This past week my Aunt Zoann, my father’s older sister of two years, passed away at the age of 83.  As I reflect on her life, it brings back a flood of memories of my youth.  I spent a lot of time at her house playing with my cousins.  

They lived up on the hill just east of Iona, Idaho.  I couldn’t count the number of times I rode my bike up and down that hill.  My brother, Doug, and I learned at an early age to pull the wheels off our bikes and to pack grease into the bearings so that we could gain more speed coming down that hill.  It was all about speed.  We would pedal as fast as we could, to the point that ours legs could go no faster and then we would coast down the hill.  No helmets, just our shoes (sometimes) and a pair of shorts and speed.  I remember one time Brad (one of the twins just older than me) was in the lead, he having gained the most speed,  hit a rock in the middle of the road and it threw him off his bike, over the handle bars and face first into the pavement.  I thought it had killed him.  It did knock him out cold.  One of the neighbors called Zoann and she came and took him to their house.  I remember us kids going back up to the house and waiting to see if he lived or died.  It was kind of traumatic on us.  He did eventually come to and had very little recollection of what actually happened.

Doug and I spent a lot of time wandering in those hills.   During the summer we rode our bikes up, down and around.  During the winter we took our snowmobiles and would ride all day in the back country.  We would go until the gas tank was at half and then start back.  Though, I didn’t like that cold much, we went everywhere.  We would chase any and all animals we saw. Again, as with the bikes, speed was the name of the game.  I remember coming down a long straight hill, going as fast as I could and looking at the speedometer pointing at 70 mph.  We were invincible.

For the 4th of July celebration, as a family we would go to Zoann’s house and watch the fire works in the valley.  Along with that we would set off our own fireworks that we had purchased in Wyoming.  We had a lot of Black Cat fire crackers that did a lot of damage in the ant hills.  But, the best were the cherry bombs and the m80s.  The noise and holes these items would create were astonishing.  Oh, the joy of boys blowing things up, there is no equal.  I remember some boys had created a pipe gun and would put a fire cracker in one end and a crab apple in the other and use their pipe gun to shoot other kids.  I am a personal witness that a crab apple does hurt when it hits you from that type of weapon.

The Simmons family own a farm where they grew wheat.  Every year at harvest time my Dad would take time off work and help them haul grain.  My bother and I, from the time we were very young, would go with Dad and take part in the harvest.  He was known for being able to pull the truck under a combine, load with grain and then while waiting for the next combine, change a diaper.  Doug and I loved being there with Dad.  I was always fascinated by the combines and how they worked.  So I would ride with Gary Simmons and learn all the controls.  I would watch as the grain would be cut into the head and pulled into the thrasher and then see the grain dump into the bin.  Then the truck would pull along side the combine and it would empty out of the bin into the truck.  The whole process never ceased to amaze me.  This went on all day.  All the noise, the thrashing of the grain and the dirt and chaff.  Once the truck Dad was driving was loaded with grain, we would then drive to the valley and unload into the granary.  Doug and I would get in the back of the truck and ride to the valley on the top of the grain.  The wind in our face and the freedom of almost flying down the road.  I can only imagine what my mother thought as she saw us walk through the door in the evening and then see heavy dirt ring left in the tub after our bath.    But, maybe a little dirt in the evening was worth a day of not having to chase two small boys around the house and neighborhood.  The peace during the day would have been like a vacation and worth having to clean the tub.

I have to tell you that my years as a youth were fantastic.  We played, we worked, we wandered and just enjoyed all there was to do in a small farming town in Idaho.

As, I remember a few of the many things that were part of my youth, I realize how time passes.  My memories are not the same as those of my children or my grand children.  Nor are they the same as my father or his father.  Each and every memory will create who we are.  I also realize how important writing down these memories can be, though you may think them insignificant, the future generations will find them of value and interest.  I have often said to myself that I have nothing of interest in my life.  But as I reflect, I realize that my life is of interest to me and that is enough.  I write because I like what I do and I like what I see and mostly I like who I am, not perfect, but me.

My history becomes interesting, because I think it is interesting.  It is me and I have good within me.  Understanding who I am and the difference I have made in my life and that of my children is a great thing.  Understanding our parents’ experiences, helps us to understand who we are and why we are.   Time waits for no one.  We cannot stop or inhibit its passage.  What we have is the memories that come with the passage of time.  The birth, the joy, the pain, the growth and the death.  After all is said and done, what we leave behind are those memories we created for those that will follow.  What better way to leave a legacy, than writing our life history and leaving it for those we love.