Going Back to Oak Creek

In honor of the trip Joe and I are getting ready to embark upon, I decided to re-visit the story I wrote about going to Oak Creek with mama - the only time I went there with her other than when we all went for her funeral.  I think I had to do some editing for publication in Arizona Highways but this is the original version.  Oak Creek will always be a sacred place for me.

I always knew about Oak Creek, where my mother spent her summers as a child and where she took my daddy just after she married him, before he, in turn took her east to start their life in Georgia.  For me, it has a mysterious, almost mythical allure.  Of course, I knew only what I had heard from Mama and what I had seen in the sepia-tones photos stored in our attic.

In my mind, I saw Oak Creek as being from another time, a time when the west was still wild, a time when a little girl could grow up hunting, fishing and camping – real camping, not Winnebago camping.  For me, a product of the 1950s, a child of the South, Mama’s stories of staying at Oak Creek in the 1930s and ‘40s were as foreign as if she had been raised by wolves. Perhaps she was.  It could happen at Oak Creek.

It wan not until years later that I, as the mother of a daughter myself, yet still a daughter to my own mother, made the trip to the place that was so much a part of me, even though I had never been there.  Three generations of females flew west from Atlanta in the spring of 1998.  Mama, my 13-year-old daughter, Molly, and I all had different agendas.  My mother wanted what might very well be her last visit to her home state, and I longed to know more about her early life.  I wanted to find myself somewhere in her beginnings, to know the “Arizona part” of me.  Molly came only because I wouldn’t let her stay home with her friends, even though she thought she was old enough.

The three of us traversed the circuit of my mother’s childhood, starting with Prescott, where she was born.  Her family’s Victorian house still stands, now listed on the historic register, but in tawdry disrepair.

Next we went to Flagstaff and visited the University of Northern Arizona, where Mama earned her teaching degree.  As we neared Oak Creek, our anticipation became palpable, at least for my mother and me.  Molly was busy experimenting with different makeup looks in the back seat of the rental car, a Walkman firmly affixed to her ears.

Mama had saved the best for last.  We were to stay in a motel on the edge of the enigmatic Oak Creek and would visit Sedona and take a day trip to Jerome, the played-out mining town where she had grown up, living on that portion of the mountain known as Cleopatra Hill.  Throughout the week, as we took in the sights and mused over almost forgotten memories, Mama kept saying, “I just hope we can find where the Oak Creek cabin used to be.  That’s what I want to see most.”  I hoped so, too, mostly for her, but also for me.

The Oak Creek of Mama’s childhood was very different from today’s vacation and retirement mecca of Sedona.  In the old days, it was a place of hardy locals mixed with folks, like my grandparents, who camped and built summer cabins on the edge of the creek, within view of the majestic red rocks.  It seemed the place that defined her most.  She and her daddy had helped to build their cabin on a site so pristine and beautiful, so geographically and aesthetically desirable that few could afford it today.

Mama knew the cabin had been torn down and the land returned to the state at the end of a 99-year lease, but she hoped for some sign that her life there had really happened, perhaps some proof for me.

Descending the winding road from Flagstaff, I thought this had to be the most beautiful place in the world, this land of Oak Creek.  Mama couldn’t seem to take it all in.  She kept craning her neck, looking for the place where the cabin had stood. “Maybe this is it.  No, it doesn’t look right.”  Small access roads, leading toward the creek, all looked the same to me.  For her, it had just been too long and things had changed so much.  No doubt some of Mama’s memories had been distorted by time.  We stopped and asked, but no one could help us.  The old-timers were gone.

The next day we stopped in Clarkdale for lunch and then headed up the mountain that was, and still is, Jerome.  I saw the “J” at the top.  Mama had told me how painting the inscription had been a high-school freshman class rite of passage.  As I peered over the dash at the steep climb up to town, I remembered why Mama never learned to ride a bike as a child, finally mastering it as an adult in the flat marshlands of South Georgia.  Bike-riding in Jerome was dangerous, if not impossible.  After attempting to park the rental car on a downhill slant and close its door without losing my footing, I understood.

Mama’s daddy had been the city attorney in Jerome before moving to Phoenix to become an assistant state attorney general.  I recalled the story of the jailhouse sliding down the mountain and remembered how I had surmised in my egocentric child-mind that my granddaddy probably had some “worthless varmints” incarcerated in the jail as it made its way to its new address.  Learning in later life that my grandparents had already moved when the jailhouse made its way down Cleopatra Hill was a little disappointing, so I chose to remember it the other way.  I also, as a little girl, possessed some primal narcissistic sense that Jerome’s slow descent down the mountain and its ultimate decline in population had to be connected in some way to my grandfather’s ascent up the ladder of success elsewhere.  My family’s moving on had to have been the last straw, an abandonment with which the town just couldn’t cope.

I found Jerome to be interesting, yet felt sad that it had changed so much since my mother’s day.  I was glad that the artists had utilized its charm, but couldn’t get past how difficult it would be to live in Jerome, forever canting one way or another, afraid of losing one’s grip, not only on reality but also on the Earth itself.  I can see why Mama holds on so tightly to life and why Oak Creek became such a compelling resting place for her.

On our last morning, we awoke to a light snowfall.  Although it was pretty and its arrival in mid-April a novelty to us Southern marsh hens, it also hinted at a disappointing final search for the bygone cabin at Oak Creek.  I worried that the drive back to Phoenix would be difficult in the snow.  Molly was having trouble with her lip liner.  Mama asked that we look one last time.

Turning back toward Flagstaff, I feared that Mama would be terribly disappointed if we couldn’t locate the site.  All I could see was snow, and driving in this kind of weather makes me tense.  About a mile up from the motel, Mama pointed to a side road, more like a driveway.  This was one of the places we looked earlier, one of the many that seemed almost right, but not quite.

We pulled over and got out of the car.  I envisioned broken hips from falling in the snow and wondered how difficult it would be to get an ambulance up this slippery road.  My mother carefully made her way over to a fence.  “This has to be it.  I just wish I could get closer.”

As she and I gazed forlornly over the frustrating barrier, trying to see what might have been vestiges of the cabin, Molly unfolded from the back seat and out of her adolescent self long enough to check a spot where the fence had collapsed.  “Why don’t we just try that hole in the fence over there?”

It took just seconds to mull the repercussions of trespassing on state land and then for all of us to transcend the broken-down fence to Mama’s childhood – and my Arizona roots.

As soon as she reached the concrete slab just a few feet from sparkling Oak Creek, Mama knew she was home.  Her faced wreathed in smiles, she cried, “This was the cabin’s foundation!  This was the terrace!”  It even looked right to me.  It looked like the photographs from the attic.  All the tableau needed was for my grandmother and my grandfather and my honeymooning father to join my mother in repose as they had in those pictures taken so long ago.

From there, we walked over to the waterwheel my mother and grandfather had built to generate electricity for the cabin.  That’s when I knew, for sure, we were in the right place. I had heard about that waterwheel my entire life.  It was surreal, actually being there, really touching it.  Mama was surprised it had survived nearly 60 years, as the snow’s melting each spring had continually kept if flooded and in disrepair.  When I saw it still standing, it seemed to me that its real purpose may not have been so much pragmatic as commemorative.  We had found evidence that my mother’s Oak Creek was more than just a place in time.  Oak Creek was basic to the woman she had become, the woman who loved my daddy and who bore my brother and me in a very different place and time.

Just before leaving, Mama pointed out the cliff cave on the other side of the creek that she, at 13, used as a refuge from a mother and father who simply didn’t understand, just as Molly’s parents currently didn’t.  With that comparison, it became clear to me that the beat of my mother’s heart and the essence of what it takes to be a woman reverberated from her, through me, to Molly, and would most likely endure through other generations.

Mama fishing

 Dadding and Daddy

Mama, Dadding, and Daddy

Mammo and Mama

Going back to Oak Creek that snowy spring was the right thing to do for my mother.  She needed to remember all that endowed the girl she once was and the remarkable woman she grew into.  The trip was, most definitely, the right thing for me.  I needed to see how the creek water and the red rocks fed my Southern soul.  It was also the right thing for Molly – although she doesn’t know it yet.

 

Mama, Molly, and me at lunch in Sedona - Spring of 1998

 I can't believe Melissa found the spot on her family trip East.  Georgia and Miles on the cabin foundation at Oak Creek.  January 2012

The Little Man

From 2010

This past Mother’s Day, I decided to re-read some letters my mother wrote to my father during the summer of 1952. Daddy was recalled to active duty by the Army during the Korean War and we were living at Fort Benning, Georgia. At some point, he had been sent to California for a few months and Mama was having to defend the home front all by herself, caring for my brother Sandy, who must have been about five, and two-year-old me. The letters are affirmations of my mother’s devotion to my father and her dedication to post-WWII family life. Here’s an excerpt from one of them:

I made an unauthorized $10 expenditure today. However, it will come out of my usual $30 per week household expense account. I bought the children a wading pool.

Apparently, the summer was hot and the post pool didn't offer enough relief, so Mama had taken matters in her own capable hands. What I can't help but ponder is that the kind of frugality mentioned in the letter would be unfathomable today, as would be even considering having the husband “authorize” the purchase of a wading pool from twenty five hundred miles away (especially without the ability to text).

The letters are, indeed, sweet and evocative of the time; however; in re-reading them, I was struck by the theme that runs through them all, a theme as disconcerting with this latest reading as with former perusals.

And that theme is The Little Man and what a gem he was, the little man being my brother, Sandy. Now, you're probably thinking I'm making too much of the sibling rivalry thing here, but I'm not. Read below for evidence of my assertion:

On Sandy’s teeth pulling:

He had two teeth pulled this afternoon without a whimper. I was so proud of him and everyone made over him which pleased him no end..... Back to Sandy and the way he took this today. I really believe he is beginning to grow up and lose some of those vague fears he has always had.

Okay, maybe he was a suck-up little scaredy cat with delusional tendencies but she was still so proud of him.

Then there’s this about what a perfect little student he was at the age of five:

Did I tell you about Sandy’s report card? The comments were to the effect that Sandy is a quiet, mannerly child who is cooperative and well adjusted.

And athletic and brilliant, although a bit odd and perhaps a voyeur:

Wish you could see Sandy in the water. He’s a funny child. He learns more by watching than any other way. He was watching the life guards fooling around in the water and I looked up and there he was doing the breast stroke and not badly either. Last week he watched some boys for a while and then walked over to the edge of the pool and dived in – no preliminaries, no announcements or anything. I guess he figured it out in his head and then went and did it. Some child!

And did I mention good with money?

Sandy made a purchase today. He’s saved his allowance for 4 weeks plus his silver dollar for an inflated raft. He’s thrilled to death. By the way, he has 2 loose teeth – front bottom. One is awfully loose but he’s trying to save them till you get home so you can help him get them out. Of course, the whole idea is based on the return that the fairy is supposed to give him. I believe he'd swap every tooth in his head for suitable financial remuneration. He’s a money conscious little fellow – do you suppose he’ll be a tycoon?

It’s not that she never mentioned me, but notice how quickly she changed the subject.

We were in the water only about a short time and Marcia got mighty red. I was afraid last night that she would have blisters – but seems to be okay today. You should see Sandy. I took him out in water over his head and taught him to tread water. He did very well and would swim 3 or 4 feet out there.

Okay, the only mention of me was that I was too stupid to get out of the sun, but, at least I wasn't much trouble. See below for another example of my stupidity, but also a rather exceptional tolerance for pain.

That night she pulled the fire extinguisher over on her bare foot and I just knew I’d have to take her up for an x-ray – but apparently after the initial fright there was no damage except for white stuff being sprayed everywhere.

It was only after my mother's death that my brother owned up to being the one who dropped the fire extinguisher on my foot, the injured foot that caused me to be crippled and "different" for my entire life, having the fourth toe on my left foot be shorter than my pinkie toe.

I did, however, excel in one important way.

Wish you had seen Marcia eat tonight. She ate 2 and ½ pieces of chicken, 2 helpings of rice and gravy, English peas, cantaloupe, milk and then went over to the Olson’s and ate a piece of cake, 3 pieces of cheese, 3 carrot sticks, came back here and ate 2 graham crackers, small glass of milk and 3 mints. She probably won’t need to eat again for a week.

A great ending to this sad story would undoubtedly include additional evidence of my abuse and anecdotes about what an entitled ass my brother grew up to be. However, I must tell you that Mama was a wonderful mother to both my brother and me, and The Little Man grew into a big man and a good man, turning out to be all the things Mama predicted he would be when he was just five. I'm not sure one would call him a tycoon, but he did well in all the ways that are important, and he's my brother and I love him.

As for my tiny toe injury, I now believe Sandy told me it was his fault to make me feel better about being such an idiot when I was two. However, what would really make me feel better would be 2 and ½ pieces of chicken, 2 helpings of rice and gravy, English peas, cantaloupe, milk, a piece of cake, 3 pieces of cheese, 3 carrot sticks, 2 graham crackers, small glass of milk, and 3 mints.

Well, maybe not the English peas.

The Little Man and me. 

 Other random memories of growing up with Sandy:

Regan remembers him telling about having a head injury from part of a deck falling on him.  It wasn't a deck; it was from a nail (which I think he just ran into) under the porch of the big house in Waycross.  Mama and I were taking a nap on her bed (in our new house behind the big house) when someone came and told us Sandy was hurt.  He had to get stitches.  I think those were the only stitches either of us ever had from an injury.

Regan says he also told her about shooting out a car window with a BB gun.  Although I don't remember that, something about it sounds familiar.

Sandy and I weren't particularly close growing up.  He had his friends and I had mine.  I was all into art and "making stuff", the same things Mama enjoyed.  Sandy, not so much. I think he and Daddy spent a good bit of time together, although I don't know what they did.  It wasn't sports like so many fathers and sons.  They worked in the yard a lot. I do remember that Sandy wrote in my diary when I was about 12 something about "needing a bra more that I did" and how infuriated I was.  I also remember when he set fire to his bed on Christmas Eve.   I was having to sleep in his room because Aunt Susie was in mine.  He was too excited to sleep so he took the shade off of his lamp and put it under the covers with him so he could read without waking me up.  And they thought he was the bright one?

I do remember my first inkling of how kind Sandy could be. I think I was about 10, which would have made him 13.   I had spent the summer in Phoenix with Mama while Sandy and Daddy stayed home in Savannah.  Our grandfather (Dadding - Perry Ling) was very ill with the cancer that would kill him.  Daddy and Sandy drove out at the end of summer to take us back home (we had ridden a Greyhound there!).  At some point, we went to the Ron's Club (Mammo and Dadding's Country Club) to swim.  We were swimming across the pool and I couldn't keep up with Sandy.  Instead of making fun of me for being younger or a girl or any of the mean things he could have said, he said something about it being understandable since I'd spent all summer helping Mama take care of Dadding while all he did was swim down at the Wymberly dock. At that point, I realized how lucky I was to have a nice big brother.

Regan, Taylor, and Katherine, if you have other stories to add, send them to me and I'll include them.