•••
Kako notes that her Junior-Senior prom (she’s a junior) is “tripping up on cat feet,” a month away.
“Mother and Mary Kay are beautiful again, they hope, after their permanents. We spent all Sunday afternoon in curlers and we hope that the Lord understands. And when the frizz comes out, we should be fashion models!”
Mary Kay Gets Formal:
“After an afternoon of looking and trying on many formals, Mom and MK came home with a BEAUTY! It’s blue net with a dropped shoulder and tiny puffed sleeves… It has a lace bodice, and a full net skirt. Tiny pink roses are scattered on the skirt. I just love it and Irene said, ‘Oh Kako, it looks so pretty. You look like Alice!’ (Alice in Wonderland, Irene’s highest compliment—if you look like Alice, you’re in!) We also bought Irene a new Easter hat—white with pink flowers on it and ribbons down the back, and when we showed it to her she said, ‘Oh mommie, I knew you would bring me a cowboy hat!’”
•••
Even I think it sounds like a riot to grow up in this family, like Cary Grant saying, “Everybody wants to be Cary Grant. Even I want to be Cary Grant.”
But between the lines on those yellowed onionskin originals, unspoken fissures of anxiety emerge.
The last issue of the first run on March 29, 1955, informs us that the cabin at Prairie Lake in Northern Minnesota has been reserved. Up at the lake. Out in the woods. Lifelong gifts.
Montana, Day Two: Practice
We hang out in the woods by the lake next day, getting used to walking five minutes to the RV campground for water, still gratefully in restroom range, regularly eyeing that slice in the mountain, knowing pain and challenge, along with beauty, await on that trail in the morning.
While Mike goes into town, Jim offers me a fly fishing lesson. The guy just loves to fish. I remember him barely taller than the minnow bucket he fished in.
“Let’s practice in the parking lot. It’ll narrow your focus.”
He’s a clear and patient teacher.
“First pay out your line.” He lays out twenty feet. “Here’s the grip—thumb on top, in line with your forearm. Keep it steady. Now here’s what you’re after.”
He demonstrates the swooping grace of the classic fly-cast. My heart lifts. Such fluid freedom, as though he flicks away arthritis through the dancing line.
He sets me up.
“Think of a clock arcing over you. Cast from ten to two. Ten-two, ten-two. Don’t break your wrist—keep it steady.”
I try the clockwork.
“Good. Feel it. Ten-two, ten-two. Better.”
Hm. I might get this.
“Aim for that clump of leaves.”
The idea of aiming freezes me. I want to be successful, but I really want Jim to feel successful as a teacher. What if I never catch on?
“You can do this. Just takes time. There you go.”
Before long, I make three good casts.
“You’ve got it. You’ve got it!”
“I get it!”
“You’re a natural!” We squeal and hop and hug each other. One of the best moments we’ve ever shared.
•••
That afternoon, Mike returns with a (hand) towel of my very own, a small first aid kit, and a mess of seafood.
“Can’t eat it on the trail, but we can tonight.” He hauls out the Papa Bear cast-iron cauldron and over the campfire concocts a rich, herby cioppinno. Lauren assists.
“I want to be a chef,” she declares. “But a pastry chef.”
As we fill our bowls, her dad rummages in his pack and produces a canister of “Slap Ya Mama” Cajun seasoning. Don thinks of everything. Cheers and subsequent slurps all around.
•••
After our steaming spicy bowls, another bottle of Scotch appears. Don stands and motions to Lauren.
“We have a present for you, Jim.”
I smile. I have a present for him, too. A very special bottle. But not until our last night.
“Lauren and I invented this a few trips ago.”
They lay a brand-new nylon tarp and Sharpies on the ground.
“It’s a Story Tarp. Every day, we each draw a pictograph of our most memorable moment. Then the whole story goes home with Jim.”
We all grab markers and scramble to record the day. I look up from drawing me fly-casting. Jim’s drawing the same thing.
Then Ro says softly, “I’ve written a song for the trip. Wanna hear it?” (Curiously, from her earliest days, Ro’s asked permission to sing.)
Of course we do. Firelight flickers over her notebook, gilds her gently knit brow. She sings a yearning ballad of “wild Montana,” of her hope to shed her fear and sorrow here. Closest to our late brother, his death and absence weigh on her, but fear and sorrow have slipped, admittedly or not, into everyone’s pack. Her last verse asks for laughter, “grand and holy.” Shining eyes ring the campfire as her last note fades.
Soft applause, congratulations and gratitude ripple from us all.
“Gotta call it a night,” says Mike at last. “We need to get up before dawn, break camp, wolf a bagel, and get to the outfitters.”
Heartened by her song, we peel away to our downy nests under the stars.
Between the Lines
This Family Journal item is one tip-off that not all is well in Tangletown:
“The race between MK and Tommy is waxing hot and heavy. This battle is to see who can grow long nails.” What’s making these children anxious? Why are they biting their nails?
Skipper joins the contest, showing “strong will power.” He is only three years old, and he is already chubby as well. What makes him so nervous at this tender age? It is he who wins the competition.
Kako and Tom continue the contest between the two of them; Tom wins. He spends the $5.00 prize on a new Missal and Valentines (which indicate the breadth of his values).
Why does Kako lose? The pages answer. Kako, not Mom, reads us bedtime stories. Kako is making doughnuts and cookies and raspberry pie, comforting us and herself with them. O’Brien stress goes into our mouths.
Kako is even buying my clothes: when I’m a year old, she brings home “sox, a shirt and a darling little plaid dress—blue top and a plaid skirt, on the pocket in red it says ‘Me.’ ”
I wear it the next night when the family goes to a restaurant—a rare event, indeed. According to the paper I try “out-staring the