The mountain...
Those who aren't in the know, the mountain is both a place and a frame of mind. As you can see from Jack and his Nana, THIS IS THE MOUNTAIN.
Lets go back.
The way I understand it, my Grandfather, his brother in laws after world war II came home and somehow acquired this patch of land in bear creek. Not on a lake, not ON a mountain, no significant patch of beauty, but a piece of land that they decided to turn into a haven.
They built four homes. All the homes each belonging to one of the Burke sisters. and their families. The fourth belonged to my Grandfathers sister and her husband. Adeline and Bud.
So these men, hand built these homes. Pieces from other houses torn down, scavenged tubs, windows, sinks, to create... Our mountain.
I rememebre as a young child spending my summers there. Our house, was Adeline and Buds house. My Mom and Dad purchased it from them in 1966 when Adeline and Bud bought a bigger house right on the lake. These were summers when I would walk in the woods, not too far, but far enough. My brothers were mountain rats. Wandering, building, exploring. I was the only girl on the mountain so I made my own fun. I did alot of mud projects. On a lazy susan my Mom still has. Id plop some mud on it and spin it and form that mud into a pot, bowl, vase.
Wait for it to dry and fall apart.
It was only mud you know.
I remember laying around alot. In the grass, in the fern, on the big rock, in the lake.
In the hammock, on the swing, on the couch with my nana to watch the 4 o clock movie with bowling for dollars.
My Aunt Betty was right behind us in her house. I would eat fruit with her and read all of her Enquirer, and star magazines. She always smelled like fresh picked tomatoes. She loved to garden and her garden was perfectly maintained.
After my summer garden I realize the work that went into it.
After the pool went up our summers were working mornings, and afternoons of swimming.
I remember crock pots always simmering, electric frying pans at the ready for when the men got home. But the afternoons, surely were ours.
We floated, and doggy paddled around the pool. Again it was me and the women. The boys were adventuring down the lehigh in canoes and camping, and causing some kind of ruckus somewhere.
The mountain of today is not the same as it was back then.
Only two of the homes are still in the family.
Cathy and ours.
Labor day weekend was always a long, long long, party!!
The "grownups" would party as if it were the last of days. Lots of card playing, song singing and crazy antics.
As we sat at the fire this year. over 60 years since the houses were originaly built, we were fortunate enought to be able to listen the our long lost family members. We heard them chatting around the fire Labor day 1973. Nana, Pop Joe, Aunt Betty, Aunt Adeline Tommy robinson, Aunt Ruth. They were all there.
My Dad. Telling the first ever Pocachino. Pocachino is his creation story about an indian family that lived in these woods.
Pocachino and his not so honest brother Comeasyouare Quick.
The story goes that they were to fight to the death to see who would be the leader of the tribe.
Pocachino being a good hearted and honest brave, came to the fight alone. Comeasyouare Quick came with other braves who murdered Pocachino and Lopped off his head and threw it somewhere in these woods.
Pocachino wanders these woods at night looking for his head so he can take revenge on his brother.
Every year the story would change... abit.
Become more elaborate, then less elaborate.
But every year it was anticipated with excitement.
To hear Dads voice, telling the story, as he made it up on the spot that night.
Is monumental. Jack sat by the fire, listening to the Pop he never knew tell him a story. Jack looked around the fire at all the people, listening intently to the people that listened thirty years ago, myself included a seven year old lispy Suzie, I was transported to a new place.
In the zone of then and now.
My son, myself.
My dead Father,
Jacks storytelling exciting cool Pop.
My Nana gone, 20 years, Jacks Nana, sitting next to him holding his knee.
The crickets of today and the crickets that were 40 years ago, sound exactly the same, in orchestra.
The spirits that were stirred the other night with the voices coming back from so far away.
Floating and mixing with the voices of today.
We sang Happy Birthday to Cathy, in unison, 40 years later. her 60th birthday, and her 20th. Her parents, grandparents, aunts uncles, and today her children grnadchildren.
It was a beautiful thing.
Amazing, spiritual. Affirming.
I have been loved every minute of my life. These people , my family were loved and continue to be loved every minute of their life and beyond.
40 years later. 100 years later.
The houses may turn to dust.
Pocachino, a whisper of an old story someone once told.
But for that moment in time we were all together again.
Just like heaven. We will all be together again. I am grateful,
I am humbled, I am hopeful.
Love to all.
And never forget.
"The yellow feather is your reminder that being a good person, and doing the right thing will keep you safe for another year, Pocachino will continue to wander these hills looking for his head..."
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