A few years ago, I flew
back to Idaho for Christmas with my relatives. The Northwest is always
beautiful in the wintertime and most of my extended family still resides in the
mountains of Clearwater-Nez Perce National Forest and around Camas Prairie. As
we drove to my mother’s parents’ cabin, fog rolled down the brae and settled
into the canyon. The sky dusted a powdery white blanket enshrouding the color
of the evergreens. Thick curtains of ice draped down from a train trestle above,
its shadow moving past as we turned onto a familiar lane.
Stepping from the car,
our snow boots met the ground with a dull crunch. I breathed out slowly, my
breath curling into the crisp air, and pulled my scarf over my nose. In the
center of the driveway, a yellow lab with paws two sizes too big sat on his
haunches watching. It almost seemed as though he had been sitting there since
we left the last time, waiting for us to come back; as though everything had
been waiting.
Five years prior,
inspired by the Wild West of the 1870s, my cousins and I created a small town
we dubbed “Tree Top Village.” Tucked under the pines on the mountainside above
my grandparents’ orchard, we carved out a main street with houses built from
branch supports and shingles of moss peeled from the rocks below the spring; a
bridge of fallen trees, so that we could cross the small gorge blocking the
path to our fort from our “Cowboys versus Indians” days; a jail to keep in the
scoundrels that stole our pinecone currency; and a town dog, Kingsley, who was
mistaken for a mountain lion a few times.
We pioneered this
community. We were the first settlers hailing from distant lands to establish a
form of money, an occupation for each citizen, and homes to shelter the younger
children among us. Deterioration from our absence never lasted long. When a
storm swept through and knocked over a home, we banded together to rebuild the
structure. We spent every moment we had improving our institution.
Soon after arriving, I
found myself trudging through the snow with the waiting dog loping after me.
Kingsley had since passed away and been buried next to the first of my
grandparents’ dogs, below the brush next to the garden. He had been replaced
with a surrogate named Paddington. Coming upon the bridge, it was revealed to
be in shambles. I shuffled across it warily while Paddington opted for a
longer, alternate route. The houses were stripped of their moss coverings,
having long since rotted away. The wooden frames stood skeletal, sighing under
the weight of the snow.
I felt as though I was
underwater. I moved about slowly, everything hushed. The footprints I left were
waves in water neglected. The whole scene seemed distorted. Aside from the
occasional huff from Paddington, it was still and silent. The place of my
childhood had only stayed active in my memories.
I realized that while I
was gone “Tree Top Village” had become abandoned altogether. As far as I had
known, my cousins still visited my grandparents fairly frequently. I had
assumed that this meant they trekked up to repair any new damage in our town
when they were there. I was incorrect.
Coming back, our
priorities had changed. We traded in hours of play and creating an imaginary
life for hours of watching others’ lives on television as an anesthesia for our
own. We were passive; watching the world go by quickly, not cherishing the last
moments we had left before adulthood. We had pressed pause on our youth and
then lost the remote.
I have not been back
there since then. I know now that when I do go back, I will not waste my time
away looking at a screen. I will appreciate every moment I have, because I may
not know until the page has already turned that a chapter in my life has come
to a close. I will treasure the time that I was able to have in Idaho, but I
will not lament for it. My past will be waiting me for me to fall back into it,
but I recognize that I should continue to move forward and I will do so, allowing
those memories to remind me to be someone who invests wholly in the people
around them and place they are at.
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