Home — With a Tiny Firefly of Light

On our best days, the feelings of joy and contentment are as natural as wanting to cuddle an adorable puppy or smile at a beautiful baby. On our darkest of days, when hope feels lost, and not a “Oh I misplaced my keys” lost, but a loss that is filled with sorrow, hope feels unobtainable. The insane feeling that you have been picked out of a crowd by the gods, to experience this new plight in life — despair.

I have recently found that there is a remedy, a simple remedy, to replace disheartenment with a little bit of laughter and warm delight to sooth the broken heart.  A walk down memory lane.  Not any memory - - but a recollection of an event that has made family history and is told with great amusement over the years. May I present to you the memory that brought me a welcomed diversion this week - - enjoy.

When I was ten years old and my sister was an innocent, Shirley-Temple-head-full-of-blond-curls, four-year-old, our parents took us on what was intended to be a relaxing canoe trip down the Mohican River.  This late spring morning met us with cool dew across the fields and a sky lit with golden sunlight peering around fading clouds.  Our little Volkswagen bug was humming along the highway with mom and dad upfront and my Uncle Timmy squeezed in-between my sister and I in the back.  Uncle Timmy, whom you will hear more about in future stories, was a mainstay in our home for several summers. My father’s brother, a road manager for many musicians, Uncle Timmy took the summers off to spend with us.  In the very back of our Volkswagen bug, “the well,” as we lovingly called it, was a cooler full of my mom’s best picnic food.  Mile high lunch meat and cheese sandwiches slapped generously with mayo and yellow mustard, Charley Chips potato chips (the greasy kind that came delivered to your door in a can), and my mom’s famous chocolate chips cookies.  I am not sure what exactly made them famous, my mom followed the recipe on the chocolate chip bag, however, we were addicted.  Every week, without fail, there were dozens of chocolate chip cookies made for the weekend. At the bottom of the cooler under the ice, were three bottles of Pepsi, one for each adult. We, my sister, and I, must have been continuously parched, those were the days before the purchase of bottled water were a thang.  If I were to guess, knowing my dad’s desire to reincarnate in himself Daniel Boone, he most likely brought a canteen of water for us children that we sipped not gulped because we had to share that canteen all day - - ALL DAY.

We arrived at the Mohican Canoe Adventure camp where we donned the snug uncomfortable life vests.  My dad and Uncle Timmy hauled the two canoes to the river’s edge and held the swaying vessels while we all boarded. The picturesque Laura Ingles Wilder of a morning promised gentle canoeing, with wooden ores paddling in synchronistic fashion, leaving trails of tiny waves behind our canoe. Of course, we were singing, probably Michael Row Your Boat Ashore, as my sister and I were dangling our fingers gingerly in the cool waves made from the canoe ahead. Uncle Timmy in the front canoe leading the way, the rest of us in the back canoe trailing behind. The early morning breeze pushed and pulled at the tree lined branches making room for the sun to peak through the dancing leaves, promising a riverbank picnic.

Unbeknownst to us, this being thirty decades before the cell phone, WIFI, and public internet access was a brewing storm.

Around the many bends of the Mohican River we went, in the same gingerly fashion, singing our songs, dipping our fingers, and dreaming about mom’s cookies and how many we would be allowed to eat that day.  Somewhere between the lyrics of “If I had a Hammer” and “Old MacDonald had a Farm” came a crack of thunder.  The adults all froze, my sister said naively “What was that?” I watched intently the expressions between my mom, dad, and Uncle Timmy, searching for a clue as to our next move. Before anyone could decide or predict or make a move another boom of thunder could be felt rumbling the earth.  Then a sizzling crack of lightening flicked across the sky and a scene befitting for “The Wizard of Oz” with dark grey clouds that rolled in faster than a toupee flying off a man’s head in a hurricane, came a pelting sting-your-skin downpour of rain.

Daniel Boone, I mean my dad, thankfully thought to bring plastic tarps and underneath the tarp my sister and I went while the adults tried, in the sheets of blinding rain to paddle our canoes to shelter.  

It went something like this; Crack – lightening, Boom – thunder, we all jump, “Oh my God” exclaims my mom, “Just keep rowing,” bellows my father in his man-of-nature glory, “boo hoo hoo hoo hoo” wails my sister that is so far up my lap like a scared cat underneath the tarp. The tarp, that for all intense and purposes, is not keeping us dry or warm.  Uncle Timmy is in the front canoe laughing - - of course he is.  Over and over the scenarios plays out; Crack - - Boom “Oh my God,” “Just keep rowing,” “Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo,” hysterical laughter from up front.  At one point, my sister’s pathetic scared little girls voice whimpers out from beneath the tarp and wails “Are we gonna die?”

Somewhere between a crack of lightening and a boom of thunder my Uncle Timmy spots a bridge, he points and directs us to the underpass.  My parents breathlessly row their hearts out to get us under the bridge and out of the rain and away from the possibility of getting struck by lightning.

Now this is the best part, it is the 1960’s, my Uncle Timmy is a hippie (aren’t we all?) and hitch-hiking is very posh.  We pull our canoes up under the bridge as high as we can go for deep shelter, dragging the cooler with us.  We huddle together, my mom and dad, me, and my sister, for what the hell is next, and out in the pouring rain Uncle Timmy goes - - hitch hiking down the highway to get our beloved Volkswagen bug. Several hours pass, we munch on damp sandwiches, we are allowed to eat more cookies than usual, and we sit and hope - - that somehow, we are getting out of here. 

Now, as an adult one can rationalize and understand the circumstances, we were facing were temporary - - miserable, but temporary. As a child my mind was swarming with possibilities of despair.  Would I ever see my bedroom again?  Would we ever eat in our kitchen as a family again? Would our cats survive without us? How many days would it take for us to get home – if we ever got home? Round and round my mind raced.

When suddenly, out in the far-off distance could be heard a tiny high-pitched beep, like the sound of a mosquito quickly buzzing in and out of your ear.  We looked at one another as if to say, “Can you hear that?” A few minutes later the beep sound is more distinct, and we agree by our shared expressions that, yes, we are all hearing a sound.  Several minutes later we realize the noise we had been hearing is without a doubt our car horn.  Miles away, Uncle Timmy was laying his big palm on the car horn in joyous harmonious rhythm, beep beep beepbeepbeep beep beep, over and over and over, getting louder and louder. Our hearts leapt; we jumped up overjoyed.  Rescued we are rescued.  Closer and closer the beeping continues, never letting up until right over our heads on the bridge one long blast Beeeeeeeeeeeeep!!

We drove huddled in our little VW bug, wet, cold, and oh so happy to be going home. I was putting the pieces together in my ten-year-old head.  Of course, Uncle Timmy saved the day.  How could I have thought anything else? I reached my arm around his arm and leaned in for a big squeeze.  Relieved we were going home.  The sound of the beepbeepbeep beeeeep playing over and over in my head.  That was a glorious sound to hear, in a thunderstorm, trapped under a bridge, cold, wet, and scared.

We all showered and pulled on warm clothing, my mother made her famous Johnny Marzetti. Why is it famous? Because she made it. The storm had subsided, and my dad built a roaring fire in the firepit in the back yard - - we all sat staring at the flicker and crackle of the fire, finally warm, full of food and grateful.  I watched as my sister laughed and giggled as she caught the first fireflies of the season in a Mason Jar.  Watching the little flicker of light as each lightening bug blinked on and off inside the jar.  That is how it felt to be rescued, I thought, the beepbeepbeep beeep created in us flickers of hope.

For many years after this experience, I ruminate on that day, I continuously take away the joy of hope. The hope that we would find shelter and voila a bridge appeared. The hope Uncle Timmy was going to rescue us, the hope we would make it home, the hope of a warm meal and the hope of sleeping in my own bed.  I remind myself that gentle reflection into fond memories can also heal the soul.  A soul aching to heal. A soul struggling to find answers to profound questions such as, how to find hope during heart-wrenching tough times? A soul that sometimes just needs to find home - - Beepbeepbeep beeeeeeep.