Adirondack Audacity (2 page)

I met him jogging in the park; he came up from
behind and started running next to me. What can I say, I
was smitten. He devastated me with his smile of even
white teeth that would make an orthodontist cry. He was
black Irish, dark curling hair that tumbled in heavy waves,
Celtic morning blue eyes sprang from his face in startling
contrast.

The deal breaker was the dog; he was jogging with a
golden retriever named Lucas. My collie, Gabby, took
one look at Lucas and was smitten too. We had coffee
and the rest is history.

Before meeting Jack, I was content on my own,
thinking I didn’t need another man in my life. After
losing Vic, I thought my heart incapable of love. And I
was fine except for the nights, the long dark nights I laid
awake, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, barely
holding loneliness at bay. But then Jack came
along…..and it was another chance at life.

But
….they say you never forget your first love and
while that summer in the Adirondacks seems so long ago;
to me it seems like…..
yesterday….

th
e morning
mist ona
mountain lake,

th
e chargedairaftera late-day thunderstorm.
A first love……
a summerlove.

Ev
eryone can reach back to one summer,
pause,
andfind the exact momentwhen everything

At seventeen,
I’ve never been more than 50 miles
away from home, never spent a night in a hotel, never
crossed the state line, and now………I’m on a bus
heading to the Adirondack Mountains. To a place I never
heard of until two months ago, Camp High Point at
Cascade Mountain. What kind of name is that? Summer
camps usually have long unpronounceable Indian names
that twist and turn on your tongue. Camp names usually
bring to mind Native Americans who wandered these
lands years ago, constellations, a type of tree, or even a
species of birds. Camp High Point at the Cascade sounds
like the place British aristocracy ship their children off to
for the summer.
Very posh.

The reason I’m on this bus is simple……..in my
world I have two nicknames, labels that follow me and
define my life, nicknames that change depending on the
mood of the day. For example, when I fell down the
stairs in front of the varsity football team……showing
off my pink polka-dot underwear….. and by the end of
the day instead of being Ellen McCauley, the whole
school is calling me Dots……..that’s a Klutz-Ellen day.

Or when
I’m forced to miss softball practice,
again,
and my coach swears he’s going to bench me, he doesn’t
quite
understand my stepmother, Helen. When you live
with Helen, you live with her rules……and that means
starting dinner, folding laundry, and babysitting my
brothers is
far
more important than softball practice or a
normal teenage social life……..that’s a Cinder-Ellen day.

I blame the Klutz-Ellen days on my blonde hair;
I’m
somewhere between a blonde and a red head, sort of like
Lucille Ball running smack dab into Marilyn Monroe’s
chest. Only I didn’t get the red hair or the voluptuous
breasts.

The Cinder-Ellen days, truth be told
…I blame Helen
and her endless list of chores.
In addition to nicknames, I have demons. Who
wouldn’t? My mother died in horrific car crash when I
was twelve, my stepmother tutored under the Wicked
Witch of the West, and my father has never made an
authentic decision in his life. In addition, I live with two
little brothers apprenticed to be junior terrorists. The fact
that my stepmother adores them, and loathes me, doesn’t
bode well for yours truly.
Not that I’m complaining…….okay, I’m
complaining. So when I saw an advertisement in the
newspaper for a nature counselor at a children’s camp in
the Adirondacks, I jumped at the chance…….because in
my mind that ad said one word……
Escape.
So here I am on a bus to the mountains, sun light
streaming through the open windows as a June heat wave
grips the Northeast. My idea of getting away from it
all…..did not include being smashed against the bus
frame by the bulk of a woman whose girth exceeds the
size of her seat by a factor of two, an 85 degree day with
humidity somewhere between hell and the Amazon
Rainforest…. no air conditioning, and no lunch. Helen
left my lunch on the kitchen counter, a little farewell
revenge. Dust motes float in the stifling heat, and the air
carries the faint smell of disinfectant. Watching the
scenery roll by, I’m mesmerized by the rising waves of
heat shimmering off the highway.
Catching sight of my reflection in the window of the
bus, I wince. Like most seventeen year old girls, I’m
obsessed with my appearance. I keep hoping someone
will tell me I’m beautiful…….I’m still waiting. My father
has blonde hair, my mother had auburn hair, and I fall
somewhere in the middle. My hair is the color of a warm
caramel in winter, streaked to coppery blonde by the
summer sun. In fifth grade, I was the smallest girl in my
class with hair hanging in curling ringlets down my back.
By high school I’m weirdly tall, a collection of arms and
legs that tangle and trip me at the slightest provocation.
And the ringlets are gone. Could I have peaked in the
fifth grade? I once heard an aunt say I have almond
shaped eyes. I liked that, almond shaped eyes sound
exotic and mysterious. We’ll ignore the fact my eyes
are….blue, just blue. Not aquamarine, sapphire, or
turquoise like the heroines in romance novels. No, just
blue. At seventeen I’m not attracting a lot of boys; and
quite frankly I’m not trying. Boys my age are preoccupied
with four things, sports, cars, beer and boobs, the order
of importance changing with their mood. Don’t get me
wrong, I like sports. But I am not the least bit interested
in beer or cars, and I’d like to keep my boobs intact from
the groping and mauling that goes on in the back seat of
parked cars. Not having excessively large breasts, just the
standard ABC cup variety, I’ve decided I’m saving them
for the right guy. I just hope the right guy comes along
before I hit eighty and the boobs head south to meet my
belly-button.
Squirming ever so slightly to avoid body contact with
my seatmate whose snores threaten to overpower the
diesel engine of the bus, I reach into my backpack and
pull out a tattered pamphlet, corners curled and frayed
from too much handling.
Camp High Point at Cascade
Mountain
is written in bold print across the top margin.
The front cover shows campers canoeing on a lake,
hiking through the woods, singing around a campfire, and
horseback riding across a meadow……I’ve never ridden
a horse.
Smoothing out the wrinkles of the brochure on my
knee, I read for the hundredth time the list of camp
promises…. and add a few of my own.
I’m seventeen and have done, basically,
nothing
. Never
smoked a cigarette…….never drank a beer…….never
kissed a boy. I’m not counting Mark Pinowicz. He only
kissed me to see if he could French kiss with his braces
on, and he wanted to try it out on me because I wasn’t
popular enough to count. To say the least it was a very
unrewarding experience.
So maybe I’ll go skinny dipping………not wear a bra
for the entire summer………..definitely drink
beer………or do something
illegal….
like smoke a
joint….
hmmm
, the possibilities of summer are endless….
But truth be told, the real reason I’ve left home for
the summer is…..it’s been five years since my mother’s
death…and the night my mom died, part of my father
died too. And life as I knew it ceased to exist. As much as
I tried to fill her shoes and help ease his grief, nothing I
did filled the void of her absence. My father was never
the same, a combination of guilt and grief. He blames
himself for the accident. My mother drove home from
the party that night because he was drunk. He didn’t
notice she had been drinking too, and she wasn’t wearing
a seat belt. She ran a stop sign, collided with a utility truck
and went through the windshield. She was dead upon
arrival at the hospital.
The light in our family went out that night. My mom
was by no means a conventional mother. She didn’t
believe in stringent housekeeping, regular meals, starched
and pressed clothes or punctuality. My mother ascribed
to a rather carefree lifestyle, it was the age of the hippy
love child, and she raised her children unencumbered by
the established mores of society.
Magical and irresistible to everyone around her, she
possessed an infectious laugh, quick wit and a love of
adventure. She knew no boundaries, and schedules were a
mere suggestion. She created her own rules on a daily
basis. Dinner was likely to be peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches with Twinkies in a tent made of blankets or a
five course meal under the oak tree in the back yard. We
ate when we were hungry, washed when we were dirty
and cleaned the house when company was coming. And
we were happy.
After her death, my dad shut down emotionally,
leaving me to take care of the family. With the help of my
grandmother, I learned to cook anything that was
packaged, canned or thawed from the freezer. Face it, at
the age of twelve;; I didn’t have a whole lot of experience
to draw on. Using the owner’s manual; I studied the dials
of the washing machine and we wore a lot of pink
underwear. Eventually I figured out how to separate
whites from colored clothes and clean the house well
enough to keep the health department away. My
grandmother wanted to help and even though she was his
mother, my dad’s stiff necked pride wouldn’t allow her to
move in and take over the care of his family. As the only
living grandparent, she came up with a scheme to cope
with our motherless house. Hence, the beginning of my
Cinder-Ellen saga, and life was good until Helen came.
Apparently my father and Helen dated briefly in high
school; my father dumped Helen to marry my mother.
But Helen never gave up the torch for him, so as soon as
it was socially acceptable she showed up on our doorstep
wearing black and carrying a casserole. The rest is history,
within a year he married her. My father is well over six
feet tall, heavy set and blonde. Helen barely comes up to
his elbow, and with her black hair and a body too thin to
be healthy, they look like a pair of a cartoon characters.
And Helen was the bipolar opposite of my mother;
orderly, fanatically clean and had rules for everything. But
it seemed to work for everyone….my dad played golf on
Saturdays with no guilt, the house and children were neat
and tidy. My brothers loved having real food on the table
and baseball shirts that were the right color and size.
Traitors.
It worked for everyone…..but Helen and me. We
didn’t work. See, I’m the walking, breathing, living image
of my mother complete with my father’s blue eyes and
square jaw, just enough proof of their union to throw in
her face…… everyday someone else was here before her.
We despised each other at first sight. With my eyes on a
scholarship for college, I’m plotting my escape and
counting the days until I leave. Four hundred and thirtytwo to be exact, this summer job between my junior and
senior year of high school is step…..numero uno, baby.
…
“Sandwich, dear?” asks the lady in the seat next to
me, breaking into my day dream. I realize my growling
stomach announced the fact I’m slowly starving to death.
I take the sandwich with a dubious glance at the
woman. “Ah, thank you.” I say. She is plump wearing a
cotton housedress, faded from too many washings.
The seams stretched taut over her large frame. The
faint scent of body odor lingers in the air. She has kindly
blue eyes and the biggest mole on the side of her face I’ve
ever seen. I can’t help but stare, she seems nice enough
but
yipes,
I think I’m losing my appetite.
“I’m Vera Watts. What’s your name, honey?” The
lady asks, cramming half a sandwich into her mouth.
Even with her mouth full she still has the ability to carry
on a conversation……… how does she do that?
I look at her in awe. “My name is Ellen McCauley.”
“So where are you headed for in the mountains?” She
inquires taking another enormous bite of sandwich.
“Inlet.” Is my muffled reply, my tongue contorted as
it tries to pry the slick white bread from the roof of my
mouth.
“Now where is that?” she asks, reaching into a paper
bag taking out a can of soda. “Here, darling, you need
this to wash down that sandwich. It’s warm but better
than nothing.”
Gratefully accepting the tepid soda, I steal a peek into
her bag, hoping a Twinkie will magically appear. No such
luck. Taking a sip to wash down the glob of sandwich, I
respond to her question, “Inlet is near Blue Mountain
Lake.” The bubbles from the soda tickle my nose. “I’ve
never been there so I don’t know too much about it.” I
try being evasive hoping she’ll leave me alone.
“So are you going to visit family?”
“No,” I respond with a sigh. My first glimpse of the
mountains against the backdrop of a vivid blue sky and
I’m stuck talking to this nosy lady. “I’ll be working at a
camp as a nature counselor.”
“Oh, how exciting! Tell me all about it. Are you going
to trap bears?”
I look at her as if she’s insane. Trap bears, what the
heck is she talking about? I can imagine the scene, “Here
kiddies, let’s line up and trap the nice big fluffy bears.”
Right.
“No,” I begin slowly, as if talking to a dull witted
child, “No, more like take kids on nature hikes and teach
them about the plants and animals of the Adirondacks.”
Jeez.
“Well, dearie, that sounds kind of boring. I like a little
adventure.” She says with an indignant sniff. “I’m going
to visit my sister and her husband. They leave food out
now and then so we can watch the bear come at night
and feed. Then Frank, that’s my brother-in-law, leaps off
the porch screaming and banging a pan with a metal
spoon. What a racket that banging makes. Lord, you
should see the bears jump. We run back into the cabin
nearly peeing our pants with laughter.”
“Oh, really.” I groan, wincing, and they call the bears
stupid.
“Oh, speaking of all those kids at camp, did I tell you
I have three grandchildren.” She reaches into her
enormous bag, pulling out a fistful of photographs and
holds them reverently before my eyes. Now the fun really
begins…grandkids and pictures…….
yippie
. After an
agonizing half hour on the glories of her grandchildren,
Vera’s considerable girth collapses back into the seat. “All
that talking about those grandchildren has plum worn me
out. I’m afraid I need a little nap. I hope you don’t think
me rude if I just close my eyes and take a rest.”
“No, no, not at all. A nap sounds like a great idea.” I
hastily agree. Halleluiah, there is a God.
As Vera drifts off to sleep, her lips make little
popping noises. I lean my head against the metal frame of
the window watching the mountains rise up out of the
fertile farm foothills, giant humps of granite and
limestone reach for the sky. Towering white pine, spruce
and balsam jut from the craggy mountainside. I smell the
faint aroma of balsam as the bus rolls by sparkling lakes,
cut and carved by the thick glaciers that covered the
Adirondacks for tens of thousands of years. I feel a
tremor of excitement, a sense of familiarity, of coming
home.
Vera gives a little snort in her sleep pulling my gaze
back to the dim interior of the bus. As I glance at my
seatmate, I’m struck by the difference between her and
my grandmother. As little kids we couldn’t say grandma,
it came out as “ran-ran” and “ran-ran” turned into Gran.
Watching Vera sleep reminds me of my Gran falling
asleep in her chair next to the fireplace, knitting needles
resting in her lap, reading glasses sliding down her nose.
But the similarity ends there. Where Vera is plump and
slovenly, Gran’s body is sparse and lean, her days filled
with hard work. A long angular face dominated by a
curving slender nose, reminiscent of a wary female hawk.
Steel gray hair cut short with curled bangs she calls
“Mame Eisenhower” bangs, a style popularized by
former President Eisenhower’s wife. Her blue eyes
framed by silver rimmed glasses seem to magnify her
vision to a piercing gaze. But for all of her foreboding
appearance, she is a marshmallow with a big heart, and
like my mother, she loves to have fun. Water bucket
battles out on the lawn in summer, card games around
the dining room table at night with bonus points for the
best fart jokes.
I reach into the backpack on the floor and pull out
the nature journal she gave me years ago. A birthday
present the year Helen moved into the house. The journal
gave me an excuse to explore the outdoors, leaving
responsibilities behind to spend hours collecting,
sketching or just day dreaming under the willow tree
growing alongside the pond.
Gran can be frugal but…….Christmas and birthdays
are celebrated with gaily wrapped packages exploding
with bows and ribbons and sometimes…….surprises.
And by surprises, I mean surprises………last year a
coiled toy snake popped out of my gift. Weird but fun.
Two years ago, she caught a mouse in her Have-a-Heart
trap and wrapped it in a box with air holes poked through
it, hoping to prank me. But the joke backfired; I loved
the mouse, named it Oscar and tried taking it home for a
pet. Until Helen met me at the door with her arms folded
across her chest and ice daggers in her eyes. Not uttering
a single word I turned and walked to the field next to our
house and let the mouse go. I thought Oscar had a better
chance with the feral cats in the neighborhood than he
did with Helen.