Yeehaw!

The early morning fire redeemed my rotten night’s sleep. Virginia had rolled around all night in the tent, cried every hour to be fed. A tree had fallen and crashed in the creek not ten feet from us. And college students at the site next-door had stayed up until two, in deep (and loud) discussion on manslaughter versus murder.

“You can lie to me,” one student, a chubby, curly-haired boy pretending to be prosecutor, had proclaimed. “But you can’t lie to God.”

Now I lay in the tent alone, head sunk into my pillow. Outside I heard Virginia coo and Levi say, “Help you, Daddy. Daddy, help you.” Then I heard wood shift and I smelled the fire–the rich warming flames. “Hurray!” Levi said. “Levi help Daddy make fire!”

I lifted my eyelids, heavy as mountains. I looked out the mesh window of our tent. The sun was just coming up, cresting over the dark green ridge running along Abram’s Creek. It was Saturday, the best day of all, the day of freedom true. I pulled on a light sweatshirt and crawled out of the tent. “Momma wake up!” Levi said, his voice bright as the day. Virginia smiled big and kicked the air, making her bouncy seat seesaw, when she saw me. “Momma!” Levi ran over and grabbed my hand. “Look! Levi make fire, yeah!”

“Thanks for taking over with the kids this morning,” I said to Caleb. He stood by the cooler pouring milk from a water bottle into Levi’s sippy cup. “Last night was rough.”

Caleb nodded, sipped some milk from Levi’s orange cup. “Anything for you, my love.”

I sat in my red camp chair, a rocker, and nursed squirmy Virginia. She would not settle, distracted by centipedes and daddy long legs skittering down the dirt. Her gaze turned to the fire then to the rising trees. Smoke sailed to the trees. The sun touched the smoke, making it shine from between branches like a shattered spotlight. “I love the way that looks,” said Caleb about the smoke. “The streaming showers of light.” He unfolded the camp grill, rolled sausage links onto a pan. I strapped Virginia back in her bouncy seat, whipped up pancake mix at our picnic table then made instant coffee. Levi poured the creamer into my steaming cup. More creamer landed on the table than in my coffee. “I sorry, Momma. Levi sorry.” His voice was soft and sad. I stroked his small shoulder. “In this family, bud, we don’t cry over spilled milk.”

I took Levi to the creek after breakfast. Caleb, reclined in his lounge chair reading Bugs, Beetles, Spiders, & Snakes, watched over the napping Virginia. A well-worn dirt path led from our site to the water. Mountain Laurel reflected in the clear shallow creek. We waded in barefoot, atop a smooth bed of stones. We skipped a thousand stones (well, Levi just threw his in), and counted the rings left by the rocks. The creek was quiet and slow. Water spiders dotted it like rain. A breeze came through and wrinkled the flat water. “Snake!” yelled Levi. He pointed and jumped. The snake traveled up the other side of the creek, twirling through the water like ribbon. Having heard Levi, Caleb got out his binoculars. He watched the snake a minute then flipped some pages in his book. “Round head, round pupils,” he called, taking a second look through the binoculars. “Looks like cottonmouth, but just a common water snake.”

Minnows nipped my feet. They glinted in the sun like tinfoil. A dragonfly bounced up and down on the creek, hunting the dancing water spiders. Upstream a girl and two boys (siblings I presumed) splashed and roughhoused in inner tubes. They were having so much fun I couldn’t help but smile. “That’ll be you and Virginia one day.”

“Mm hmm,” Levi said, as sure of this as me. And then, “Momma, Levi gotta poo poo.”

The bathhouse was dark and dank. The red-tile floor was slippery with mud. We entered the handicap stall and Levi did his business, which was cute and funny to watch because it looked like the toilet would swallow him whole. Levi flushed, his favorite part, then we went to the sink to wash hands. Right before I picked Levi up for him to reach the faucet he screamed. He jumped impressively high, clung to me like a frightened cat. “What is it, bud? What?”

“Bug. Big, big bug.” The toddler was near tears.

I looked at the base of the sink. There in a shadowy hole in the cinderblock wall crouched a silent black cricket.

“That is a big bug,” I said. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Back at our site Caleb was lying in the tent next to Virginia. She’d awoken and Caleb was nibbling her fingers and toes, making her laugh. Her whole face beamed with joy, her eyes bright and squinty like upside down crescent moons. Levi hopped in with them, ran in small wild circles, screamed like a maniac, and summersaulted atop the sleeping pads. “He gets too crazy in the tent,” I said, although I loved watching him play. “Why don’t we go for a walk?”

Black eyed Susans lined the gravel road stretching along the creek. Levi stopped to pick one. “Here, Momma,” he said, handing the yellow flower up. “Thank you, buddy. What a beautiful gift.” I put the flower behind my ear, kissed Levi on his cheek. “Levi pick Momma flower, yeah!” And you know something? Pride beautifully suits the young child who sees he’s done something good.

Soon we came upon a pasture of grazing horses. Virginia, strapped against my front in the gray baby carrier, screeched with excitement. “Oh, big horse!” said Levi. “That big and strong like Daddy!”

“Thank you, sonny,” said Caleb, wearing in his expression Levi’s style of pride.

The horse owners, a family of five, sat at a lone picnic table eating lunch. They waved to us as we walked by; the dad called out, “Yeehaw!”

“Yeehaw!” Levi replied. It was a new word for him. A word he took to instantly. One he said again and again for the rest of the day.