"The stars at night, Are big and bright, clap clap clap clap, Deep in the heart of Texas…" The radio tune drifts into my trailer bedroom as voices waft under the music, like a bass rhythm. Then, a sharp air intake, recognition, and I realize Dad is home! The aroma of brewing coffee rouses me, and I roll toward the bed's edge, glancing at a sun ray on the floor. Reaching, I feel it’s comforting warmth and Dad's presence in the next room—time to get up.
Stretching to unwind, I hit wetness with my right toe. Like a clam, I spring close to avoid the bundle of Tommy and Kenny, my brothers, eighteen months and thirty months old, curled up in the bed's corner. I sit up quietly so as not to wake them. Yawning, I pad out of the bedroom, my feet vibrating the trailer floor just enough to jiggle the curtain rod in its metal holder. I pause and listen to their laughter, and their animated voices rising over the music. These happy sounds remind me it's Saturday, and Dad is home from Army maneuvers.
Entering the kitchen, I flop onto Dad's lap, and Mom cheerfully tousles my damp blonde curls. Putting my arms around Dad, I say, "I'm tired of sleeping with my brothers. They smell." Dad responds with a "Yup" and rubs my back. Dad's knee begins jiggling up and down. I am laughing, bouncing, and holding on. Dad laughs, saying, "Ride this bronc, Cowgirl." as I lose my grip and tip slightly. Mom smiles and slides a chair to me. Climbing up, I see a pile of blue and white material on the floor. Listening to my parents' animated conversation, I learn this material is a parachute. Mom explains how Dad retrieved it and that it will involve an adventure today. It doesn't matter where I go with Dad. His adventures are new, and new is fun.
My brothers rush in, shouting, "Daddy's home. Daddy, Daddy, bounce me, bounce me." They push and shove, trying to get closer to Dad and crowd me out. Dad tosses them in the air as they squeal with joy. He settles them down, then explains that today is a treasure hunt at the junkyard. He ushers us to the communal bathhouse, a cinder block building with no roof and two entrances, to wash and dress while mom makes breakfast.
After eating, we fill our thermos with water as Dad adds boxes of Good and Plenty candy and cherry suckers to our backpacks. Kenny and I climb into the back seat of the Studebaker sedan. Mom accompanies us to the sedan, where she stands at the window, still talking with Dad about the parachute. It's hot in the back seat, and I pipe up, "I'm hot. Let's go!" They talk more anyway, and finally, Dad drives off as Tommy, in Mom's arms, cries at being left.
Kenny and I rock forward and back on the rear seat during the drive. I sing a cowboy song, Back in the Saddle Again, and even though I only know two lines, we laugh at the cowboy lamenting, "someone put glue on my saddle." We repeat this until we arrive at the junkyard, our singing syncopated with our rocking thuds on the rear car seat. Dad finally turns into the lot and announces, "Well, kids, here we are. Ready for a treasure hunt?" We shout, “Yippee!" and exit to the blinding sun and the blowing, chafing sand.
I squint at the heaps of stuff, piles of it, reaching high into the clear blue sky. The massive mound blocks the wind and blowing sand, offering a brief reprieve as we scan for treasure. Junk is piled in all directions, balancing with invisible, mysterious forces. Gaping holes invite me to enter, explore, and lie in their cool darkness. I step forward, ready to climb and explore, but a sharp "Stop!" from Dad, and a light restraining touch halt me. Dad quickly grabs Kenny and, carrying him, directs us, saying, "Let's look over here, kids." He strides to a small stack of lumber, planks, two-by-fours, and broken stacked furniture.
The idea of treasure infects Kenny, who is pointing like our grandfather's Beagles and shouting, "There's a chair up there!" With a big smile, Dad responds, "Yup, that's a treasure, and I see another one." He braces his right leg onto a plank, directs us to stand back, and pulls a sheet of plywood that moves toward us like the tongue of a dying monster. Dad has us hold a corner and walking backward like cooperating ants; we gradually release the plywood from captivity. Now successful worker ants, we eagerly follow Dad's lead and remove a broken card table and a solid door without a handle, laying them onto our treasure pile.
The hunt infects us with a desire for more, and we are reluctant to stop, seeing chairs, desks, and riding toys, all broken but imagined whole. We want it all! Dad acknowledges our enthusiasm and says, "That sure was fun, but we have enough for today." Deflated, we leave the unreleased treasures and retreat to the car's shade for water and candy. Dad loads our treasures onto the car roof and signals us to pile in. We crank open the windows, inviting the breeze to fan us, rocking in unison as we head home, humming and tired.
Mom and Tommy are ready for us with a picnic lunch in the common area behind our trailer, and we spend the afternoon moving our dumpsters on pretend roads, hauling treasures from our pretend dump. We throw sand, then swing, reaching our legs into the sky as our voices toss cowboy lyrics to the clouds that pass. Finally, afternoon disappears on the sandy breeze, and Mom calls, "Time to wash up for dinner."
In a rare treat, Dad walks us to the communal bathhouse to shower and change into our PJs. Dad being home means I can shower by myself without the responsibility of my brothers. So instead, I hear my brothers and Dad splashing each other and laughing as my shower beams warm water on me, pooling the dust and dirt at my feet, its wetness like a salve, releasing my dry, tight skin from the ravages of the Texas sun and sand.
Dad calls me to meet in front, and I quickly dress as drips from my hair run down my back. We proceed home, Tommy and Kenny holding Dad's hands as I skip, my curls bouncing the twenty feet to the trailer. Arriving, the aroma of home fries and sautéed fish spurs us to shout, "We're hungry."
Tommy, Kenny, and l enter the trailer and stop abruptly, uttering, "Gosh.” The card table, repaired, is covered with the parachute fabric, now quilted and puffy. It joins our trailer table, forming one expansive table. Mom is smiling, looking at us, and flipping a vinyl sunflower tablecloth over our new table. Tommy's highchair is at one end, and Mom sets the table for five. Now my whole family can eat together.
Dinner is a ruckus event as we each tell exaggerated stories of capturing treasures, sillier with each telling. But, after the meal, exhaustion finds us, and even Dad being home doesn't keep us from heading toward bedtime and another surprise.
Turning on the bedroom light, I gasp, saying, "They rearranged the bedroom." Glancing around the room, I notice our dresser now sits under the window. The door without a handle is covered with parachute material, made into a quilted, puffy mattress, all attached to the dresser. My blanket lies at the end of the bed, and my Raggedy Ann rests, relaxed on my pillow. Stairs led up the bed, and I exclaim, "Daddy, plywood from the junkyard is my stairs now!" I rush to ascend the plywood steps and flop onto my bed. I stretch out my legs, sensing all this space is mine, all of it, and I smile.
Mom and Dad tuck us in and turn off the lights. I whisper, "Thank you for my own bed." as they leave. I am floating on this soft mattress, a bed of delight, and I snuggle in as wiggles and giggles escape me. I turn to the window, where a light breeze blows across my face, depositing a few grains of sand. The night is clear, the stars are big and bright, and all is right this night in Texas.
Author: Diane Baumgart
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