Summers of Innocence

My younger sister asked, “Are we there yet?” My Dad said with a hint of frustration in his voice, for this was not the first time he was asked that question, “We’re almost there.” My older sister Heather, my younger sister Carrie, my dad, and I were traveling an hour north of our home to help our grandparents get their house ready to sell. My grandparents asked all seven of their children for help to do repairs before moving. I chuckled at my sister’s question because I remember all the times we were overwhelmed with excitement as we dreamed of all the fun things that we could do once we arrived there. We often begged our father to go faster. My dad would grunt and we dare not ask him again, so we tried to keep ourselves busy with something to get our mind off the trip, otherwise an hour trip would seem like a year. There were times I tried to draw pictures of flowers and farmland with extensive detail, in hopes that, when my artwork was done, we would be in Fremont. Other times, I tried to force my mind to rest and fall asleep so when I awoke, we would be there. Now, I am a different person. I am not as impatient as my childhood counterpart, and I could handle the anticipation of watching each evergreen tree in the woods fly by, knowing each passing tree brought me closer to Fremont. After traveling 40 more miles on the black-top highway, we finally arrived at our destination in Fremont, Michigan, where I spent most of my summers as a child. There I was, in the place where my cherished memories gave birth, memories of visiting my grandparents, of camping in the small forest, and of hanging out at the creek under the endless blue sky. I am eager to see those places I treasure in my heart again.

My grandparent’s house was a place that brought my extended families together. Their house sat on a rolling green hill that overlooked Fremont Lake. My great-grandfather built that beautiful house a long time ago; it was half red siding and half beige colored brick bottom, with a big porch on the back that overlooked the lake. I remember coming up there at night to watch the fireworks during the 4th of July season. The explosions of colors lighting up the night sky excited my childhood imagination. I can still smell the aroma of the fresh, homemade peach pies that my grandmother made for family reunions. I recall the gleeful look of satisfaction of my cousins when they uncovered their colorful array of beads that would become refrigerator magnets to display their masterpieces. Once we arrived at the house, my family looked at what needed to be done. Aunts were calling out to each other to grab the paintbrush, or to get a new paint bucket from the hardware store. Uncles were pondering, like mad scientists, on how to fix the leaky pipes and unclog the hairballs. I figured that they were busy, and had all the help they needed, so I decided to visit places that I used to go when I was a little girl who let her imagination run wild. I walked outside, and gleefully skipped down the hill. 
At the bottom of the hill across the street was my favorite campground. This campground was where my family and I used to camp for months at a time, and heed many cherished memories. I crossed the street and ducked under the weather-worn wooden fence to sneak into the campground from the back. The campground was not busy because the summer was almost over. There were several rows of RVs, trailers, pop up campers, and tents set up within the campground’s territory. Compared to how busy the campground was at the height of the summer, there were not a lot of trailers. We usually came there during the hot months of July and August to set up our trailer and go camping. A long time ago, we received a gift from my mom’s parents; it was an old, rusty, hand-me-down trailer from the 1970s. The exterior was white with olive green and brown stripes. The interior was ugly; the walls were covered with an outdated, flowery pattern of vomit green wallpaper. The cushions and the fabric for the couch, the beds, and the curtains were a brown, orange, and a beige flowery pattern. Despite the trailer’s lack of modernism, I loved the memories that we made in it. I remember waking up on Saturday mornings to the smell of the blueberry pancakes, the golden crispy hash browns, and the honey-hickory bacon. My father was always a great breakfast cook. I missed those mornings of bliss and just taking my time, savoring every flavor of those meals. I remember the nights that I had trouble sleeping because the crickets would not end their high pitched conservations. I also remember playing hours of card games, such as Old Maid or Speed, whenever there was a rainy day outside. Now we no longer have a trailer, for my Dad felt like camping was a chore more than a vacation because he had to fix up the trailer every time we went. I miss camping, but I am thankful to God for having the experience. Camping in the little forest was a time when my family and I could get away from our busy lives at home for a little while to relax, to have fun, and to cherish our family bonding time. 

With a heart of gratitude, I smiled as I wandered down the dirt road that intertwined the camp together. I heard the sound of rushing water, and came to the little brown bridge that towered over the creek nearby; the bridge was one of my favorite spots to hangout as a child. The bridge was important because it was the only thing that connected the campground to the beach a few hundred meters away. The bridge had big strong beams made out of wood. The texture of the wood was not smooth for it had survived the four seasons of weather for ages. I remember my sister crying because the microscopic, wood pieces were stuck in her flesh, for she had moved her hand on the wood in the wrong direction. Despite those minor injuries, the bridge was my lifeline to civilization. The creek was wide but not deep. I noticed that the water level was lower than I remembered. The breeze smelt of seaweed, wet sand, and of fish. Smooth stones of all sizes were scattered across and around the creek. The sound of water, moving and splashing as it overcame the stone obstacles to reach the lake around the stones, made me feel relaxed. I remember hanging out at that bridge with my sisters watching the water spiders glide over the water like Michelle Kwan gliding gracefully over the ice. Sometimes my sisters and I skipped across the creek on those stones, pretending that if we slipped into the creek, we would be devoured by man-eating crocodile. There were times when we let our imagination run so wild that it was hard for us to tell the difference between fantasy and reality. Our childlike faith gave us the conviction that God was a part of nature, and he would ensure that nature would cause no harm to us. I chuckled at the thought of my immaturity as I looked to the east to the setting sun. I figured it was time to me to head back to my grandparents’ home. 

I remembered all the times that I watched the lake from my grandparent’s porch, the times that I laughed with my sisters as we played Speed in the trailer, and the times that I explored the uncharted territory of the creek. I smiled as those memories came rushing through my mind. I wished those days would never end. Those summers were truly carefree days; those days were a time when I was able to live to the fullest; I was able to enjoy every flavor of my grandmother’s peach pie or my dad’s brunch. I was able to listen to the sounds of nature without a thought about tomorrow. I was also able to explore the creek without the fear of facing the unknown. Since those simpler times, a lot of things have happened in my life. I grew up and saw more of the world’s unhappiness, and it is difficult for me to live with such childlike simplicity and trust. To believe the old saying, “Everything will be alright in the end,” was also a challenge for me. As a college freshman, I feel I am walking through a fog, not knowing what career path lies ahead; it is a struggle for me to live the life that God has ordained for me. I envied the childlike faith of my past; I had complete, unshakeable faith that God was in control even though I did not know what was going to happen next. While I longed to recapture that faith I once had, I also used the memories at Fremont to remind myself that I could face tomorrow knowing God is sovereign, and as my loving Father, He will care for me always.