People from the 1880s - CD and Eula

When I was barely a teen, I met a couple at church who were in their 80s. C.D. and Eula Walker. I was enamored by their old fashioned way of talking, their infallible courtesy, their acceptance of our family as their own.

They had an after-church gathering at their house one Sunday and I was fascinated by the way the food was presented in fancy dishes and served buffet style from a sideboard. I remember someone asking Mrs. Walker where her husband had gotten off to. 

"He's probably at the buffet building sideboards on his plate," she answered. I wasn't sure what that meant so my dad later explained it was like having a wagon with wood rails along the side so you could pile things higher. 

We sat in their parlor on red velveteen couches with carved legs and arms. Crystal chandeliers twinkled in the dim lighting of the room as we ate our food and communed with one another.

Their house was filled with family heirlooms that looked to be from the "roaring 20s" and treasures from their travels abroad. Things they had collected mid-life when they were around 40. Mr. Walker took us on a tour of his garage where, hanging on the wall was a helmet from World War I and other mementos of days gone by. They would have been born in the 1800s around the same time as my own grandparents who lived out of state and we saw rarely. The Walkers had no children so they adopted us as a surrogate family.

I had foolishly worn my watch out to play and the band broke off. C.D. repaired it so that I could wear it like a pin attaching it to a gold Fleur de Lis broach. He presented it to me as a gift one Sunday at church. Having lived through the Great Depression, they learned to repurpose and reuse everything. Nothing was wasted.

How I wish I had thought to ask them about their lives, their travels, their experiences before it was too late.

Part of the Gang

If I ever felt like I belonged it would have been during the days we camped at the F.O. Ranch. We could do whatever we wanted at the moment, whether it was to seek solitude, read, explore or sit by the campfire. If we wanted to have a wine cooler for breakfast, no one judged. No one was offended. There were no outcasts.

We came from different walks of life, whether college student, teacher, scientist, maintenance worker or hair stylist, when we were together, we had harmony and acceptance. We knew how to appreciate freedom from structure. Each person was accepted as is, flaws and all.

Ron cooking breakfast over the campfire.

I often wonder what became of these friends from my young adulthood. Where are they now? What are they doing? Would they remember or even recognize me all these years later?

What has changed? What limits the openness I once shared with these folks who became friends because we lived near one another? Our apartments shared a communal porch where we would hang out between camping trips, planning and counting the days until our next gathering at the campsite.

The campsite, owned by the parents of one of the campers, had an ancient, one-room cabin with a small kitchen where we kept the food. No refrigerator, just a collection of ice chests to keep the perishables and the drinks. In the tiny bedroom was a toilet, partially exposed behind a half wall. Campers were welcome to use it during the day, provided they brought a bucket of water for flushing purposes. There was no running water, just a hand pump outside.

But we made it work.

 Cindy with Snowball and Precious at the Old Cabin

The campfire was kept burning all hours of the day, replenished through treks in the woods to gather deadwood as we explored our surroundings. During one of those treks, we discovered a sinkhole that must have been fifty-feet deep.

By now, a subdivision of tract homes has likely replaced our old stomping grounds.

Yet the lake must surely remain, in all its glory and seclusion, the water on which many of us learned to ski, took our baths, fished and sat together on the creaky and rickety dock. How can so many years have passed and I still fondly recall the sights and smells of those times?

Me and Marsha on the Dock

There were few distractions. There were no cell phones. No i Pods, no laptops or tablets. We had a collection of paperback books which we read by firelight or lantern if the night grew quiet. Otherwise, we circled the campfire and told stories or sang when anyone who could play brought their guitar. No one cared if we forgot the words or missed a note.

How I long for those days that always passed too quickly, before Sunday night came and we gathered the tents, loaded up the small boat with equipment before hooking it to the trailer and heading back to the real world where Monday awaited and our daily work stood ready to greet us the next day.

The Triple FO

Sunburn and bug bites aside, those were some of the best days of my life. And not just for me. Romances bloomed, couples grew together and apart. The saga of life played out with each adventure. Like the time I showed up unexpectedly to find someone else in my boyfriend's tent. That was a night to remember.

From  Memoirs and Other Tall Tales © Peggy Cole