That morning the house exploded with energy, enthusiasm and cries of delight as the five, blue-eyed, blonde cousins rediscovered each other.
Breakfast threatened to be bits and pieces of fruits and carbs gobbled on the run as the munchkins swirled through the downstairs. For a few moments, my daughter gathered the five around her in the big chair to listen to a book. Curly tops, straight hair, short hair and long bent over her shoulder or rested in her arms, looking ever so angelic as she read to them. We scrambled to find a camera to capture the moment. I think we clicked one shot before they exploded with energy again.
We finally corralled the youngsters at the counter and table for a more substantial breakfast. They barely had time to eat. They had so much catching up to do. Momma pulled out a quick craft to hold their attention, while sandwiches were made for a fall picnic and a hike.
We loaded up: girls in the van, boys in the car. My son’s wife looked back and declared, “A 21st century road trip.”
“What?” I asked, looking up from my laptop computer to see my daughter programming the GPS app on her cell phone while the two little girls behind me each held a book and an electronic reader that issued a “ding” to signify “time to turn the page.” We each held our phones ready for communication with the guys’ car. I will say though, that by the time the girls asked for the DVD player to watch a movie, we had arrived at the park.
Leaves the size of a face mask littered the grass at the park. Little girls gathered bouquets of gold, orange and brown announcing, “I have the biggest,” then spilled them as they bent over announcing, “I found a bigger one.”
The leaves stayed at the door of the lodge. Inside they found the large, floor-sized chess board. “I remember it as much larger,” our hostess said, recalling her trip to the park as a child.
But everything else seemed big: the oversized chairs, the four massive fabric hangings hung from the beams high above us as we ate our sack lunch.
The guys arrived 20 minutes behind us. We had taken the bridge. They had elected to take the ferry and had to wait 20 minutes for it to come get them.
Finally grandchildren, parents and grandparents (who identify with the stiff joints of the Tin Woodman) headed for the trail. We drafted a passing man to take a group shot of five wiggly kids, a baby and five adults.
The kids ran. They stopped to look at stones and leaves beside the trail. They hated to wait for the pokey adults who carefully stepped over roots and hugged the side of the hill to avoid the sharp drop-off.
The trees usually promised to stop any slip and fall. Sometimes we passed steep slides of dirt and leaves. Up we climbed – my hips and knees protesting every step of the enforced exercise.
About a third of the way, we reached what had once been a sheltered seat just off the path. The gaping holes in the rotten roof sheltered us from nothing. The little troopers wanted to climb on it from the side of the hill. We directed them to climb the hill beside it. They climbed. They slid. They gathered dirt on their bottoms.
And then it was time to go back. Oblivious to the danger of the narrow path and the steep fall, the younger set began running down the path. Our older, wiser, too-experienced hearts and minds gasped in fear as we watched them. We called for them to stop. They looked back and ran anyway.
“Pause!” my daughter demanded. They paused, just long enough for us to catch up with them. We each grabbed a little hand for the walk down the path and held on tight. We pulled them away from their casual perusal of the slippery slides down the side of the mountain.
At bottom of the path we relaxed as we crossed the parking lot. We took a deep breath and began the return trip to the house. We fastened safety harnesses, distributed electronic toys and left the adventure of the mountain behind us.
(Joan Hershberger is a staff writer at the News-Times and author of “Twenty Gallons of Milk.” Email her at jhershberger@eldoradonews.com)