The A-Frame

Sitting for more than enough minutes to process its instructions, I never really read it or even needed it to guide my way. Why bother with a map when I’ve always known the path?  There were only ever four major turns, despite the many twists in the road.  I never recall traffic driving that commute, although as a child the two-hour trek seemed endless.  Only as an adult did I realize its proximity.

Perhaps it was the anticipation, the excitement of what a visit would provide.  Barely two working television channels, one landline that rang no more than once a day, if that, three visible neighbors for miles, although I recall barely seeing them in all of my time spent in such a wild and wonderful place.

It began with the final turn, dirt engulfing our vehicle as we approached its entrance.  We would see their figures, waving gently from the deck a quarter of a mile away.  And when our tires reached the gravel drive, and a new cloud of gray dust infiltrated our open windows, they descended the wooden stairs to great us where we parked. Before Dad had cut the engine, we’d run towards her for a hug, while Mom would remind us of the luggage left to tote inside.  I often awaited a cue or at least a confirmation from Grandma before offering a slight and partial embrace towards Grandpa that never quite manifested in a real squeeze of affection.  I think my brother learned his own version of a hug from this imposing figure and certainly not from Grandma whose grasp was unrelenting and filled with unconditional joy and love for her many grandchildren.

After hours in the car, our first activities were outdoors; parents hoping we’d burn off some of the pent-up energy before dinner. The rope swing was good for a few hours of entertainment.  Down the street and into the wooded lands of their acreage, it began on a small slope and once I let my feet elevate or leapt to find footing atop the large knot, I’d swing over the steep ravine, back and forth, back and forth, until I leapt back to the start and it was a sibling or cousin’s turn.  Parents included, we were all invincible on that unsteady swing.

Yes, even the parents partook of our games. We found them climbing the makeshift wooden ladder halfway up the sturdy tree on the West side of the property. Failing to even contemplate the danger, whether it could or would hold us, we each took turns riding the zip line and hoping not to bang our excited bodies into the sister tree fifty feet away.  

Fear did not exist in this place.  Even when we splashed in the nearby creek, swam in the fully-stocked lake, or hiked through the deep forest to the abandoned shack that had allegedly been used by seemingly rebellious young activists in the 1960’s.  We even happened upon a skunk who approached us, targeted us and chased us all the back to the house, me on my brother’s shoulders, and, undeterred, we all vowed to try again the next day.  

Dinner was a true family event.  Too many cooks in the kitchen, but despite the limited space, we had room for peeling, chopping, sautéing, tossing, frying and grilling, although the latter happened under the skilled hands of my Grandpa on the deck.  

There were steaks, perfectly seasoned, grilled and rested, fried potatoes from a cast iron skillet that, like Grandma, seemed to get more sturdy with age; and those potatoes were harvested from their garden by the many grandchildren.  Grandpa always served as supervisor of the harvest, although we rarely followed his commands. There were green beans, also from their garden, carrots and peas to accommodate various palettes, fresh, moist and perfectly browned dinner rolls, which would be buttered to perfection and would always be gobbled up first.  And there was the watermelon, cut expertly by an uncle or cousin with a larger and sharper knife than necessary, plus the simple salad with Grandma’s special dressing that was unpretentious yet elegant.  And then there was pie, with apple being my favorite, although depending on the holiday, there would likely be pumpkin and chocolate mousse with its graham cracker crust.  

No matter the holiday or occasion, there was always a bonfire, with marshmallows to roast on slender sticks before the s’mores were built and inhaled by participants of every age.  Then came the fireworks, which somehow seemed grander and more exciting than any I had seen in a big city venue or televised production. I don’t recall a burn or mishap, but I think there were a few close calls.  

In the late evening hours, the competition would commence.  “Let’s play Bridge,” he’d say.  I always vied to be Grandma’s partner.  She was kind, sympathetic, generous with her instruction and quite brilliant.  She always happened upon the best hands.  I recall her five no trump victory that left my Grandpa speechless.  He was more serious, less accommodating of error, and despised any loss in a hand or the game.  He intimidated me and although I avoided partnering with him, sometimes I liked the challenge, even when our collective loss often ended in my tears.  My greatest achievement was when he finally let me keep score.  

If only he knew that I was his only grandchild to follow in his large footsteps, at least by profession.  But she knew and often expressed her pride in my progress and accomplishments.  Grandma worked all of her pre-pensioned adult life and while it was his craft that I mimicked, it was her calm, peaceful wisdom that I sought to inherit.  

There was only one bedroom, which housed my grandparents, and although her three daughters and their husbands had each brought their own children of various ages, we all had a place to lay our heads at nightfall.  I did not have a favorite spot, as every bed had a view.  Whether I found myself with my sister or a cousin or two on the pull-out bed beneath the colorful divan, or on the top floor with its own bathroom and no legitimate railing for the stairs, I could look beyond the floor to ceiling windows and see more stars than I ever knew existed.  And just as my eyes got heavy and I felt the first signs of sleep, the whippoorwills began their lullaby with the owl’s occasional tenor adding to the chorus.  

Morning’s first light was typically infiltrated by the smell of coffee.  I’d jump up and scamper to the kitchen, hoping she’d saved my little mug with the painted deer on its side.  She’d fill it with one-third coffee and two-thirds milk.  By the time I reached college, it was black coffee with a pinch of sugar, although always in the little deer mug.  

The grandchildren would head to the basement, where we began our preparations for the weekend’s play.  We’d write and rehearse, with one of my more particular cousin’s storming off in a huff, we’ll call him the director, when my sister and another cousin laughed uncontrollably at an inside joke.  We’d make props and practice until we were sure it was time to show the family, typically on the last evening of our stay.  There were comedies and tragedies, and we took creative license when having me, as youngest participant, play a Hitchcock character without even a scintilla of ability to understand the story.  I just recall seeing a spider while standing in the basement shower awaiting my turn to run lines and the shriek that could never be replicated during the actual production.  

I loved the plays but the basement also housed my favorite things, the files my Grandpa maintained, as I would later understand was required, from his former law practice.  He let me look through his books and court opinions, never at the client files, and during a summer visit when I was still just a child, he let me draft a Last Will and Testament on his legal sized form in triplicate.  In his day, they still used carbon to copy documents and he knew when I was playing with his supplies when I’d accidentally stain the playing cards during the next Bridge tournament.

From upstairs, she’d call us for breakfast, another family style event.  She and her three daughters would work and laugh together all morning during their preparations.  The offering included scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, sausage gravy, grits, biscuits and homemade cinnamon rolls, which were often started the night before.  And there was always freshly squeezed orange juice for those of us who only partook of that first cup of coffee.  My favorite was a cinnamon roll with melted butter and bowl of biscuits and gravy.  I only found one restaurant that replicated my memory of those buttermilk based biscuits and that gravy that seemed to have a spicy kick; it was a recent trip to Nashville and a happened upon spot that blessed me with this nostalgic gift.

In the years since he passed and since she took turns staying with her daughters, the A-Frame often sat dormant for months at a time.  Each of my cousins took turns using it for a guys’ weekend, a girls’ weekend, a friends' retreat, or just a family vacation.  We had each brought family and friends to visit this place, and when it was sold, we all felt the loss.

Before her ownership ended, I made the trip once on my own.  I told nobody of my travel, having left my parents’ home in a state of abject frustration and confusion.  I didn’t want to be a bother. 

I had mastered many college courses, had excelled in work and avoided much play, when suddenly I felt more loss of self and more lost in my plans than I could have imagined.  My immediate family had faced a medical attack, financial hardship and the loss of community, in a way, and it felt like it was us against the world. I was tired.  I was tired of running and not stopping to understand where I was headed and tired of reaching for goals because someone out there, not even my loved ones, told me to.  It felt like strangers had crafted my path and so I went to the place I knew as safe and simple, the place where nobody ever asked me to be anything other than me. 

It was freedom in that place.  And there was no fear.  

As a child, I fished and caught beautiful rainbow trout, delivering it back to Grandma for cleaning and cooking.  As an adult, I faced an allergy to fish and having endured recovery from exposure, I steered clear of consuming anything inside of the seafood world.  

As a child, I spotted pests and predators in the woods and although I ran at times for safety, I never refrained from going out the next hour.  As an adult, I seemed to jump at the thought of and allow my brain to be plagued by any encounter with pestilence.

As a child, I swung and zip-lined through the forest, without any thought of fall or injury.  As an adult, I gave up activities I loved because an injury made for a difficult couple of years.  

What was it about this place?  Alone, it felt colder, even after I built the fire and sat like a child before the hearth.  It felt smaller, even though alone I wouldn’t be sharing a bed and could sleep anywhere I wanted.  The stars felt expansive and intimidating when I was alone, not like the wonder and awe of my childhood vantage point.  

I had stopped in the nearest town, which hadn’t changed much in decades, and purchased a bag of groceries and a bottle of wine.  I never drank more than a glass at a time and typically with a meal, but when I arrived, I had no appetite.  I didn’t cook and I didn’t uncork that bottle, instead I reached for what I thought of as my favorite childhood treat.  Only in this tiny town, that hasn’t changed so swiftly amongst the sprawl of my generation’s land expansions and crowding, could I have hoped to find this treat still packaged for me now as it was when I was a child.

“Bottle?” I’d inquire of Grandma.  

“Here you go,” she’d always reply.  She was never without full supply on hand when I asked.  I don’t recall if my siblings or cousins felt as I did upon receiving this tasty treat.  It was just a eight-ounce individual bottle of apple cider, perfectly prepared with what felt like loving kindness and never including those pesky preservatives we’ve been taught to put up with in favor of longer shelf-life. 

From the moment I twisted the cap and the suction popped out that first whiff of nectar, I was all smiles.  And despite the years that passed, that moment was replicated as I stood on the deck, which felt less sturdy under my adult feet, looked out over the dilapidated garden below, the forest before me and the stars above.  My familiar friends began their nightly serenade and with a pop, the first sip of refreshing freedom was once again upon me.  

But I could not really return to the place I knew. My years of experiences and knowledge, while I felt they were preventing me from progress, were actually pushing appropriately forward.  I had neglected beautiful memories until I needed them and now I was placing the weight of the world on a child’s shoulders who, like my characters in those plays, was not ready to handle the role.  Rather than relying on those happiest of adolescent times to carry me in the now, I needed to pull from that fearlessness the tools and wisdom granted me over many years to live happily in this moment.  I thought I needed this place, the A-Frame, with its simple beauty and enviable peace, to bring me back to center.  But it wasn’t just the place, or even all of the loving people, who brought out the me in me.  It was just a mindset.

When the embers had completely cooled and after checking that I’d left no trace of me behind in this place, my vehicle kicked up gravel and dust until the A-Frame was just a small fraction of its true stature in my side mirror.   

I am surrounded by effortless cadence of grace; like the calculated breath before diving across the ravine, or the divine shriek while swinging from tree to tree, or the embers slowly crackling as they melt my treat, or the fireworks cascading after an initial blast, or the night birds singing until they too tire from exhausting joy.  I can be me at any time, in any place, and in the blink of my mind’s eye.