8.8.13 Kids on Rivers on Tubes; an AnyKindOfDay

  

 

You have a 12 year old and a 13 year old. Summer is approaching. You love them. And you don’t want to suffer.

You lie in bed at night generating ideas. And consider possibilities again during quiet moments driving driving the  2 kids in the car. You remember what your oldest, 20 now, enjoyed the most at those ages. In your imagination,  you scan the entire county ,while you rush down the aisles of the grocery store.

You ‘bring up ideas’ to your beloved at night when he would rather be doing….something else. You think over scenarios. Which friends would manage what well enough for you to survive the expedition. You crunch numbers. Then you gather up a good sized just-in-case folder in your mind, of ideas, that mostly don’t cost, to pepper the summer months in between anything bigger they love or you can afford.

Tubing the Deerfield River, up Route 2, on The Mohawk Trail, was one of those I hitched under my arm, for just the right kind of kvetchy, sunny enough, miserably hot, too long since anything fun, no volunteer-jobs that day, time.

Gradually I researched the river, which opens dams on a schedule, so that one moment all is calm and shallow and peaceful, and the next, Zoar Outdoor is conducting white water rafting groups, zipping and splashing down a wild style river.

Normally, the Deerfield River seems almost as broad as The Connecticut  and often knee deep, sprinkled with large stones and boulders all across the way, a typical New England rocky river. With a bit more water, you can swim and get carried along on a brisk but manageable speed, past New England Farms and hilly countryside, down past tall waving corn fields and horse meadows, from Charlemont down to Shelburne toward Greenfield, small villages with twist and turns along the sweet old river.

The day came, the two youngest crabbing and fighting, teasing and struggling as the day began,  hot and sticky, as we woke. Luckily, it was not a day for seeing my clients. Off my dear one went to work, laughing as he slammed the door and escaped, leaving me behind with whining lanky  kids , too young for paying jobs , old enough to complain about mandatory volunteer jobs, pain in the butt enough to still be giving each other a hard time as if their lives depended upon it, on and on.

Taking a little saved up cash for this venture, I sat them both down, and said, “Ok, this is what we’re going to do.”, their eyes hopeful, legs itching to go go go.

“You’re each going to call two friends, help me locate four more tubes, I’ll call Black Sheep Deli  and get them to make up the sandwiches of choice, with one drink and one cookie for each kid. We’ll pick up your friends, drive over and grab the food, and head on up the Deerfield River, til we get to the Charlemont Bridge, where I’ll personally toss you all in the water. Okay?”

Eyes shining, they began fighting over the phone, while I rolled my eyes, gathering cups and towels and water bottles and chips and apples and sunscreen and Arnica. Yeah, I thought, that’s about it.

The dogs whined and begged as two long legged kids tumbled down the staircase, shorts and T-shirts and old sneakers and flat un-inflated tubes in arms. “Nope, sorry you two.” I apologized to the small Mini Husky and the aged Aussie. Plopping a few ice-cubes in their water to make up for this wind-less, 95 degree day, I left them behind, the kids scrambling into the station wagon, arguing about whose friends would be picked up in what order, and where the best place was to inflate tubes, and perilously tie them to the top of the station wagon.

Off we went, to four houses, as I stepped out to have the parental conversations, promising caution and to deliver well-exhausted children back home in the late afternoon. Happy smiling parents walked away as I stole their cranky offspring  and got back into the slowly filling car.

Some shared seat belts (you know that maneuver, where you criss-cross three seat belts to cover four kids) , and that left me with bouncing, singing kids…two in the front seat , competing songs, naughty sayings from the boys to gross out the girls. Oh God, I thought, what happened to  all my ideas of liberation and sex role options and ….as I called to them in my Sargent voice to simmer down, and for awhile, each time, they would, all completely adorable, like teenager puppies, gangly and funny and figuring things out, as they bumped into each other and made up stories and planned  tubing strategy (Let’s all hold ankles and make a long line “   , “ No,no, let’s make a circle and hold on and see how long we last!!” ), as I managed to survive the noise level, smiling at their loveliness.

Barging into The Black Sheep Deli, racing over to the displays of meats and cheeses and the racks of huge cookies and the frosted refrigerators of exotic drinks, (“Don’t lean on the cases. Hey, hey, don’t put your fingers all over the cases. See this person in front of you??? They have to wipe off the crud people leave all over the glass. Right??” ) they competed and pushed each other and drove the employees nutso, when not smiling at the gaggle of kids…so excited, creating all kinds of amazing complex weird sandwiches, me standing by them, hands on the shoulders of kids I had known for…forever almost…reminding them that they actually had to be able to EAT this invention, because this was IT for their food.

Hmmm. Well. Then second  thoughts…the backpedaling from outrageous to mildly unusual, finally all holding a wonderful,  fat ,filled wrapped sandwich, a huge cookie of choice, a coveted drink (NO, not Coke, you have to have something natural, sorry kids.) (Grimacing…the friends about to push me, til my kids would whisper, as they always did to their friends “She seems really nice, but DON’T ask her again. She doesn’t change her mind. Don’t bug her. “).

I would look at them, hunch up my shoulders like “Oh well, it’s true, right?”, push them a bit on the shoulder for fun to get a smile again, and off we went, six kids tumbling back into the car, me trying to remain sane while insisting all the food went in the cooler  (“NO you can’t eat it now. Have an apple.”), leaning over them as I fought with the stupid seat belt configuration, squishing the poor kids into place, but at least, safe.

Up the highway we headed (quick, get these creatures out into the water before I self destruct!!!), all of them calling and pointing to familiar sights. The frontier village , life sized, one resident built  just for fun. The water tower-type tower you could pay to climb up, at one of 15 gift shops, to scan the valley below, as the car slowly climbed up the ancient Mohawk Trail. The gift shop with the deer in large cages. (Oh, can we stop THERE??? And THERE????”  “NO.” )

Past the Fur Shop, with dead animal furs hanging out on the railing, Sheepskins and other skins, a building my father-in-law helped to build many years ago, my kids explaining this to their friends, breathlessly, as we neared our destination. The small, closed down ski resort, the rope tow languishing between poles, the small hill a field of tall grasses, the building decrepid and listing.

Past The Duck Pond, a small restaurant , if it could be called that, with, yes , and small pond , and , yes, ducks. (“Can we stop THERE????”   “Nope.”)

Past the turn off to the apple picking farm up in Colrain, with a shaded petting zoo of hoofed and winged creatures.

Until we began to catch glimpses of the river, between trees, as we climbed higher and higher into the hill towns, the kids exclaiming when they saw the waters in between hills and intermittent buildings.

Talking excitedly about what the waters looked like – dangereuse, or boring baby stuff- you know, all the concerns of this age when embarking upon a small  summer’s day adventure. Me saying now and then “Hey, pull your head back in!!” or “Stop pinching your brother. We’re almost there.”

We finally wind round the small sleepy town of Charlemont, and head over the little bridge that heads toward the ski area Berkshire East, the hills growing higher and higher the farther we have gone. Across the bridge  we pull into a small dirt clearance, and I park the car.

Yeah, everybody with life jackets on (“Are you KIDDING????”     “No. Put it on. Let’s get you all going!!”)

Inner tubes that have been bobbing like enormous clouds on top of the car, tied down on the station wagon, are freed, bouncing down on the ground, kids rolling them here and there, bumping into each other, yelling and jumping. “Okay okay. Listen up.” I call, and they turn obediently to my no-nonsense bark.

“I’m going to be driving down the road, and pull over, ahead of you, run down to the river, and stand there on the rocks til you pass by. Make sure to notice me, and let me know everything is going great, Ok??? Alright??? You listening???” . And they all smile and nod, horses at the gate, go-away-go-away-you-mother-and-let-us-go!!!.

“Ok, have a good time!” I smile, arms folded across my chest, last suggestions of drinks of water past, as , smeared with sunscreen  (“ Do I HAVE to?”   “What do you think???”) , they tumble into the thigh high water, nicely covering maybe 4/5 of each rock, great and perfect current, scorching sun, sweat soaked kids laughing, giggling, hopping on their tubes, falling over and getting drenched, making fun of each other, splashing, shrieking…me admonishing them, uselessly, from the sidelines, my daughter and son giving me reassuring looks of “We remember what we talked about, Mom, about keeping everyone safe, don’t worry”, to which I flash back my loving-est, full of delightedness smile back, of acknowledgment, of just just the tip top of frosting of all the hard, sometimes heartbreaking work, of parenting.

And boom, off they go, as I rush to the Volvo, hop in and pull on my seat belt, whip out of there a little bit fast in my actual anxiety, tires spitting dirt behind me in a  cloud of dust.

Over the bridge, as I glance to the side to see the six precious beings, then turn onto the trail once again, slow slow be slow through the little town, open it up a bit when I’m further out on the small, winding country road, and zip along to the place I eyeballed last before we turned for the bridge, putting on my turn signal, and slowly making my way down the  corn field road…a bit rutted…a bit potholed…slowly avoiding the resounding scrape of the bottom of the car that could signal…big expensive repairs, further just a bit, and turn to the side of the old, solid stone wall, and just beyond the trees…there is the river. Yup. With the kids.

Jump out of the car, water bottles in hand, and race between rocks and brambles and poison ivy , round tree clumps and over the stone wall…further through the brush, a bit anxiously, and there I am…phew…on the river. The view beautiful. Beautiful.

I slip off my flip flops, and balance on rocks down to the water, then stand in the frozen river, my audible sigh soaring out into the afternoon.

Deer-flies discover me, and I begin slapping, hoping they hate rivers and kids-floating-in-rivers, stepping quickly out, from rock to rock, til I’m a bit out in the river, maybe 15 feet, in full view…..wait a good 5 minutes, and yeah, folks, there they come!!! All 1,2,3, yup , yup, all 6, there they are. Lifejackets  still on, yup. Smiling, alive, NOISY!!!

Splashing and riding the gentle but fast enough current, feet in the air save one silly one on their belly, laughing their guts out (their words, not mine), and they see me…and begin yelling and waving and smiling and screaming happily.

I yell “ Anyone need a drink of water??” and they all yell “No way!!!’, and head off past me, some attached to others by holding wrists and ankles, some leaping up with their tube and coming smashing down into the water, splashing all around. Puppies, really. Sweetest thing.

I step fast back along the river rocks , slip on flip flops, and race on back to the car, over reflective purple poison ivy and stretching briars and the crusty beautiful granite stone wall, past the River Birches all in clusters like good friends , quietly having tea, back to the car, where I turn it carefully enough in the muddled dust, head on back up the dirt path, and hightail it down the tiny old highway once again.

Eventually they are ready to EAT, growing things that they are, and unanimously, no discussion, veer over to the latest spot I am perched upon, anticipating their bristling hunger by lugging down the cooler with the munitions.

They fall upon their fancy fat sandwiches, laughing as gooey mayonnaise and relish and mustard ooze from their lips, globbing down onto their T-shirts, as they, giggling, smear it along their arms, and make to embrace each other, kiss each other, with the gooey ketchup and all …screeching as they pull away from each other in fun, me sitting there just delighting in the whole whole thing.

Fancy drinks (“Eww this is gross!! I want another one!!!    “Ok, the only other thing besides the weirdo drink you CHOSE is water. Want that?”   “Crap. NO!”.) 

Oh, and the huge cookies, some of them death by chocolate chocolate chip, which may have my own kids up for HOURS tonight???  But what the heck…fun is fun.

A few of them roll around in the shallows, face up- face down- face up- face…like seeing someone in a washing machine door. I laugh so hard, as they grin to have an audience. Otters all.

It’s past the time when we all thought stomach cramps from a meal would drown anyone. Besides, the water is barely thigh deep, there are Life preservers on, so they wash off all the crap from their lovely young silly funny faces and arms and chests, and then, off they go, once again.

I yell  “Three more stops. The third time you see me, it will be time to go.”     “Oh, no puhleezzzee???” someone calls, and one of my kids reminds them about this mother…very nice, very serious. “Oh.” the kid says, beginning to believe it.

Two more stops I discover, small dirt roads full of light green leafy cover, quiet hill-town beauty,  a small relief of breeze, as I climb more stonewalls and find my way to the river two more times, standing out a bit so they see me, solidly, there. They moan and whine and complain the second time, but I see their slightly sunburnt faces, their tired bodies, the increased quiet, the boyant noise and flopping and leaping slowed to a minimum, knowing they will be just about worn out the next stop.

And they are, quiet and a bit cranky, though some are cranked on the caffeine from their cookies.  All six kids slog to the waiting car. Crabby they are, complaining ,predictably, about how cramped they are, how the fancy seat belt deal for four  kids in a backseat pinch….asking me HOW LONG til they get home, complaining that I won’t let them all come over and hang out, which truly, they don't want to do. 

It’s just all that obligatory kid stuff, rules in the secret kid rule book, that they must obey no matter how tired they really may be.

All they want to do is what they, in actuality do…get dropped off at their respective homes, me going to the door to usher a falling-over-crabby-tired-out kid into their parent’s arms, stumbling into their  various homes, the parents smiling knowingly at the fatigue, at the tired irritable kid (“ I am NOT tired!!!”), at the soon to be early bedtime, at the kid being outdoors on a river, all day, with friends.

And now, my own two can indulge in their spatting at each other, at their “Why do THEY get to be in the front seat???” as I smile, and quietly get them home just as quickly as I can. Just at dinner time, where their dad has wisely has the meal ready, the crab crab crabby kids sitting down with a minimum of appetite and eat something, bumping into each other, avoiding angering their big brother, begging for a video (“No.”), finally making their way up the stairs to their bedrooms, me not bothering to insist upon bathroom things.

Soon enough, I wander upstairs, and see one  of them  sound asleep in his clothes, halfway off his bed. I  tiptoe in, pull the shade enough for some darkness but still letting some breeze in. Pull  sandals off those sweet 12 year old feet, wiping the sweat off the bridge of his nose, his old old cat snuggling by his side with the steadfast devotion.

I lean into the doorway of  my daughter’s room, and notice her effort to not snap at me in her exhaustion, the freckles on her face a lovely blossoming, her blonde hair shades lighter…could it be??

She  gives me the smallest smile, the most she can muster, I understand,  quickly, and turns away, reading a book as her own velvet grey feline beloved makes bread on her pillow, slitted eyes gazing at her with so much cat love, as my daughter sighs in her polite organized room, in her polite proper summer pjs, as she pulls her journal to her to begin her effervescent writing of her life, part real and part imagined, that on quiet dark nights when I sit on her bed, she sometimes  reads to me, as long as I don’t make any comments, none at all.

I don’t try for a kiss…too long too tiring a day for her. I just smile to myself, leaving her door open to any ventilation we might be lucky enough to receive, off darkened house-lined street, off the fairground fields across the way, off the farmer’s lands  father in the distance, off the Connecticut’s out-waters there in Northampton in the blue green mist before I 91, off the distant, snake-like dusk darkened Mt. Holyoke Range.  Off more lands farther away, off the continent and the earth, spinning inexorably as it follows its orbit, off the universe as endless as endless as parental love…sometimes…can be.

As endless as the quick embrace of a  12 year old kid, at the end of a long, anykindofday.  As endless as the “Nite Mom” of the 20 year old, navigating their newly adult life. As endless as the kiss of my beloved , met up with in the old kitchen, when the kids are finally all settled upstairs and done with for the day.

As complex as the soft breath of the 13 year old, light on, cat ensnared in her arms, journal akimbo, pen fallen almost into her perfect pj’s, that I quietly grasp and rescue from the pj’s , as I carefully pluck the journal from her side, never ever peeking, as I pull the shade down just a bit, as it veers out with a god-given puff of cooling evening breeze, as I click off her light.

As I head into my bed room and glance at those huge brown eyes of the person I share all this with, through thick and thin and unbearable and lovely. As I climb into bed, lights out, small wind passing by our hot grateful skin, and graciously, off into the kid’s rooms.

House silent. Dogs snuffling. The moonlight reaching in the two tall, paint blistered windows.  Seeping across the  old scruffed bed. As we reach for each other. And sleep.