Where Memories Roam
Frozen windowsills, wagons, tunnels, and more — life shared with my sister
If you’re like me, you spend a lot of time thinking back on your childhood and the freedoms you so enjoyed — freedoms which, at that time, hadn’t the value they now carry.
I’m the youngest of six children— three boys and three girls. There are only nine years between the oldest and me, so you do the math — Mom didn’t get much of a break.
As my older brothers would often point out, I had it much easier than they did, which is true — our parents were tired by the time I came along. The discipline I didn’t get from Dad or Mom, my brothers made up for in spades. God lov’em.
Of my five siblings, only one truly understands and appreciates my earliest memories. Her name is Dana Lynn, the one I shared a bedroom with; there when I went to bed at night, and there in the morning when I woke — sometimes right in my face.
We have so many wonderful, shared memories: playing in fruit tree orchards, irrigation ditches, corn fields, country hillsides, snowy escapades, scary basements, open closets at night, mischief, imaginary adventures, and much more— too many to write about here, but I have scribbled down a few silly ones. I hope you enjoy them.
Baby Alive
Dana used to think that she was so smart, and rightfully so. You see, she knew that a certain tune from a TV commercial about a doll named Baby Alive drove me nuts. So, in her own loving way, she decided to sing that darn tune to me — ALL……THE……TIME.
“Baby Alive, soft and sweet; she can drink, she can eat.”
Bla, bla, bla…that song would send me over the edge:-)
When Mom finally told Dana to stop pestering me with that song — what did Dana do? She came up with an ingenious solution, something she surely couldn’t get in trouble for. Dana would simply say, “I love you, Larry.”
Those three little words, spoken from her lips, would drive me insane, even more so than the song — and she knew it. Dana wasn’t saying she loved me out of the kindness of her heart either, NOPE — it was to torment me.
Annnd, she kept singing the damn Baby Alive song too — all the way through high school, in fact. Still, to this day, in a playful manner, she will say, I love you, Larry, then break out singing Baby Alive. I will admit… it is endearing.
Old man winter
Living in the Four Corners area of the San Juan Basin came with snowy and freezing cold winters. Our house was an old two-story, heated by steam from a hot-water boiler in the basement.
Dana and I occupied a room on the second floor, a place where our boundless imaginations provided us with unforgettable adventures.
Burr…it’s freezing outside, and the snow is falling. Hurry, Larry… get up in the window. I’ll put a quilt on the heater. (Giggle Giggle) Are you getting cold?
On cold winter nights, when it was snowy and freezing outside, we would close the door to our room and open the window. Taking turns, we’d sit on the windowsill, arms pulling our knees tightly against our chests, wearing nothing but underwear. We would sit there as long as we could — the cold winter air blowing around us, chilling us to the bone.
In the meantime, whoever wasn’t in the window would be warming a blanket on the steam-heater. With bodies trembling and teeth chattering behind bluish lips, we knew a soft, warm blanket was only moments away.
Ok, it’s my turn now. Jump down; get into the quilt. Burrrrr…
We took turns doing this, over and over again, until mom or dad would call a stop to the foolishness — I can still remember how comforting that old, soft, warm quilt felt.
Wild West adventures
Dana and I went on many an adventure across the open plains in the Wild West. While she rode in our covered wagon (a bunk bed covered with blankets), I was the scout — an outrider on my old trusted steed (a wobbly wooden bench with a folded towel for a saddle). While I rode along keeping a watchful eye out for renegades and outlaws, Dana tended to her baby dolls and kept the horse team from bolting away with wagon in tow.
Most times our friends would come over and join us for an afternoon out on the trail. We played for hours, imaginations blooming with scenarios of all varieties: stopping at streams for a swim or picnic, shootouts with renegade Indians or outlaws, cooking around a campfire at night, a runaway wagon on treacherous trails, etc. And…we survived it all.
The Great Tunnel
Our house in Farmington backed up to a line of small rocky hills covered with purple sage and barrel cactus. Atop those hills, which we pretended were mountains, was the Farmington airport. Dana and I, along with our friends, played in those hills daily.
Protruding from the side of one of the hills was a large round steel drainpipe. It was probably three feet tall by three feet wide. We pretended the pipe was the mouth of a great tunnel.
Conquering all our fears, we entered the great tunnel on a dangerous and daring adventure. The tunnel, large enough for us to easily crawl through, gradually sloped upward, deep into the mountain. Getting started was not so difficult; however, the farther we got from the mouth of the tunnel, the darker it became, and the more our imaginations would conjure up the Unknowns which lay ahead. Bravely, we plodded on.
Crawling our way into the abyss, we would pause and look back toward the entrance — a round white light which grew smaller and smaller the farther we went. Not only did the tunnel slope upward, but it also turned ever so slightly. Soon, the tiny round dot of light, our way home, disappeared — it was gone — total darkness overtook us.
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Did we stop?
Nope.
Onward we went. It became so dark that we couldn’t see each other, much less a hand in front of our face — or the spiders.
Every so often we would all stop and listen in the dark. The quiet was loud with silence — it gave us pause.
OK… that’s long enough… let’s keep going… a little farther now.
Soon we would see a dim glow in the distance — a tiny, round, bluish-gray ray of hope. Our speed quickened, and before you could say SNAP, we crawled from the tunnel into a concrete cylindrical room — five feet wide by 10–12 feet tall.
Whew, we had made it to our destination — the center of the mountain.
Steps made with rebar stuck out from the wall, leading to a metal grate in the ceiling. The grate was actually a drain positioned alongside a road that led to the airport. Sunlight shone down through the grate, lighting the room.
Relieved, we stood up and stretched. On the opposite side of the round room, the tunnel continued, but we dared not venture there. It was a smaller pipe, a black hole — fathoms upon fathoms deep. We never knew anyone who dared attempt that black hole and lived to tell about it.
I always imagined that something might come up from the black hole and grab one of us. I think we all felt that way because every time we crawled to the center of the mountain, it didn’t take us long to scramble back down the tunnel from whence we came.
Hurry now… don’t stop…get to safety; the one who trails behind might never be heard from again.
Bruising our knees and elbows on the sides of the pipe, we would rapidly descend to safety. Upon reaching the mouth of the tunnel, we would climb out all bold, proud, and boastful. As Great Travelers of the Unknown, we lived to tell others of our great adventure — except for our parents… they wouldn’t have allowed it.
We took on that tunnel numerous times over the early years — it was great, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It extended probably 300+ feet deep into the mountain… it really was dangerous.
The Water Balloon Bombardment
During the summertime at Navajo Mission, when the Indian youth returned to their homes for summer break, church youth groups from the different states that made up the Four Corners area would visit the mission to do volunteer work. To Dana and me, these students were new and exciting — they were also prey for practical jokes and entertainment.
Lisa, the teenage sister of one of our friends, had a crush on a boy from one of the groups — he snubbed her — she was pissed. To get even with the guy, she came up with a mischievous idea and needed Dana and me to carry it out.
A water balloon attack — we were all in.
The boy and his group of students were staying in the dormitory right next to our house. Knowing the boy and his group would be leaving the dorm for an event after dark, Lisa briefed us on her plan. She gave each of us a small pail of water balloons and told us to pre-position them on the dorm roof, just above the front entrance. We complied — the plan was set to go.
Lisa would be in front of the dorm as the students filed out. Her job was to point out the particular boy she wanted us to ambush — then we would commence the bombardment.
Just before darkness fell, Dana and I were in position, securely hidden on the roof, concealed behind a tall evergreen bush. Dana and I giggled at what was about to befall the poor, defenseless, innocent, unsuspecting young man.
The time had arrived. Students began to deploy from the dorm; one by one at first, then in groups of three and four. Lisa was waiting patiently. Then, very excitedly, she motioned for us to get ready. Dana and I maneuvered ourselves into an attack position — like lions on a hunt. With balloons in hand, we readied ourselves. Our hearts were beating wildly.
As we watched students walking below us, Lisa nonchalantly pointed to the unsuspecting young man, our target, and gave us the signal to fire at will. Before I could do anything, Dana cut loose with a barrage of water balloons — her precision would have made any military Field General proud. Not wanting to be outdone, I commenced firing with the utmost vigor. I got so caught up in the moment that I failed to see Dana had emptied her munitions and fled the scene — I was alone.
I quickly tossed my last balloon, and I made my way toward the rear of the dorm where we had planned our escape route. To my astonishment and disbelief, I saw Dana, without missing a beat, leap right off the roof to the ground. I was awestruck. It was an amazing sight.
Not to be outdone by a girl, I followed her example and leaped from the roof. Upon landing, I tumbled and rolled in a not-so-respectful manner, but I survived.
Dana was waiting for me on our back porch when I reached our house. We laughed and laughed. It wasn’t long before Lisa showed up to congratulate us on a job well done.
I do believe that more than one student got a bath.
When my mind wanders back to those early days and rests upon the many special and precious moments shared with Dana, it fills my heart with joy.
Baby Alive, soft and sweet, she can drink, she can eat.
I love you, Dana.
I wonder what adventure tomorrow will hold.
