The Happiest Time of my Life

I am now 79 years old. That equates to 948 months. And when I revisit the happiest time of my life I realize it was only a period of six months’ time, 1/158^th of my life. Such a tiny fraction. Yet I find my mind going back to that time and place for the joy it brings to me, an old lady’s indulgence.

 

The year was 1955. I was eight years old. A girl, the oldest of four kids. My dad was happy. I say that because there were many more times that he was not happy and when Dad was not happy, none of us were. Dad had just returned to us in Tuscola, Illinois, after spending about six months “batching it” with Joe Gieser, a fellow miner, in Colorado, looking for outcroppings of uranium. Now he came home to Mom and a brand new baby girl, and told us we were all going out west to live on an Indian Reservation!

 

 

 

 

Let me tell you, we were excited! Well, probably not Mom. She was leaving her closeknit family of four sisters, two brothers, and her aging parents, and all her belongings except what could be stored on top of the car in a canvas carpack, headed for parts unknown. But she loved my dad, and trusted him, and was one of those 1950s obedient housewives who never considered “putting her foot down”, so off we went in our Kaiser sedan, Dad driving, Mom in the front seat with four-month-old Kathy, me, Mike, and Fran in the back seat, headed west.

 

 

 

 

After days of travel, living on bologna sandwiches, we pulled into a wooded campsite in the heart of the Spokane Indian Reservation at Wellpinit, Washington. There was a uranium mine there, near the campsite, and that’s where Dad would work for the next six months. A couple of families moved there, too, miners’ families, and two geologists, our neighbors. Each family had their own trailer house, but no running water, no electricity, and no toilets. It wasn’t long before a couple of the men set up a generator for lights, built a small outdoor toilet we all shared, but we never had water piped in.

 

 

 

Now, as an adult, I realize the hardship my mother dealt with. Four kids to feed and clothe, washing our laundry, including diapers, in a big pot over an open fire, hauling our drinking water from a creek upstream of our camp, sending my brother and I off to school on a small bus that came down into camp for us, and no friends and family to rely on.

 

But, for me, it was an 8-yr-old’s dream! There was a running creek in camp that let to a beaver dam. Dad took us kids fishing there where he caught small trout and brought them back to fry in a cast iron skillet. There were wild strawberries on the hillside behind our trailer. There were kids in camp our age to play with, and fight with, too. And Mom and Dad were so busy that we had freedom to explore with no boundaries, no fences. I still remember the strong scent of pine, the taste of fried oysters the geologists offered us, the dog whose face was peppered with porcupine quills, the bicycle Dad bought and the day I learned to ride it, the collie puppy. I was so happy in this old CCC camp surrounded by mountains and pine trees, free to explore nature without fear.

 

But it only lasted six months, and maybe that’s what makes it magical. Like an exotic vacation.

Only years later did I realize that the Indian Reservation is not a happy place, not for the Native Americans who call it home. And that mine? It polluted the streams and rivers and land so much it was designated a high priority clean up site by the government! And I mentioned what a hardship it was for my mother. So, how can I feel good about my role there, how can I be so insensitive to what it was like for those around me?

 

I have learned a thing or two from this six months’ life adventure. I liken it to the experience of a young man who joins the military and goes off to war. He is at the peak of his health and athleticism, most likely not married so only responsible for himself. Free to make up the rules as he goes, within the limits the military imposes. It’s not hard for me to understand how his years in the military can be remembered as the best years of his life. But if one looks at the bigger picture, what war is all about, the killing and the dying and the destruction, it seems wrong to remember those as the best years of one’s life. But I understand that.