Many Sunday afternoons we would pile into the old Willis jeep and head off on an adventure. The jeep had two front seats; dad drove and mom sat beside him and held baby Hunky on her lap. My oldest sister Rita and the twins Donna and Doug and I sat on the iron benches over the tire wells. The rag top had been removed for the summer and the up right windshield did a poor job of shielding us from flying bugs and dirt.
The old jeep chugged along rarely used roads, which usually consisted of two gravel ruts with a big hump of grass down the middle. The lane was narrowed by trees with low hanging limbs that would slap our faces when if we reached out to grab at the leaves.
It was a mystery to us but, Dad always knew where the roads would lead and where they would end. I remember one time the tree lined rut lead us to an old pasture reclaimed by the passage of time. A Gnarled old apple tree stood guard over the remains of a stone foundation and clung to the memory filled earth. Gray field stones held steadfast to the sides of the caving cellar of a home which once housed a family.
Dad stopped and we scampered over the large field stone walls that lined the pastures where a cow may have grazed long ago.
In a shaded corner of the pasture stood a lilac bush with outstretched branches cradling a family plot that displayed small upright stones chiseled with faded names of a family who had died within days of each other long a ago. Two boys and a girl not yet ten and a small stone that just said baby.
Quieted by our discovery, our robust life seemed dear to us as we clambered into the jeep to continue our Sunday drive.
Soon our lives became even more precious as the road became extremely treacherous. Years of rain and neglect had washed away large sections of the road .In its place was a section of a huge slanting ledge strewed with fallen rocks. Dad, always up for a challenge, slowly drove the Willis upon the ledge the jeep listed to the side at a precarious angle us kids slowly slid to the floor and piled up against the hard service of the tire wall nearly spilling over the edge. Mom held tightly to hunky as she struggled to stay inside the door frame. The jeep crawled along the gravely ledge in low gear and low 4 wheel drive grinding cautiously while the knobby treads clung to the slanted piece of inner earth.
Even the little jeep heaved a sigh of relief when we reached the welcoming ruts on the other side.
Dad sometimes would slow the jeep and peer into the dense, bushes that crowded the rutted road. Without warning he would stop the jeep, reach under his torn seat and wave a dented tin cup in the air. He would then kneel down brush away the dried leaves and there it was cold, clear water! He seemed to know just where the springs bubbled up out of the ground. The mysterious water seeped out from deep inside the crushing weight of a dark looming mountain far away. We passed the cold dripping cup around, drinking our fill. It was a taste of heaven on a hot summer day.
We continued on our way storing memories of our Sunday drives much as the gnarled apple tree and lilac bush held memories in their her roots buried deep in the earth of the long forgotten farm family.
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