Chautauqua

There are times when life is nothing more than the moment you are in. When the rest of the world falls away, leaving no trace, as if it had never existed. The past and the future don't matter because all of eternity is right there in front of you, while responsibilities, worries, and heartbreaks are all swept over the edge of the world where their brutal strength can no longer reach you. Even that quiet, nagging voice in the back of your mind reminding you of should and shouldn't is finally silent.

All have vanished. Taking with them the heavy stones that weighed on your heart and made you stronger, more sensible - an adult.

The only sights you know are the faces of your family and the bright summer sunlight falling through vibrant green leaves. The only sounds you recognize are the voices of the people you're laughing with and the birds and insects that chirp outside your window at sunrise. The only touch you understand is the loving embrace of someone you haven't seen in four years and the thin, scratchy cotton sheets of your borrowed twin bed. You're so enchanted by it all that a single moment in time can seem to stretch forever.

Being seventeen that summer, I walked into the lodge thinking that this would be just another reunion. Just another year to see the more distant relatives, reconnect with my cousins, hear about how we were growing up so quickly, and relax on another vacation to Colorado - which I've referred to once or twice as Ridsdale Mecca. Being on the verge of collegiate acceptance, and caught in the mind-bending middle ground between childhood and adulthood, the greater part of my conscious mind was worried about what my future would be. Would college be a greater challenge than I could handle? Would I find the man of my dreams? When? What kind of career should I be aiming for? What would happen to all of my friends, and would we all stay in touch? Should I be trying a little harder to move out of my parents' house? Am I pretty enough for that dreamy man to even notice me? (Okay, admittedly my thoughts tended to center around guys more often than not, but let's pretend I was more concerned with education and friends.)

My cousin Sarah and I grew up together, in a strange, punctuated sort of way, being that she lived in Denver, and I in Hawaii. Whenever there was a reunion, we were there to protect the other one from getting trapped in the middle of a family history discussion that had the adults enthralled but would always leave us searching the cracks in the wall for something more fascinating. There were a few times we had to stay inside anyway because it was raining or it was too dark to play outside. During those times, it was good to have her nearby so I didn't feel so alone in the crowd of grown-ups, and I imagine she felt the same. It helped that we were cousins only a month or so apart in age while everyone else was at least ten years older. Even as teenagers, we still preferred talking about music and movies, even shopping at the mall (although this was never our topic of choice), to discussions revolving around eras to which we had so little connection or reference.

This year Sarah came to the reunion with dyed black hair and wardrobe a little more punk/goth than when I'd last seen her. Although we both had changed, we picked up right where we left off, this time inseparably linked by our common teenage suffering and frustrations. She didn't say much and kept mostly to herself when confronted with the exceptionally large family gathering of that year. Despite the dark hair, black eyeliner, and black nails, there was never any air of depression, anger, or arrogance that followed her. In fact, she was kind, gentle, and quiet; and always visibly compassionate beneath all that shyness. Although she may have been a little timid talking to family members she only saw every four years, she always smiled and laughed with them.

I'm not sure when Sarah met her boyfriend Anthony, only that this was the first year she brought him along to the family reunion. Where Sarah had grown up quiet and unassuming, Anthony had an understated sense of rebellious humor about him. At first glance, with his long brown hair and short, scruffy beard one would think he would be at home in a punk rock garage band, an image supplemented by his Slipknot sweaters and baggy jeans. Some of the more conservative folk probably huffed quietly to themselves when he introduced himself, but he was always friendly and polite. It was easy to tell that he was a good person beneath the nonconformist, wise-cracking attitude. He was on his best behavior when Meremere and Dave were around, but when it was just us 'kids' he'd let his inner rebel out to play like a kid bursting through the school doors when the last bell rang.

The year brought along several new attendees, but one in particular was right around our age. Our cousin Dan was about as adventurous as I'd ever met, and half the time we weren't real sure where he'd disappear to. I don't think I ever saw him without a grin and a mischievous glint in his eyes. Beneath his auburn hair, his brain was in as much motion as his body, sketching ideas for another exciting journey to inspire his art and occupy his time. I was both surprised and jealous that he could fit in so easily with everyone even though this was the first time he'd met some of the family. For him there was always somewhere else to explore, and someone else to meet, and another trick to try on his skateboard. But I think that he felt most at home with the three of us, even though he was a little older, and we welcomed him and Anthony both affectionately into our little family within the family.

With no cable at the lodge, the four of us went exploring more often than not. Hiking and being out in nature seems to be a very strong and enduring Ridsdale ritual, an impulse borne by our blood and passed down through the generations so potent that even today the tradition survives. The gene didn't miss any of us kids; but as with any teenager, we just wanted to do it our way.

The lodge had a number of hiking trails within walking distance. Some would take you across a field of wildflowers, through a sparse stand of trees, and up the giant shards of granite rising up a distance behind the lodge. Others were right on the property, pacing a tiny stream, shuffling around rocks and ancient tree roots.

One of our most frequent trips was taking the easy Reservoir Road Trail that ran beside and behind the Chautauqua complex, over a bridged creek, and up a steep hill topped with evergreens. We spent some time talking and laughing on this trail, telling each other our stories and finding some things in common and some things not. Dan shared with us a Mid-west pastime he called Tree Bowling, which mostly involved chucking melon-sized rocks down the steep, grass-covered gorge and seeing if it hit any inanimate objects. We instinctively knew that the best part of the trip was the company we kept and not the destination or even the activities we engaged in.

We usually went to the top of this hill to be away. It was a place where we could say what we wanted to say without any reproachful glares, criticizing remarks, or worse - total bewilderment. We could talk about things that we were interested in or topics that affected us: teachers, college, high school, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, music, concerts, movies, tv shows, embarrassing moments, crude jokes, ridiculous adventures, urban legends, secret experiences, and our favorite junk food. It was like Vegas: what is said at the top of the hill, stays on the top of the hill. (Including mistaking a wet rooftop for the damn reservoir because I hated my glasses.) Yes, we hiked to the top of the hill with the rest of the family once or twice, but this was usually our refuge from them. With the open air and wide sky above us we didn't feel restricted by anyone or anything.

We even rebelled against the normal human sleep cycle. Our day was night, and our night was day. We stayed up late almost every night we were there, playing video games on a consol and small TV (both of which Anthony had brought from his house) or just messing around.

We were two to a room in the Wild Rose Lodge. Sarah and I shared a room on the second floor that overlooked the common room, while Dan and Anthony shared a room on the bottom floor. This, perhaps, was not the wisest choice, being the night owls that we were, since Sarah and I would clop up the creaky stairs to go to bed at 3 a.m. the night before an eventful early-morning hike. But I suppose shacking us all up in a van by the curb was never seriously considered. Our circadian rhythms averaged about six hours behind everyone else's and we were happy that way. To us, going to bed at first light and waking up at noon was as normal as eating Cheerios for breakfast.

One particular night was a little hysterical. One of those moments that makes you roll your eyes and do a mental head slap when you think about it. Just as Sarah and I put our heads down to our pillows, we heard a rustling on the roof right above us. It was a scraping sound, like something hard was being dragged across the wooden shingles. Then it would stop and wait for a few minutes before starting up again. At first, we thought it was the branch of a tree scratching across the roof, but the sounds didn't coincide with the sound of the wind. Suddenly, we realized that we were in the room with the fire escape! Someone could have climbed up the ladder while we were goofing off earlier in the night, and now they were just waiting for us night owls to finally go to sleep so they could jump through the window, sneak by us, and steal everything out from under us! What else could it be if not a tree?!?! After whispering to each other about what to do, we finally got out of bed, tried to get down the creaky stairs with as little noise as possible, and woke up the guys. Being the noble young men they are, they saw the worry on our faces and wanted only to make it better. Sarah and I stayed near the opposite side of the house near the patio while Dan and Anthony investigated. They weren't sure what to make of it, but after some time the noise stopped and nothing else happened. We all went back to bed with our hearts slowing down to a normal rhythm, and went to sleep.

The adults must've heard the scratching noises as well, because the next night they stood out on the street and shone a flashlight into the eaves where little raccoon eyes timidly flashed back at us. We felt pretty dumb having made all that commotion about a bunch of raccoons running around in the attic and laughed at ourselves more than a few times. The term "duh" might adequately sum up the feelings behind our conversations afterwards. But hey, you live, you learn. And that night we learned that nocturnal animals keeping house in the attic is a more likely scenario than robbers climbing up to the roof when the entire patio is covered in flimsy screens.

These nightly escapades were sometimes followed by an interesting morning. It seems to be the family's habit to wake up early enough to be on the road by 8 am, which put the day's activities in direct competition with our REM cycle, and a teenager's REM cycle is almost as unyielding as Superman is to a bullet. Needless to say we didn't participate much in these early morning activities, so I think some people were getting upset that we weren't spending as much time with them as they'd hoped. I think it was fairly common for someone to knock on our door, warning us that they were not going to put their plans on hold so we could slowly stumble out of bed and get dressed. Once, Grandma Glenna rapped on the door rather irritably, saying, "Linda, Sarah, are you going to get up?"

All she heard from us girls inside, each with a blanket pulled up to our eyes to block the blinding morning light was a grouchy, semi-conscious "No." (Actually, that was me.)

Even half asleep, we could hear the tension rise in her voice. "Well, we're not going to wait up for you! If you don't get up soon, we're going to leave without you!"

"Okay," I mumbled through my lumpy pillow. Sarah was wisely silent.

In retrospect, I can't blame her for muttering something about youth being wasted on the young as she noisily walked away to convey our message to the rest of the clan. We didn't intend to be rude, but I suppose it was just our tactless nature... and the fact that we'd only been asleep for about 4 hours.

It's not too far a stretch to say that we were somewhat self-centered back then. There were times when we'd created a little bubble around us that both bonded the four of us and separated us from the others. Certain others of us were better at crossing those lines and connecting with the rest of family than I was. I'd spend most of my life trying find the kind of unity I felt with those three people at that moment in time, so it was hard to see anything else.

On our last night there, we may have been more open to family socializing than usual, knowing that we wouldn't see most of these people for at least another four years, if not more. Meremere was able to coerce us into driving up to a place called Flagstaff and looking out over the scenic views of Boulder and the untouched mountains beside it as the sun set. Dan drove the four of us in his borrowed station wagon, miserably dusty from his long journey from the Midwest to Colorado, while almost everyone else piled into rental cars. Meremere and Dave led the pack with their "Carry-van", leading us up the twisting, two-lane road until a little while later, we were parked on a flat top three-thousand feet up. We all took short walks out on hiking paths, but tended to keep fairly close to the cars since the sun was getting closer to setting and the wind was getting chilly.

Surprisingly, I don't remember much about the scenery. There could've been thousands of tiny yellow streetlights in front of me or a gaping gorge filled with trees rising to breathtaking peaks. I remember it was getting dark, that it was half past cold, and very little else about the surroundings. What I remember most was how hard we laughed on the way back down. Flashing headlights, using the wrong turn signal, keeping the dome light on, and seeing the driver behind us slowly simmer with irritation because of it. Yes, it sounds immature and almost mischievously cruel, but maybe that's what made it memorable.

Not that I would ever condone torturing the driver behind you (who just happened to also be related to you) by constantly using the left turn signal when you're going around each natural bend in a sinuous mountain road. But it's hard to let these moments pass you by without taking some guilty pleasure out of it.

When we finally got back to the lodge, we all knew we'd be parting ways in the morning. I don't remember what we did, but we wanted to make the night stretch. I tried to forget that this perfect moment in time would be ending. Every time the thought crept up on me, I experienced loss and sadness even though it hadn't happened yet. I dreaded the thought of going to sleep and missing those eight hours. It seemed so thoughtless to have so little time left of this unprecedented event to waste it on something as trivial as sleep.

But eventually we did. Our eyes wouldn't stay open, and there was a distinct possibility that we would've all fallen asleep in one room simply from the lack of energy, except we knew we'd have to answer to the suspicious nature of that situation. So, the guys said goodnight and closed the door to their room while Sarah and I dragged ourselves upstairs.

The next morning, everything was different. Steps sounded hollow over the hardwood floors while people walked up and down the stairs looking for anything they didn't want to leave behind, their rising voices barely muffled by the closed door of our room. Car doors were shutting outside as people loaded their luggage and prepared to head out. Trash was getting thrown out, and furniture slightly askew from evening gatherings was being righted.

Someone was knocking on our door again, but this time we couldn't ignore it.

As we showered and dressed and got our bags ready to leave, the dread bubbled up deep in my gut like a tar pit. I kept trying to remind myself we still had a few hours left, but it did little good and the black sludge slowly crept higher. My dad packed my bags away along with his in the trunk of our rental car, and I sat quietly on the porch willing time to slow down. I could almost hear the clock ticking down in my head.

People were hugging us and saying goodbye every other minute, and even though I'd barely spent any time with many of them, I knew I would still miss them. And as the parking lot got more barren of cars that had been parked there for a week, the lodge looked less and less like ours.

Soon, Sarah's car was missing from the parking lot too. When she and Anthony left I realized that time was moving on, with or without me. The fun and excitement I'd experienced was beginning to fade away and be replaced by the mundane world I'd forgotten all about. I think I said a graceful goodbye and told them I was excited to get together in another four years and that we should all keep in touch. It was an understatement, at best.

Finally dad decided it was time for us to leave. As I hugged Memere and Dave and Dan and everyone else who was left standing, I saw the last grains of sand run through the hourglass that had seemed so full only a day ago. The sand that had held a self-contained world of youthful adventure and unsurpassed affection for the people I'd lived it with had emptied out, and another handful of mediocre life was on its heels.

I cried as we drove away, and mourned the loss of my little version of paradise for a long time afterward. Even today, I still feel sad that I can never return to that time and place to relive it all.

But as I've grown older I've had other perfect moments of joy, and I know that there will be more to come. That hidden beneath the hundred daunting layers of ordinary lives a world of unexpected splendor. Most of the time it takes time and work to peel away at your perceptions of the world you live in, but once in a while it chooses to reveal itself to you.

I've been meaning to put this recollection on paper for years, but never intended to share it with my family until Dad asked for reunion stories to post on his burgeoning Ridsdale website. Of all the polished diamonds in my box of memories, this is one of my favorites; and sharing it makes me fear that others will not see the same beauty in it that I see. It may not be as flashy as someone else's promotion story, or as intricately crafted as another's tale of 'how I met my spouse'. But it is a very special part of me that I tend to carry close. So much of that reunion ten years ago is already gone from my mind, so while most of it is exactly what I remember, some of the details I've had to fill in. I honestly don't remember all that much about what we talked about at the top of Reservoir Road Trail. It could've included all, some, or none of everything I listed. But I did dislike my glasses so much that I refused to wear them, and I did mistake the shiny roof of some building to be a small lake. Sarah, Anthony, and Dan got a kick out of it.