Sand Pit

This is "The Sand Pit." I wish I knew how many pieces of old blue, faded and cracked Tupperware my sister, brother and I mistakenly abandoned in that place. We played there all the time. Sand pits like this can be found everywhere in Michigan. Every little lake community has at least one. But none of those were 'ours' so we didn't venture in. We couldn't. It's in the Sand Pit code of conduct. You stay out of ours and we won't go in yours. As far as we were concerned, this rule was respected. There was rarely anyone else there. Occasionally, a dump truck could be seen or heard rumbling in the distance. Grey-black plumbs of diesel smoke would give away their pre-dawn break-in. Most times, there was  never a sign of anyone, anything or any activity at all. The Sand Pit was an all but forgotten fixture at the cottage. A silent oasis, a steady respite and a constant, compliant vestibule of whatever game, story or land we could dream up.

This one was across the street and down a ways from my grandparents cottage on the lake. We would walk down the dirt and gravel road until we were in front of the neighbors white clapboard cottage and then turn right and go through the farm gate which was nothing more than a chain link rope drawn across a tractor path and fastened with a rusted nail bent in a arc. We walked to the right and down into the cow pasture. Getting there from here meant navigating the mine field of crusted cow pies and wading through the spaces of burning hot sand and dried, prickly field grass but it was worth it. There sat the Sand Pit - heaven! Once you dug deep enough, the sand was cool, malleable, form able and completely pure of anything sharp or thorny.

I'm fairly sure that my parents usually came with us when we went. Well, one of them anyhow. They always told us not to dig tunnels, My dad warned us that they might cave in and we would be smothered to death. Other than that, the Sand Pit wasn't dangerous. Oh, there was also Mr. McLaughlin's cows. They were also and unpredictable and intermittent albeit regular fixture. I was terrified of them. They were black and white, huge and uncontrollable as far as I could tell but they couldn't navigate the cliff, so I played there always - because they couldn't.

The best part about the sand pit is that we could go up to the top, climb over the edge and if we backed up a bit and got a running start (which was difficult because you had to simultaneously avoid, grass burrs, cow pies and jagged field rocks) we could jump off the edge and land in a soft pile of warm sand. The worst part, undoubtedly, the cow patties everywhere. You really had to pay attention 'cause man! those things were big, gross and nasty (and we usually had bare feet). If you've never stepped in one, I can't describe the awful combination of crunchy, warm sluggishness. If you have, then I don't need to say another word. There's nothing like it.

We always raided my grandmother's kitchen before we went to the sand pit. Jello molds were a major score. Deli containers, an old set of avocado, mustard and pumpkin colored salt and pepper shakers, plastic spoons, picnic cups, and bowls were the tools of our trade that served as castle building supplies and digging instruments. We had tunnels to excavate and some days, entire bodies to bury. We were busy.

We built the grandest fortresses. Inevitably, around the same time that our creativity and absorption really took hold to produce a truly awe-inspiring landscape, one or several of my grandfather's too-large pack of inbreed, dirty, usually-wet-from-their-expedition-into-the-lake mutt, hounds would find us.

It was as if they had been on their own expedition that day. A sort of scavenger hunt that included, chasing rabbits, checking on the neighbors dog, romping through the tall grass thicket in the back of the park, cooling off in the shallow reeds of the lake and finding our where we were. Their final coup de grace - trampling our castle into an unrecognizable pile of upturned buckets, fallen turrets, collapsed caves and broken bridges. They were so happy! Dripping, tail-wagging, barking, slobbering beasts.

1970

There's something to be said for the ability to build walls. Even as a kid, I seemed to be pretty good at keeping out the feelings I didn't really like or that I thought might hurt and letting in the ideas and people that made me happy.

Birthdays were good. I got presents and cake so they were allowed in. Granted, I wasn't allowed in the house for most of the day on my actual birthday. My Mother said it was because she had to make my cake and wrap gifts. How exactly was the cake a surprise? I knew I was going to have one. The only surprise here would have been the absence of a cake. I always chose the color and the flavor. And she always taped a note on the kitchen door that said, "Keep Out." Normally, it was held up with a Band-Aid instead of cellophane tape. Hmmm . . .

Apparently, the idea that she might simply say, "Don't come in the kitchen right now" was too obvious. Or maybe taking gifts somewhere private to wrap them hadn't occurred to her either. The only time she ever prepared beforehand was when I had my birthday at my grandmother's house. Those birthdays, my grandmother made all the arrangements. She asked me what flavor cake I'd like. She called the bakery to order it -beforehand-, wrapped gifts she had chosen -weeks or even months beforehand. My Mom just doesn't work this way. Time just moved too quickly for her to keep up. It always has.

If you don't believe me, look at the look on my friends face who is seated next to me. He lived across the street and can be seen in almost all of the photos of the birthday parties of me and my siblings. He just can't wait for the picture-taking to be over with so we can get on with the party - mostly eating the cake and running around with new toys. My Mother has never moved at the same speed as everyone around her. She made us all wait while my Dad got his camera ready and took pictures 'cause you never know when a birthday is going to sneak up on you.

My brother was born when I was almost three. I don't remember my Mom being pregnant, but I remember when she went to the hospital to have him. We drove down a road with a field of mowed grass on one side and a row of tall hedges grown over a chain link fence on the other. The hospital was on the right - the side with the big grassy area but beyond it. Industrial tan brick, aluminum, cement and plate glass.

My sister and I stood on that lawn and waived at my Mom in her room. I got the distinct impression that she found peace in the isolation of her room. I think she believed there was something delicious and tentative in the place between the time when her two children were not allowed access to her and the time when there would be another that demanded her every second of the day.

The rest . . . well you'd have to have been there. It was a battle between protection, enforcement and judicious protocol in order to gain autonomy. All from a couple of pre-school girls.

Fair Trade

When I was little and for as long as I can remember, summer has been the time when taking a trip is absolutely mandatory. Trips taken to pass time over unimportant weekends and conventional and or obligatory holidays just weren't ventured into with the same intensity. The Summer Trip was the big one - the one that needed to be planned, required a car load of gear and mandated a certain amount of conveniences in lieu of the comforts of home.

I remember sitting with my Dad at the kitchen table where he would have all the information that he had sent away for the previous spring. There were brochures from campgrounds that listed the types of amenities each had available and the daily camping rate. Sometimes he received information from Historic Societies and Visitor's Bureaus. Envelopes of all different sizes and colors might contain maps, hand-written letters with suggestions, brochures for local attractions and all types of information. Even then I found it hard to believe that some stranger in another town so far away could care about the questions of another person on such an individual level as to motivate him or her to write a personal correspondence. It was amazing to me.

My Dad would show me all the brochures and talk about the types of choices that we had. He really didn't mean 'we' but 'he'. Which campgrounds were the cheapest, which had showers and a local store. Those that didn't - didn't last long. Those that didn't offer hiking trails were immediately disqualified - from everything.

I always wanted the ones that had playgrounds and beaches or the ones that were near cities that we might explore. My Dad's idea of a vacation was to get away from towns, away from crowds and away from spending money so places that were close to tourist attractions that cost money were not popular either - unless a relative lived nearby who we might stay with if we were lucky enough to be invited.

Part of the reason for our esoteric vacations was my Mom's influence. She never liked to do anything the 'regular way.' She always preferred (and still does to this day) the road less traveled - the off brand - the small local businessman - the sleeper. As a child I used to be so thoroughly embarrassed by her vivacious need for differentiation in everything. Wonder Bread, Holiday Inn and Theme Parks just weren't options. Those were for the masses. She deserved something less available, less ubiquitous. She was unique and so were her needs. She wouldn't be satisfied by the ordinary. She was better than that. Camping destroyed her ability to maintain oddness because it was just so time consuming. I loved camping.

When we camped we got Kool-Aid, Mini Kellogg's Cereal boxes, store bought ketchup, and Hostess Pies.
-Heaven! Even if there were spiders in your sleeping bag. It was a fair trade.

Classless

The neighborhood I grew up in was probably the most nondescript place I could have possibly imagined. Located in a suburb close to a big city, the town-proper was centered around a small village that dated from the 1700s. It was truly a middle class haven. All sorts of people lived there that were both unique and obsequious. As I think back on all the drama that happened in that small sphere, I realize that there must have been a lot more that either escaped me or got sucked into another black hole that was my Mother's communication style. I could write an entire book on this and still not understand. Suffice it to say that she spoke in riddles, was intentionally evasive in hopes of being so severely misunderstood as to cause the listeners to simply give up any inquiry. How much could I have actually picked up on and still pay adequate attention to my expeditions into parts unknown? Imagine how much really went on if my tiny childish brain absorbed as much as it did.

One of the most exciting events happened one summer night when a car went careening through our front yard and ended up in the ditch across the street. It was like the car had appeared from another plane in the universe and was so shocked upon entry that it simply went haywire and decided to self-destruct, but the physics didn't go according to plan and instead it ended up just wrecked, immobile and abandoned.

That morning, neighbors emerged from their houses scratching their collective heads, delirious with questions - looking at one another in disbelief. How could this happen here? Like most members of the middle class, they firmly believed that some behavioral barrier existed around their social rank that would protect them from intrusions like this. The barrier looked like this,"This person must be some sort of degenerate. They must be from the other side of 8 Mile. How did they get all the way up here?" The shocking part was that they were so quick to assume that people couldn't misbehave or have accidents or become irrational if they were truly members of their middle class. Yes, they owned it and it was being stolen while they slept.