chapter Eight

Timbre—Colors of Love

Before I go on, I must tell the story of the 79 Ford Festia. It was the first near new car that Mary’s had purchased on her own. It was a cute little thing, and in a day when gas was equivalent to about four dollars a gallon today, she had made a good choice. It was the little red car that could and it got at least thirty miles to the gallon. She was quite pleased that she only had a year before she would pay it off and then it would be hers, free and clear.

The sad part was the paint. Already, just two years into the aging process the car looked like it was old. It wasn’t chipped or dinged much, just flat; dull and lifeless. One evening I was teasing her; she ought to rub a little luster back into its lifeless look. In Mary’s innocence’s she claimed she had washed the car when it was needed but had never understood the call for to wax. Anyone younger than about forty has probably never waxed a car for the reason car wax was first invented. The reason behind that assumption is that automotive paints beginning in the early eighties changed from acrylics to urethanes. The monthly ritual of car wax became a thing of the past.

Perhaps a brief understanding of the language of love might be helpful before I continue. Me; I demonstrate love by service. It’s hardwired into me somehow and I’ve never become very efficient in the other languages. Mary on the other hand likes thoughtful little gifts as one of the ways she hears recognizes my love. The album, card and yellow rose that I had covertly placed in her car had made a big impression. But I thought I was about to deliver the mother of all tokens of our growing friendship.

One evening, prior to Mary’s trip to Zions Park, we thought it might be nice to buff her car. We went to my shop and began working together to give the car some luster. As we worked I realized we were only making a temporary fix and got the brilliant idea we should just apply a new urethane clear coat that would be a permanent fix. Mary was anxious to help and insisted on diving right in. I gave her some very fine sandpaper and detailed instructions to help her avoid sanding through the paint into the primer. Five minutes into our procedure Mary polished the paint to the bare metal. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and really didn’t want to repaint the entire car so we decided a gold pinstripe might be nice. I did the rest of the sanding, after I gave Mary a ride home.

The balance of the night was spent taping windows and bumpers, and preparing the little red car for a face lift. By morning the car shone as bright as the cute little owner that drove it. I picked Mary up early, drove her back to the shop, and delivered the car. She was delighted. Its new luster had a tinge of gold pearl that gleamed in the rays of the sun, but still seemed pail to the shining face of its owner.

July 17, 2010

We just returned from our first colorful excursion in the Seabreeze. We started a little late last night. Mary had picked up a half a shift for someone at work who had been ‘desperate’ and returned home about a quarter to seven. Austin was the last one to arrive at seven thirty. He had the pizza, so it wasn’t optional to leave him behind. Daniel was ahead of us in his new; previously owned Toyota 4-Runner.

American Fork Canyon was our destination, close, convenient, and familiar. We had planned on finding a nice secluded spot near the river, to build a campfire, sit in the cool night air, roast some marshmallows, and make Somores. Right! I haven’t been up the canyon on a Friday night lately. Wall to wall cars, dist a half inch thick on everything, every campground full to the brim, and we’re in a 32 foot motor home.

Kinley had been our local Betty Crocker from the moment she woke until the moment we pulled from the curb. She had been busy packing everything we needed or might need on our simple overnight excursion. For example; she had packed her suitcase with two weeks of clothing and had filled the cupboards with nearly 20 pounds of dog food, in gallon size zip lock bags, for Slim. He needs about a cup of dog food a day. We had full packages of Q-tips opened and scattered on the floor, enough books to fill a library bookshelf—so “we could read on our trip together”—and Kinley had gotten online and had thoughtfully printed a map and brochure of the ‘Skyway Camping Resort, only 2 hours away from New Your City.’ If there was ever a possibility of anyone else with the sweet purity of Kinley in this world, who enjoys the simple pleasures of life like she does, their family would be blessed as ours has been blessed.

By about four-o-clock in the afternoon, and with a little patience, I began to write lists for Kinley to work on, all in the final preparation for our trip. She packed hoses around the house and filled the water tank, loaded food in the fridge, gathered toilet paper and paper towels. Single handedly, she nearly packed everything we needed for the trip.

I think the ambient temperature yesterday was near 100 degrees. The motor home was 120 degrees before I started the generator and air conditioning at about ten to seven in preparation to leave. It cooled to at least 105 by the time we piled in to hit the road. Ken, Mary, Austin, Kayshia, Kinley, and yes two dogs—Slim and Kayla. Some people love dogs. I used to be one of those people. My love of dogs went away when the term went from dog to dogs, dog hair, dogs in the house, licking, poop on the carpet, barking, dogs in beds, children fighting over who gets the dog tonight, six hundred dollar vet bills—because the dog ate a fish hook—nasty letters from neighbors, poop on the lawn, holes in the grass, dead baby ducks—I could go on for at least another page but I won’t. I ‘love’ the dogs, because my wife and children love them. Someday the children will be gone and then the dogs will only visit.

By the time we pulled off the freeway we had cooled to a mild 95 degrees. Both dogs were wedged into the space between Mary’s knees and the dashboard—or on her lap with there wet noses and panting tongues pressed indiscriminately against the window. Did I mention dog saliva on my pants, arms and windows is one of my favorite things?

Cars and SUV’s were backed up a hundred yards, waiting to pay the six dollar fee at the US Forest Service toll booth when we arrived. I guess our first hint of trouble should have been the “All Campgrounds Full” sign that hung from the booth. No worries; we had everything we needed right there in the motor home. The second sign of trouble was, “No Camping Outside of Designated Campgrounds.” The real problems started when it appeared like we would need to find a place to turn the thirty-two foot monster around on the one lane dirt road with the river on one side and the shear mountain wall on the other.

Daniel lit out ahead to try to find a spot near Granit Flat. After our eighteen point turn and a trip part way back down the rough dirt road, we waited at the Tibble Fork turnoff toward Granit Flat. At last Daniel’s return gave a glimmer of hope that we might find a single parking spot in the upper campground. Dusk had turned to darkness as we lumbered up the mountain road. Winding curves, kids on four wheelers, motorcycles, and narrow patches made the short drive into a white knuckle ordeal.

After realizing the campground was no better than the Wal-Mart parking lot, and after another eighteen point turn, we were pointed back down the canyon with the church parking lot in mind. It was the turn off to the equestrian parking area that turned us from the main road. The signs that said, “No Over Night Parking,” and “Equestrian Parking Only” were of little deterrent. Nether the signs or the piles of horse manure stopped us from setting up camp in the only semi-secluded spot on the mountain. There were no marshmallows, soothing sounds of the river passing by, no campfires, cool night breezes and staring up at the stars, and no Somores. It seemed a little fruitless.

I suppose it was that one single hour before bed that really counted. We were gathered around, yawning and joking; that now that we had arrived, it was time for bed. It was Kayshia that pulled out the Apples to Apples game. There we were laughing and teasing, winning and losing, but mostly; doing what families are designed to do best, sharing the strength of our roots with each other as we prepared to enter a new season in the never-ending unexpected changes of life.

I lay on the small hard bed in the back of the motor home knowing that with the anxious dogs sharing floor space, the smell of the hot generator and horse manure wafting through the open windows, and the constant movement from the five bodies all jammed into the same space with the paper thin walls, it would be a very restless nights sleep. Mary climbed from her knees and rolled under the sheet. She reached over and lovingly rubbed her hand across my chest and said, “Thank you dear, this is exactly what I needed.”