A Marshmallow Easter
We packed up and left California in the middle of my 4th-grade year. I’m not sure why we left in such a hurry but there was definitely a sense of urgency. My older sister had recently experienced a brush with death from a drug overdose, part of the aftermath of grief over losing our beloved grandfather. Someone had also tried to break into our house through the bedroom window while my younger sister and I slept. Those events might have contributed to the reason my mom decided to pick up and move her girls out of the city, along with a dozen other reasons.
Our house in Tustin sold the day my mom listed it, for more than she was asking—surely a sign that we were meant to go. She left her job, extended family, and any notion of security and we headed into the unknown, straight to Colorado. We weren’t strangers to Colorado, we’d been listening to John Denver sing about it for years as we headed out on weekend backpacking trips to the Sierra Nevadas and other places on the same ground where John Muir had once walked. In the muddy month of April, we landed in a cabin on Black Mountain, just outside of Conifer. There was no electricity or running water. We trekked down a hill to an outhouse in our new Sorel pack boots, hauled water from the creek, and took baths in a horse trough. Funny, but I’m not too far from that lifestyle these days. To get to the cabin we had to put tire chains on all four wheels, gunning it through a muddy curve and trying to keep up enough speed to get up the hill. On Easter weekend, a big snowstorm quickly ended any hopes of backyard Easter egg hunts and baskets filled with chocolate bunnies. However, as experienced backpackers (not to mention the fact I was a Brownie), we were prepared. We had marshmallows—which proved to be an excellent substitution for eggs, at least for hiding and hunting purposes.
Mom enrolled us in school, with just a few weeks left in the school year. We rode the bus. When the other kids asked where we lived, I said Black Mountain. They all roared. To this day, I still don’t know what was so funny. We embraced our new life in the country. We bought horses from an old horse trader in Brighton. My older sister got a spirited horse named Pretty Boy. I remember her riding the bald-faced gelding into the kitchen. I got a horse named Ole Red—a big gentle gelding (17 hands tall), that quickly brushed me off on a low hanging branch and headed for home. My younger sister got a spotted pony named Rainbow. Mom applied for jobs and eventually landed an interview in a quiet little town up in the mountains. When she went to the interview, my sister and I played in the park playground. When she came out of the interview she told us she didn’t get the job. We said it was okay, we didn’t like that town anyway. A few days later she got a phone call, and she did get the job after all. My sisters and I quickly changed our stories and said we kind of liked the town of Granby, we were just trying to make her feel better.
That first Easter in Colorado is a story I will always remember. It was about improvising, discovering a new way to live and survival. It taught me about resilience and determination and filled me with a hope that still serves me today as I continue to navigate the unknown. The Easter we hunted for marshmallows—it’s a story close to my heart and still one I love to tell.
