Adirondack Audacity Page 2

  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.

  It’s because of my grandmother that I’m qualified to take on the job as a nature counselor at camp. She passed her love of the outdoors on to me. I grew up spending afternoons wandering in the fields and woods around her house as she pointed out various plants and animal signs to me. In her world, the fields and forest are her church and Bible. There are no expectations or criticisms in the woods. Acceptance, respect and forgiveness abide amongst the trees and animals.This is where God lives.

  Glancing at Vera to make sure she is still asleep, I brush away stray pieces of lint from the journal’s cover. The front is hand-tooled, scrollwork blooming with flowers and leaves. The binding is broken and worn. At one time the pages smelled faintly of trees and sunshine. Now they smell of earth and dried leaves.

  Growing up in a house that wrote its own definition of normal, I became introspective and quiet. Coupled with my stumbling clumsiness, the kids at school dubbed me with the nickname, Klutz-Ellen. It’s no wonder I preferred playing with frogs and butterflies. It’s not that I’m bad at sports; I’m just bad at life. It could be worse; Joey Thompson’s nickname was Poopy Pants. Don’t ask.

  Never having many friends, I spent my time outdoors, learning how to sketch plants and animals, and sometimes the journal provided an outlet to purge the frustrations of my home and social life and come away renewed. Turning a page, I run my hand over the delicate plants pressed in the peak of bloom, now faded and held eternal by a dab of glue. Colored pencils highlight or shade points of interest…

  And there on the inside cover is my grandmother’s firm handwriting.

  Dearest Ellen, Hold fast to your dreams; keep a still secret spot where they may go. Shelter those dreams so they thrive and grow, away from doubt and fear. Let the magic of nature work at will in you, and may your spirit soar. Be not afraid of the miles ahead, hold fast to your journey, stay proud and strong. Make the past your history, and not an excuse for the future. Embrace truth, banish falsehoods and never let darkness win.

  Always my love, Gran The bus winds and climbs the steep roads, pushing through rocky outcrops of forests. Huge boulders bump through the forest green like gnarled knuckles and rippling spines of granite. Balsam fir gives way to red maple, white birch and towering white pines. And I can’t help but wonder what this summer has in store for me.

  My guide book said the Adirondack Park is one of the largest parks in America, larger than Yellowstone, Grand Canyon and Yosemite combined; the largest publicly protected area in the contiguous United States. The park contains forty-six mountains over 4000 feet, thirty thousand miles of rivers and two thousand lakes and ponds. In 1894 the Adirondack Forest Preserve was established and recognized as a protected Forever Wild area.……..and my passport to summer freedom and new beginnings.

  The sign along the roadside reads Inlet in carved gold letters poised above a painted loon. The bus turns into a parking lot and comes to a stop with a hiss of air brakes.

  “Good bye, Vera.” My voice muffled as I bend over tying up the laces of my hiking boots.

  “Whattt?” Vera blinks with bleary eyes.

  “This is my stop. I have to get off here.”

  “Here, dearie let me move so you can get out.” She stifles a yawn. “Goodness, I fell into a dead sleep. Now you have a good summer.”

  “I will,” I assure her, wedging myself into the narrow aisle of the bus. “I hope you enjoy your stay in the mountains.”

  She gives my shoulder a motherly pat before settling back into her seat. “Honey, don’t you worry about me. I know how to have a good time.”

  Taking a deep breath, I head for the stairs. With a wave good bye, I turn to exit the bus and snag the toe of my boot on the ragged edge of rubber mat covering the steps, lose my balance and crash with a thump into the arms of the surprised bus driver. Ouuu!

  “Whoa, little lady, you’ll get there soon enough, no need to fly off my bus.” He says with a chuckle helping me to my feet with his strong arms.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say to him, pushing myself off his chest. Oh God. While the driver retrieves my suitcase from the luggage compartment, I survey the parking lot hoping no one noticed my precarious flight down the stairs.

  “Good luck, little lady.” The driver gives me a salute as he boards the bus. “Enjoy your summer!”

  The door closes cutting off my last link with home, leaving me in the cool Adirondack evening. My last sight of the bus is Vera wildly waving good bye from the window.

  In the west the setting sun outlines the pines behind the town hall in streaks of orange and pink. Shading my eyes against the glare, I look around the parking lot for my ride to camp and stop dead in my tracks…..it can’t be?

  Chapter 2 Summer Friends Placing my belongings on the blacktop, I stop and stare, shaking my head in disbelief. Am I hallucinating? The man striding toward me could pass for Vera Watts’s twin brother…. minus the mole. How is this

  possible…did they leave her behind…. did she mutate into a man? Oh shit….

  “Ellen, come over here.” The man gestures for me to join the group of teenagers lounging against a van in various states of boredom. I say a quick prayer, please tell me they missed my grand exit from the bus,

  unfortunately it looks like they had…nothing…else…to do.

  “I’m Morris Erhart, Director of Camp High Point ; we spoke on the phone last April for the interview. Welcome to the Adirondacks.” Rocking back on the worn heels of his cowboy boots he continues, “You can call me, Morris, unless my wife is around, then it’s Mr. Erhart. She likes a little respect between staff and management, but for me, I’m more of a down to earth kind of cowpoke.” Morris Erhart is a large man weighing at least 270 pounds with a broad face, dark brown eyes that tend to vanish into the little folds of fat surrounding his eyes when he smiles. Faded blue jeans are held in place by a turquoise belt buckle and his plaid cowboy shirt strains against a spreading paunch. Atop his head is an honest to goodness Stetson cowboy hat. Not exactly attire for a mountain man. Vera Watts gone Texas style?

  According to the camp information Morris sent me, the Erhart family was originally from Texas and involved in the oil industry. His grandfather fell in love with the Adirondacks while on a business trip to New York in the 1920’s, and purchased a mountain retreat for his family to escape the dust and heat of Texas summers. Due to economic reasons in the 1950’s the family converted their vacation property into a summer camp for children. Morris and his wife are the second generation of Erharts to manage the camp.

  “ Ellen, you’re the last to arrive but before we pack up and head to camp, let me introduce you to some of the other counselors you’ll be working with this summer.” Morris rubs his hands together and continues, “Let me see if I have all the names and faces straight.” He glances around at the group, tapping a finger against his cheek. “Once we get you buckaroos introduced, we can hit the road and head back to camp.”

  I notice a dark lanky k
id leaning against the van roll his eyes skyward and silently agree with him. Buckaroos, seriously? This could be a long summer.

  “This here tall fellow is Mac Luciano.” Morris says. “He’ll be the assistant director of sports this summer. Mac plays varsity baseball and even had a few college scouts check him out this spring.” Mac is over six feet tall with straight brown hair that falls over his eyes, as if he were trying to hide something. He’d be good looking except for his large nose and acne marked face. As he throws a baseball back and forth, I can’t help but notice he’s missing half of the pinkie finger on his right hand. He stops throwing the ball and extends his hand to me, challenging me to touch his damaged finger. Little does he realize, I’ve grown up with two younger brothers who’s sole purpose in life is to gross me out. I reach out and firmly shake his hand, our eyes meet and I return the challenge…it takes more than a missing pinkie to faze me, buddy.

  “Hey,” he says, and with a mischievous grin, he leans in and whispers, “Fall much?”

  Crap…..so much for no one noticing my exit from the bus.

  Ignoring Mac, I turn my attention to Morris who is introducing a kid wearing a tweed blazer adorned with suede elbow patches over a white t-shirt, the cuff of his blue jeans are shoved into unlaced hiking boots. His blond hair is long enough to run a comb through, but considered short in this era of the long haired hippy. Looking at him, you can’t tell if he wants to be a Harvard law professor or a farmer.

  “Ellen, this is Ben Harmon,” Morris points to Ben who is straddling a suitcase and strumming a beat-up guitar. “Ben will be in charge of creating the props and scenery used in our theater productions and bringing out the musical talents of our campers.” Shorter than Mac, Ben is solidly built with a ruddy Irish face. I feel his keen, green eyes surveying every detail of my appearance, but in a nice way. His scrutiny is more curious than malicious.