I sat quietly in the back seat of our 1957 Chevy station wagon. My older and younger sisters claimed the rear floor area where they could put their dolls and play tea party or some other girly game. No boys allowed. They took turns shouting at me. I preferred to look out of the window in silence as the scenery changed before my eyes, eventually ending at the foot of a giant hill secured with a metal fence and no trespassing signs. Dad opened it and got back in the car, asking if we were ready to climb up to the top. Mom was nervous, I could tell, but she knew better than to disagree with her husband; that's not what good wives do. The tires slid on the frozen ground, but Dad was determined, so he kept on the gas until the wagon finally grabbed hold and climbed the hill. I smiled as I saw the small trailer sitting alone at the top of the mountain, waiting to be brought back to life. Back then, it was easy to fit all of us inside the little camper, but as I grew up and spent many times at the trailer on the mountain, I discovered how small it really was.
Nonetheless, I loved it there and was sad to hear Dad sold it as part of a divorce settlement. I doubt Mom lost sleep over it, but in later years, she would smile and say Good times whenever I brought it up. The camper on the mountain top is just one more story remembered with select parts forgotten as I look out the window of my 1957 Chevy alone by choice.
MO
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