It’s a down day for us again. We’ve (Lydia) put up mylar window coverings against the desert sun and done a bit of organizing. A lazy day for us, but our daughter is on her second day of the drive from Spokane to meet us here. She is a very busy woman with a new job and multiple responsibilities. She brings with her two of our grandchildren. She has taken time out of her schedule because I invited her to come.

 

Growing up in Wyoming in the 50’s was like living in the past. We lived on Fetterman street (named after the lieutenant whose 80 troops were killed in the “Fetterman Massacre”). A half mile from our house was the replica of the fort which guarded the Platte river crossing. Stationed at the fort was Lt. Caspar Collins, who died along with several of his troops in the Battle of Platte Bridge Station. The town is named after him. When we got television, western programs dominated our evenings (I can still sing the theme songs to most of them, though quite badly). When we went downtown, cowboys and sheep-herders wandered the streets, or staggered out of the Wonder Bar. Our license plate had a cowboy on a bucking bronco (the famous bronc Steamboat was the inspiration for the image).

Casper was on the Old Oregon Trail as well as the Mormon Trail. The fort was situated at the site of the Mormon Trail Ferry. Those heading for Oregon left the North Platte at this point while those pioneers heading to Utah veered south.  An hour east of town is the granite monolith Independence Rock, a key mile stone for the emigrants heading for new homes. Thousands carved their names in the stone and filled the gouges with tar to preserve their marks.

 

The western migration and the Oregon trail were basics in our elementary education. I was imbued with pride that I lived along the trail.

I don’t know how much they teach that history now. I’m sure that the interpretation of the events has changed from a glorious conquering of the west to a brutal land grab from native peoples, and that is probably appropriate. Still, it is hard for me to let go of the pride in that time. From the time I was five, I wore pearl handled pistols, or carried a replica of Davy Crockett’s “Betsy” or Daniel Boone’s flintlock. In some drawer, I still have a coonskin cap.

 

Now I would never teach my grandchildren the manifest destiny version of the west, that would be a disservice to them and would perpetuate a false understanding of what happened. Still, I feel the need to show them the fort and Independence Rock, to show them the ruts where Mormon emigrants pulled huge carts across the plains by hand, where they left the river behind and with it the last running water they would see for days if not weeks.

 I’m excited to share these things with them now, though I don’t think they will be as excited until some day later in life when they can say that they’ve stood there and know what it must have been like for the settlers. Their understanding will be different than mine and that’s okay. I will have passed the past in a meaningful way.

And they will remember when they saw them with grandma and grandpa.

 

 

 

 

The Road