It'll Only Get Better

Finally, I thought to myself, vacation. The word itself seemed almost sublime, both because I needed the break so badly, and because the trip had just fallen into place, details and all, like a dream. “Aaron, we would like to offer you our cabin the Ozarks for the week. There’s a big pond next to it and you can fish. We’ll let you borrow our Jeep for the week, too. We think y’all could use the chance to get away.” As a full-time seminarian working two part time jobs to try to support my family of four, I was overwhelmed and grateful for the offer from a couple of our church friends. Vacation, I thought again, as the Jeep rattled down the gravel road through the woods, Its going to be amazing. And as I thought the words, the storm erupted.

The thunderstorm continued to rage with ferocity as we rolled up to the single-wide “cabin”. Rain was falling in sheets, and lightning was striking closely enough that the thunder shook our innards. We had been given the instruction that we would have to turn on the power when we got there. Turns out the metal breaker-box was padlocked shut and chained to a telephone pole. Ok…time to do the stupid Dad thing. QUICKLY. I darted out of the car, fumbled with the lock, undid the chain, took a deep breath, prayed hard, and cut on the power. No zap, and no crispy fried pastor. Alright- off to a good start.

As we scurried in through the front door and cut on the lights, we sighed with relief about being out of the torrent outside. The relief ended when we looked around the trailer, and it was patently clear that we were not the only ones taking refuge inside. Maybe it was the literal cascade of acorns which made us think of Chip and Dale when we opened the closet door, perhaps it was the floor to ceiling cobwebs as we entered the bedroom, or it just might have been the rodent turds that were sprinkled liberally over most exposed surfaces, but something gave us the impression that we were not alone. A long night of doing our best to remain calm and to sanitize what we could ensued. It took a long time to convince our son that the spiders weren't going to come after him during the night. Well, things can only get better from here.

“Honey, wake up!” I jolted awake, my wife frantically shaking my shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

“Just listen…” Her voice, though a quiet whisper, was near hysterical.

I listened …Scritch…Scratch…Scritch. There was the quiet but unmistakable sound of…something.

“Please go check on that.” I got out of the bed quietly- the baby was still asleep next to us. I followed the munching, squirrelly sounds across the room. The sounds were coming from the wall. I tapped on the wall, and there was the sound of scurrying… and then more gnawing. Oh, this is going to be a long night.

The next morning, the storm having blown over during the night, my wife and I looked each other in the eyes over coffee. It looked to be a pretty morning; things definitely looked less menacing in the early day sun. But we both knew we had to have a serious talk.

“What do you want to do, babe? If you want, we’ll just pack it in and go home.”

“I don’t know- not sure what to do. I mean, there’s no way we can let Sarah crawl around in here. There’s mouse crap everywhere. I’m going to have to scour everything…. I don’t want to ruin vacation- we’ve all been looking forward to it, we’ve all needed a break from the city, and it would devastate Caleb. I just don’t know what to do. Let’s give it a day or so, I guess. We can put Sarah in her pack-n-play. Why don’t you and Caleb go and get the boat and try out the fishing. Things can only get better.”

The instructions we were given included directions to the storage place, maybe 20 minutes away, where the boat was being kept. “Just strap it down to the roof rack of the Jeep,” the instructions read. At least there were no issues with the directions nor with the storage facility; it was easy to find, and the boat was there. Caleb was too small to be much help, but he watched as I wrestled the boat onto the roof rack of the Jeep, snugly tying down both ends so that it would stay in place. I smiled at my boy, and said “You ready to go fishing, buddy?” We both grinned like fools as we rolled down the bumpy gravel road. It was going to be a fabulous day.

The trip back to the ‘cabin’ hadn’t been too bad, other than that the road was really rutted and bumpy. The small boat had stayed in place, even if it had jostled around a bit. I untied the craft, lifted it off the roof and dragged it over to the pond. Caleb was full of little boy excitement as we loaded our fishing gear, said a quick goodbye to Mama and the baby, and then pushed off from shore. When you’re an Appalachian boy transplanted to the middle of downtown St. Louis, distance from the mountains becomes oppressive after a while. The whisper of wind in the trees, the quiet chuckle of a mountain creek, birdsong, and the cool air of the night – when you’re born in the mountains, these things are almost written on your soul, and they are a part of what makes home feel like home. The city had its own sounds and smells, its own pace of life, and while immersed in these, my rural heart had pined for nature. Here, out in the mountains (even if they were the Ozarks), surrounded on all sides by forest, floating on a little boat with my son, I could feel my heart beginning to mend. Didn’t even matter if we caught anything or not, which was a good thing, considering the fish didn’t seem especially hungry. Caleb and I, like dutiful fisherman, continued to cast and cast through the morning, ate lunch on our little boat, and then casted some more. It was mid-afternoon, and not so much as a single strike, and I had just begun to suggest to Caleb that we head for shore, when a sound broke the quiet like a pane of glass.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO…

No, you didn’t really just hear a howl. It’ll go away. Things will get better.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO… This time, a chorus of voices. Very close.

Caleb turned slightly pale. “Daddy…is that… a wolf?”

“No, buddy. No wolf. It was probably just a coyote. He’ll go away. Coyotes aren’t interested in people. We’ll just hang out right here, and he’ll be gone in no time.” And as I said the words, a pack of ten or fifteen large feral dogs trotted out of the woods, tongues lolling as they jostled one another, occasionally nipping one another and following some scent. Caleb began to cry quietly. I pulled him close and whispered quietly: “Shh. If we’re quiet, they won’t even know we’re here. They’re not interested in us anyway.” Which was when the animal at the front of the pack quickly raised its nose from the ground, whirled in our direction, bristled, and then bolted toward us. And the entire pack followed in an earnest and excited zeal.

We were near a shoreline. I snatched Caleb onto my lap, grabbed the oars, and pulled with all my might for the middle of the pond. I didn't know whether the dogs would venture into the water or not, but if they were going to come after us, I wanted to make it as hard as possible. Just as we got away from the shoreline, the dogs arrived, whining and straining. Apparently they weren't willing to get in. So I dropped anchor, and we waited. The pack of dogs began to circle the pond, sniffing the air and waiting for us, impatiently. Later, I was told that my wife watched this scene unfold in terror from the cabin kitchen window. No telephone (No landline in the mountains, and this was before cellphones); so whatever we were going to do, there would be no ‘phone a friend’. At least not using technology. And trust me when I say that I did contact the only Friend who was listening. And apparently He took the call, because after twenty or thirty very unnerving minutes, the dogs lost interest and headed off once more into the woods.

Later that day, after we returned the boat to its storage facility and discovered that it had in fact scratched the roof of our friends’ Jeep all to heck with the jostling on the back road, we began to make the trek back to the big city. As we rumbled through the woods, a large turkey darted out of the bushes and took flight just in front of the Jeep close enough to notice all the colors in his feathers. Both frightening for its suddenness, and majestic for its beauty. As I look back on the comedy of terrors that was the Ozark Vacation there's a couple of things that have stuck with me. No matter how many things go poorly, there's always beauty in the world around us; we just have to appreciate it when we can. Second, even if you think you're all alone there's a Friend willing to give you the help you need if you ask Him. And yes, it'll only get better.