journey into the woods

At the entrance to my family’s cabin are the skeletons of sleeping daffodils, hundreds of straw-colored limp leaves with the stems of long forgotten flowers missing. Someone, I don’t know whom, but someone has walked upon my driveway and cut them all down. Six weeks ago, some man probably surprised his lover with a bouquet of hand-picked yellow daffodils straight from my garden. Maybe she repaid him with a kiss? I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. I wasn’t here to see the yellow faces or to watch my little ones hide within the rows of floral sunshine.

We’d missed it again. But maybe she kissed him?

At the entrance to my cabin, inside the door and on top of the armoire is my bridal bouquet-- freeze dried and dusty-- peonies and daffodils and statice or maybe a delphinium. After nine years, who knows. I just remember the peonies because they remind me or wrinkled handkerchiefs and they smell like the breath of heaven.

It’s the memories that bring me back year after year. I was married on the meadow my grandfather had hoped to buy, then I bought the meadow and later sold it for a house-- but not before husband had filled it with daffodils so my hear could break each spring. Why do we do such stupid things? A house for history. That meadow reminds me to get to work, save every dime. It hasn’t been marred with house plans or tractors-- yet.

And so I come to my family’s home instead of my own. It’s 1,000 square feet of summer stuffiness. Two bed rooms and one bathroom for seven-plus people. I’d rent a cabin, but my mother won’t hear of it. I drive up see the daffodil beds I’d made while saving to build on the meadow I’d one day sell in a fit of depression. I stop to look at the bouquet I’ll never take down or hold again. A mouse could have chewed up the leaves, but I’ll never know-- just don’t ever move it.

In this house, the bouquet keeps me upright when my mother comes to call. She would have done things differently. Her kids would be clean and go to bed at eight. They’d dress impeccably and speak fluidly. Her husband would be home at 6 p.m. every night and she wouldn’t be silly enough to dream because dreams get in the way of traveling-- or more accurately visiting her.

And so I look at the bouquet and remember how I have bended toward her, compromised and thrown everything I’ve wanted into a pile just so I could live up to what she wanted-- and I bite my tongue.

Every Fourth of July we fight a nasty fight. I’m selfish, ungrateful and silly. I shouldn’t have to work when she is there-- as she puts it. I should also be able to spend money like I’m the national treasury. Am I blameless? Of course not. I’m too defensive and I tend to walk on eggshells trying to keep everyone happy.

But not this time. This time there was no fight.

This time I let her be in her 1,000-square-foot cabin and I did what I should have done nine years ago-- I lived my own life selfishly-- not only for myself, but for my children.

I studied for the Graduate Entrance Exam two to three hours a day-- and discovered that in some ways we grow stupider as we age-- if x does not equal ), 1-x/xy=. What does that mean to me now? Who cares?

I went hiking with my children at Lassen National Forest with my children and cousins. The 2-year-old walked with me and we observed every insect, touched every flower and looked at every waterfall. We didn’t’ make it to our destination because she was too tired to piggyback any longer, and so we turned back. But it was magic to walk and talk with one so young. My seven year old and 4-year-old walked with my newly married cousin Katie and her husband Dan-- now they want kids.

I froze my toes off by going down Butte Creek on a inner tube. I flipped on some rapids and was drug for a while, but I managed to get back on.

I took my kids to Deer Creek Falls, a huge waterfall with pools at the top you can wade in-- if your kids are smart enough to stay way from the rapids. We didn’t stay too long there.

I went with my cousins and shot a .38 caliber revolver, a pistol, something called a Glock and another gun with a longer nose. I don’t know much about guns, but I actually pulled the trigger-- something I never thought I would.

The kids and I went canoeing at Snag Lake and caught pollywogs.

Every night we had a campfire with grandma and grandpa and roasted smores and told stories.

Yesterday my husband returned from two and half weeks away. He brought me a bouquet of orange "kitty paws" (some sort of fuzzy clover) picked from some mountain top while he was out fighting fires, and you know what? He got a kiss.

Perhaps some day I’ll write of the individual adventures, but today I think I’m going to pick some Black-eyed Susan’s with my kids. Make some memories here.