Sometimes, I write when I don’t really have a point that I am trying to make. Rather, I write only to record an occasion to look back on at some point in the future. My memory is dodgy at best; paper documentation (or truly digital documentation) is more reliable.

We met Heather and her children, Isse and Eli, late Sunday afternoon at their hotel. The kids had a swim in the indoor pool, while we watched and chatted with Heather about her trip from Spokane. The kids were sent up to the room to shower and dress when the adults got hungry (childhood is really a form of benevolent slavery after all). We had dinner in the hotel. The servings were huge as one would expect  in the West, the healthy eating sensibility of both coasts having yet failed to penetrate the nether regions of the continent.  With some encouragement from me, take home boxes were requested as well as a desert menu. ‘E’, Lydia and I had warmed pecan pie alamode with ice cream (sorry, that’s an old joke of Lydia’s father). Isse had cheesecake.

I carted the boxes of left over steaks and chops back to the bus, promising a real western breakfast of steak and eggs.

 

In the early morning, the sky was a wide and pale blue. There was no breeze and the day promised to be especially warm. As we sat at the table beside the RV, the sun already had a penetrating heat to it. We ate our steak and eggs as we planned the day. Heather wanted to see where I had grown up and gone to school (the grandkids not so much, I thought). We decided to see the replica of the old fort that guarded the ford across the North Platte first along with the museum which details its history. From there we’d tour my old neighborhoods and the schools I attended. Heather had purchased a miniature recorder and planned to record my recollections. I was embarrassed but pleased that she wanted to collect my stories.

The kids walked the dog. Lyd cleared up the dishes.

By the time we got to old Fort Caspar, the day was truly heating up and the altitude was robbing me of oxygen. I sat often as we walked or used my cane seat to lean on in the shade. I was beginning to realize that this would be my last trip to Casper.

Once back in the car, I began a monologue for Heather of my various neighborhoods, schools, and exploits. (I once climbed down a manhole with my younger sister and followed the drain pipe all the way to its outlet at the river. Waiting at the outlet was my father in his police car. I was either 5 or 6 at the time. He was not happy.) Once we covered most of the neighborhoods, I drove them up the mountain, past the falls where I often camped and the spot where, racing down the mountain road, I apparently ran over a deer hide. (I say apparently, because I only remember waking up in the hospital a day later, my face one huge scab, knuckles raw, and two front teeth missing.)

I was tired of talking and I’m sure the rest of the car was tired of listening, so we began a search for lunch, eventually finding a saloon and grill that was kid friendly. The bartender was also the cook. Service was slow, the food was inedible. It was the first time I have ever encountered a BLT too tough to eat. Really, how do you make tomatoes tough after all?

I was enervated (pooped) and so we dropped the grands off at their hotel for a swim, later begging off from evening activities, but setting up plans to meet for the parade the next day.

We parked behind the county building where the old police office had been fifty years before, where my father would park us in the car, while he ran in to take care of some business or other. It was a three stop for breath climb up the hill for me, but once at street level we placed our chairs and blankets along the curb and began the wait. I could see the thermometer on top of the bank building. It kept getting hotter as people began to crowd in around us, one of whom was the loud, “gotta comment negatively on everything” type. I’m sure he thought we valued his insight on torn jeans, land management, the county commissioner race, and the behavior of other people’s children (while his granddaughter played in the street and poured all the bottled water in his cooler onto the sidewalk.

Lydia, Heather, and Eli had gone for coffee and muffins. Isabelle tried to set a record for early morning screen time. The temperature kept climbing.

When it finally started, I realized that the nature of the parade had changed. I recall that the parade had marching bands, lots of marching bands, horses pulling wagons, horses doing tricks, the Sheriff’s Posse 20 or 30 horses strong, rodeo queens from other counties and states, a few clowns on donkeys and mules, all followed by guys with shovels and wheel barrows. This parade was about candy, water, and politics. Once a small flag unit had passed, we were pummeled with candy for two hours, the bombardment only interrupted by floats with water cannons (I finally understood the note on the parade map the one-half block area was designated as a no squirt zone). Ultimately, the grandkids became bored with the bounty of sweets and it began to pile up in the gutters along the route like heavy summer hail, the tiny chocolate bars droopy like water balloons.

Sensing the end of the parade, Isse and Heather made a run for sandwiches. Lydia and I packed up.

After sandwiches, we made our way up the hill to the Historical Tails Interpretive Center. A person thinks of central Wyoming as one vast, flat expanse of sage brush. It is surprising then to stand on the museum hill, look down on the town laid out along the North Platte, and across the valley to Casper Mountain on the other side. According to the information in the museum, as many as 10,000 people passed through this valley per year at the height of the westward migration, most of them walking the entire 2,000 miles. It was a sobering contrast to the silliness of the parade.

We finished the day with hotdogs at the blessedly cool RV. We sat and visited, knowing that they would return to Spokane in the morning and that we would not follow west for another week. The hotdogs were the best meal we’d had since leaving Oregon.

It is hard for me to say how much I appreciate the effort it took for my daughter and her children to be with us for two days in my hometown. It was a gift.

The Road