“Best memory” is a misnomer.  It implies that all other memories fall short of this particular one.  I believe memories can’t be ranked. Each one is special in a different way. But a memory that stands out to me occurred when I was 12. The events and feelings were so powerful  that I drew upon them for comfort for many years.  It was special because it caused an awakening in my soul for the appreciation of beauty in nature.
 
It was the summer of 1945.  The war had ended, gas rationing was over and families were planning trips again.  Mom and Dad, Bobby Webb (my nephew), and I, all piled into our ‘41 Ford, pulling a tiny teardrop trailer and headed for Yosemite National Park for a week.  
 
The drive was hot and long but when we reached the look-out at the entrance of Yosemite Valley, I was awe-struck.  I had no idea massive walls of rock with waterfalls cascading down and thick pine forests even existed. I had never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
 
We drove on into the valley and found a lovely camping spot next to the Merced River.  There was a picnic table and fire pit to cook on.  Our tiny trailer was only large enough for a mattress inside where Mom and Dad slept.  Bobby and I had a little tent with two cots and sleeping bags.  We thought it was perfect and it was!  I felt such a freedom there.  The towering rock walls reminded me of a fortress and I felt safe and protected.  It was as if I was in another world and time. Continue reading →