies, into the sand and the cool grass, reminding our muscles what they were really supposed to be doing, soaking our feet in the crystal clear water of the stream, icy cold from the snow still melting on the mountains, skipping smooth stones across the water and watching them sink to the bottom, brown, black, quartz, and mottled. We watched giant bumblebees float from flower to flower, listened to the breeze whispering through the treetops above, and searched the sandy banks of the stream for forgotten treasure.

Though other people came and went–a new mother with her baby in a stroller, a young couple with a picnic, an older gentleman occupying a bench with his dog–it felt like we were all alone. It was so different from the park by our house, smack dab in the midst of suburban sprawl, cars driving by with loud music blaring, dogs barking, the noise of the city ringing in my ears. I wanted to lay down in the deep, green grass and spread my arms out as wide as they would go, just to remind myself that there were still places where I could do that and not touch another person. I wanted to stay there, grass tickling the bottoms of my feet, staring up at that deep blue sky, the warmth of the sun on my arms offset by the cool moistness of the earth beneath me, listening to the soft, delighted, musical laughter of the kids.

It was quiet.

It was calm.

It was perfect.

God’s Country - Part One

My grandfather lives in a small town in northern Wyoming. He hasn’t been well. We went to visit last November, thinking it might be the last time we could go. He has lymphoma, a non-aggressive type, but he hadn’t been responding well. His platelets were low, he was weak, and we were scared. When we were there he seemed at peace with things. He said it was up to the Good Lord to take him when He was ready. He’d lived a full life and was ready to go whenever it was time.

A few months, a bout with pneumonia, and an experimental drug later, he’s like a new person. His platelets are up higher than they’ve been in a long time–almost to normal range. His voice sounds chipper and cheerful on the phone. He’s breathing easier. What better time to take another trip up there to visit? My Hubby had to work, and Freddy was off to Washington State to visit his aunt for a week, so it was just me and the three, caravanning with my folks. We left Thursday evening, later than we had planned, but with new brakes, fluids topped off, jumper cables, a fresh bottle of washer fluid in the trunk, and re-charged air conditioning all thanks to my thoughtful husband.

It was a beautiful day–not too hot, a little cloudy, the sun taking a respite from blistering heat to gently warm instead. The kids rode in the van with my Dad for awhile, elbowing for the opportunity to pick the first movie they would watch. My Mom rode with me and she and I had a chance to chat. It was nice to have and be a captive audience. Usually our conversations happen on the cell phone, in between dropoffs and pickups somewhere, or during someone’s soccer game, or dance class. The conversation usually starts and stops several times, interrupting my train of thought, and jumping around from topic to topic. It was nice to talk without interruption, without another call to take, another place to go, or a hard and fast time limit.

A few hours later, north of Cheyenne, amidst a great political discussion with my Dad who had traded driving duties with my Mom at the last stop for gas, the sun started to go down. It was quite possibly the most incredible sunset I have ever seen. As it sank behind the mountains, the sky lit up with brilliant reds, golds and oranges, then deep pinks and soft purples, fingers of clouds stretching away from the mountains as far as they could go, like they wanted the amazing beauty to reach across the whole sky. I wanted to stop and take a picture, but I knew that I would never be able to capture on film what my eyes were seeing. I settled for drinking it in, wishing it would stay there just above the snow-capped peaks for the rest of the drive, saddened as the light dimmed and the last tendrils of color gave way to the blackness of a sky untouched by city lights.

We spent the night in Casper, at a place the kids adore. They loved it when we went in November, and have been asking to go back since then. The excitement on their faces was worth every second I waited to tell them. We didn’t get there until well after 10:30, so they were disappointed that they couldn’t swim, but we checked into our room and fell asleep amid promises to wake them at the earliest second I possibly could so they could go directly to the pool.

At 7:30, My Hubby called and woke us all from our sound sleep. There’s something about sleeping in a completely dark room, away from the thoughts of dishes and laundry, with several extra pillows propped up beside me to fool my body into thinking My Hubby is there, that make sleep so deep. I stretched and moved slowly. The kids were already a flurry of activity, racing to see who could get their bathing suit on first, and they were practically headed out the door for breakfast before I was done with my call. Post-breakfast, they spent two hours in the pool.

It’s an incredible pool. It’s not large, but it sits on the southeastern side of the building, completely enclosed in glass so the water and the room are warmed by the rising sun. The water, completely still when we arrived, sparkled and winked after the first cannonball and I relaxed in a lounge chair while they screamed and giggled with delight. My Mom came later, to spell me, and I got some work done while they worked out the rest of their energy.  When they finally left the pool, they went for round two of breakfast and it was time to head out.

As we drove we watched for antelope (”ampelope” in our lingo), and marvelled at the gorgeous rolling hills, green for this time of year from all of the rain. Each hill looked like a new piece of slightly crushed velvet, mossy and soft, dotted here and there with antelope, sheep, and cattle, smooth except for clumps of sagebrush and an occasional gnarled, weather-worn, tree. Far away, the cows looked like little ants, though not as busy. Up close, they stretched out on the hillside, noses to the ground, or big brown eyes lazily watching us, chewing uninterestedly, as we flew by. The antelope were more skittish, long-legged and gangly, heads snapping up to see what we were doing, spotted babies jumping along behind their mothers like their spindly legs were on springs.

In the background, the Big Horn mountain range rose up from the hills like spiny spikes on a dinosaur’s back. The top peaks were solid white, snow-capped and majestic, falling down into lower peaks so thick with pine trees they looked almost black. Lower still, more rolling hills, broken by flat bluffs and outcroppings of rock. One I saw looked just like a child’s building blocks, discarded on the hillside until the next playtime. In other places the hills were carved by water long ago dried up, leaving the top green, but the sides exposed, soft brown like the inside of a warm muffin. The designs were amazing — some zigzagging, some diamond shaped, some softly curving, some so straight I pictured God using water as a putty knife, sculpting the shapes just so.

Along the way we laughed at the names of the rivers and creeks we passed, rushing and swollen, water tumbling over the rocks in a hurry to get to wherever it was going, or almost dry, the flow down to just a lazy trickle. We passed Crazy Woman–the middle fork and the north fork–and that was the only time I thought about The Egg Donor (ED) all weekend. We passed the Powder and the Platte. We crossed old bridges and new, rolled past miles upon miles of snow fence, and wondered who named interesting locations like Antelope Hill and Teapot Rock.

Somewhere just north of the road construction, I realized that my shoulders were no longer tense. The hum of the tires against pavement, the rythmic sleepy sighs of the kids from the backseat, and God’s country all around me served to melt away the stress of the past few weeks. I felt my brain quiet, the constant thoughts of courts and filings and work left undone slowing to make way for all that my eyes were seeing. I felt my lips turn upward at the corners and my neck muscles relax. I forgot about chores and bills and responsibilities.

I lived only in the moment…

only for what would be over the next hill…

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