There are so many obligations in my hectic life right now: working a full-time job, attending three classes this semester, a brand-new home, one step-daughter in college and the other ready to leave for the Air Force before Thanksgiving. There are times when I allow the dizzying pace of my life to steal away my good sense, so I dream of a place of my youth where my family and I camped. I was free to run through the woods and release the anxiety of the week. Whenever I need to escape my reality, I drift away to my years at Lincoln Trail State Park in Marshall, IL.
The 90-mile venture from our home to the park always felt like an eternity. The anxiety and anticipation of our arrival would build as we left behind the frantic pace of the city. It did not seem to matter that all eight kids were squeezed in the back of my father’s pick-up truck like a can of neatly packed sardines. Once the sweet smell of fresh country air filled our nostrils, the energy level expanded like a balloon being filled with helium. We knew that it would not be long before we could escape all that bound our young, carefree bodies.
The excitement reached a feverish pitch as we finally turned right off Route 1 into the park. The winding gravel road
always looked like it was carved out of the surrounding wheat fields. I remember feeling like we were driving across the ocean as the top of the fields swayed in unison like waves rippling across an open sea. The site of Mr. Cooper’s farm always brought me back to reality, especially when we passed the plot where his faithful wife of 65 years laid to rest peacefully amongst the wild flowers.
The first left turn took us into the forest, and our trailer would roll over the double hills. The tickle that I would feel in my tummy reminded me of a rickety old wooden roller coaster laboring around its’ trestle track. The overhanging branches from the tall ranging trees shaded the windy road from the heat of the sun. The crisp fresh air would blow through the windows of the truck, and I remember an immediate rush as goose bumps would form on my arms and legs. Our final left turn brought us to the circle drive that encompassed our weekend retreat. My father would pull past the gravel trailer pad that he would carefully back the trailer. I still chuckle as I can imagine how the other campers viewed eight children piling out of the back of the truck. It must have looked like circus clowns piling out of little mini cars at a three-ring circus.
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