Musings on The Best it Actually Gets

We rode the last five miles of the trip at no more than 7 miles per hour. So many rocks hit the bottom of the car, we forgot that modern rides were supposed to be fairly quiet and bump free. Not only did we have the noise and jolting to adjust to, we had to fight the rising heat that steamed its way into the cab all the way from Dallas, and it had pretty much worn us completely out. For my parents, especially my dad, this was the ultimate. This is where they wanted to be: Camden. We children, my two brothers and I, preferred the comfort of the city, where we could see Bozo at 3 o'clock. Camden was the country. And really, we were not quite in Camden. Camden was in town. The farm was decidedly out of town.

We had left the main highway about 10 miles and an hour earlier. In 1977, the last portion of the road to the farm was still made of red clay and rocks. Once we got off the main highway, which had taken us first through Hope, then the small Arkansas town of Camden, we turned off onto a smaller, rougher road that was more conducive to motor vehicles than the last rocky portion on which my dad had to drive so slowly. Once off the main road, all we saw were trees: Pine, Magnolia, Sassafras, Black Tupelo, and maybe even a Dogwood here and there. They lined both sides of the road and hung over to where we could grab them as the car brushed and bumped its way along the backwoods way. Everything I saw exploded with an unbelievable green--the kind of green I missed in Southern California, where the sky is lined with flat, tea brown, hoe-hum hills. I would often stare at the green trees and try to somehow save them for later. Maybe I could summon their lushness at some perfect time, after I returned home stuck with my dry desert Southern California landscapes (It would be a very long time before I appreciated them). That slightly thick viscous Arkansas green would forever ease my disposition, especially during times of tightness and worry.

We had been to the farm many times. It was almost always summer and almost always hot. As we wound the last bend in the road that opened onto the clearing, I knew not that this would be the visit above all others; the one by which I measure all childish and adult pleasures. This visit alone and forever would shape my understanding of Joy.

It must have been 85 degrees; set aside the relative humidity, which usually hovered around 80 percent. The sun shone hot but hazy, then ducked as we approached the house which sat at the end of the slow, pink, clay road that had led us through the silent southern Arkansas wood. The house opened itself up as we cracked our teeth and circled the garden that welcomed us to the homestead.

Grandmother's flower garden reached its peak at the end of June, way before the dirt got too hard and the rain man got too shy and bashful. She never let anyone down: black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne's Lace, Pale Purple Coneflower, and a little Showy Evening Primrose to top everything off. To the right of her flower garden lay her vegetable garden: perfect rows of collards, turnips, cucumbers, tomatoes, green beans, white corn, and watermelon! Oh heaven, wait a minute. We jumped out of the car, dusted ourselves off, and put our heads down looking at the ground faining sheepishness, holding out our hands to hug Grandmother and Granddad.

"Oh, how these chillren' 'dun growed!" They both would say. After hugs and cheek squeezes, "Y'all come on in and get something to eat. Know y'all tied. The chillren gone have to come back out and see what we got fo' 'em."

We went into the house after stepping through the screened porch, set up just for days like this. Folks could gather in the day, away from the flies and mosquitoes. They could just sit and talk 'bout Ms. Lena (now 98 years old, and still sewing, then selling quilts) , or the latest situation with the well water or the phone line shared by every family within 15 miles. We'd carry our bags to one of the bedrooms, the smell of sweetbutter and mothballs hanging in the air. There were three bedrooms, but no one but Grandmother and Granddad slept in any of the beds regularly. Sleep was monumental for us on the farm because we knew we had to go in early and wake up early. First, however, we would get to collapse into the cool, white sheets and down pillows and mattresses. We tucked our bags away amid the dark walnut appointments.

"Y'all Chillren go on out in the side yard," Grandmother said. And we took her command out into the yard next to the chicken coup. Next to the chicken coup, we saw a row of 5 tall, raw wooden crates, enclosed by chicken wire. Each box had a little wooden door with a knob. "Go 'head,'' She said from the back door. We, my two brothers and myself, with much negotiation, opened one box, stuck in our hands, and pulled out a gargantuan, black, floppy eared rabbit! Oh what delight! Not only was there one in that box, but every box had a floppy eared rabbit! There were more of them than there were of us. We took out three and plopped them onto the patch of grass that encircled the rabbit pens. Grandmother told us we could play with the rabbits all day if we wanted. We could even go get a little rope to walk one around. That we did.

We walked the rabbits around the entire farm, I with the big black floppy eared rabbit. Both my brothers had two white floppy eared rabbits. We walked until we ended up in the grove lined with rows of plum trees. Succulent, fat, and purple plums fell right into our hands as we played into the approaching cool of evening. On that day those rabbits played every role possible for a human to take on in scenario after scenario predominantly inspired by 70s TV.

Once the sun went down, we set a bath in the tub in the yard and filled it with water from the well. That was the best bath I ever took. And I think the most fun I ever had in one day.

We collapsed to sleep that night, not knowing that Granddad would soon not be able to see at all and that grandmother would be alone on the farm for too many years before she passed. But what gladness I took from that visit. In my life I have known ecstasy but a bit, but this one unequalled day, I know as It.