My First (Big) Writing Accomplishment

I tried, and failed, at blogging...twice. However, I didn't give up on writing. I took one of the posts from my deleted blog and made it prettier. I entered the Writer's Digest Writing Competition. It was the first time I really put my writing out there. I kept my fingers crossed for eight months. Alas, I didn't win a free trip to New York City or the $5000 prize. I did win an Honorable Mention in my category, personal essay, which meant almost as much as a first place ribbon.

Here's my essay. I hope you like it!

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My Childhood Was Weirder Than Your Childhood

By Brooke Dorsch

I had a weird childhood. Notice, I didn't say "bad childhood" or "sad childhood." My childhood was awesome, but very unconventional. It started with my hippie parents.

When I was only a couple of months old, my mom and dad took me on a backpacking trip across the United States. The story goes that my parents came to a hot spring in Idaho. It was secluded and not on a map. They were the only people for miles, so what did my hippie, fun-loving parents do? They undressed, they took their infant (me), and got into the virgin, hot spring to conduct their version of a "baptism.” They submerged me under the warm water, like a Southern Baptist summer revival. Next, they named me and proclaimed their faith before a higher power. All of my young life, I was told that this was my "christening." When I was set to marry my Catholic husband and the priest asked me where I was baptized, I didn’t think this new age ceremony counted. Regardless, those sweet hippies sure did love me! It was their way.

After returning from the peace, love, and backpacking tour, they purchased a hunting cabin, in a protected valley, on four acres in the woods. When I say “middle of no-where,” I really mean the middle of no-where. I'm not talking about one of those quaint, country roads where there are houses every few hundred yards. When my little family moved into this valley, our closest neighbor lived one, whole mile up a mountain, which was also where the mailbox was located. Whose mailbox is a mile away?!

With all its isolation, it was the most beautiful place. All the trees and plants were so lust because of the creek that looped around the house. The color green dominated the eye with only spots of brown bark and stone. The view of the wide stream from the back deck could have been on a high-glossy, nature calendar or the background to some inspirational poster.

This cabin was so remote that it didn't have any running water or electricity. Now, as a parent myself, I don't know what the hell my mother was thinking. She really should be sainted. It's hard enough raising kids with all our modern conveniences. Everything was more difficult in the valley. Simple tasks turned into hour long projects, like back when the settlers ventured out west to find their fortune.

When it was bath time, my mom had to dip water out of a collection reservoir about 10 yards from the house. This reservoir was made from a giant, moss-covered tree. Let's imagine it; a big tree, on its side, carved out, covered in moss, and full of spring water. My parents tell the story of seeing the cabin for the first time. Before going into the house, the savvy real estate agent took them to this majestic water collector, and scooped out the precious liquid with a metal cup. While they tell the tale, my mom and dad glow as they express, to the listener, how amazing that spring water was to taste. You'd think it was heavenly fluid from Valhalla. (I'm kind of a water snob. I think I was spoiled by the delicious water of my childhood. That spring water was really good!) Anyway, my mom had to go collect the day's water, no matter what the weather. I have a hard enough time walking to my car in the snow, let alone getting freezing, cold water into a giant, metal pot. Once the pot got back into the kitchen, Mom had to heat it up on the stove. We had gas in the home, so the stove was easy to operate. The gas was used for the lighting too. There were gas lamps installed around the main, living room. When the water from the spring was warm enough, Mom would pour it into two basins; one for me, and one for my younger sister, Casey. We would sit in the warm water by the wood stove. That stove provided heat to the whole house. If the fire in the stove went out in the middle for night, it was pretty cold in the morning! Even to this day, I'm better at building a fire than my husband.

My sweet mother did all that just for bath time. How much fun is it when your toddler has to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night? I know what you're thinking, “Well, he or she would just walk down the hall and go, right?” Not in the valley. No running water means no bathroom. No running water means outhouse. We had an outhouse that was bright green and overlooked the creek that ran behind it. My hippie parents, with their matching political views, plastered the inside of the outhouse with newspaper articles and current event cartoons. They tried to keep everyone entertained, while they were in there, doing their business. I was too little to read the commentary about the state of the union or local senators. I just remember the smell. It wasn't a bad smell. It was a scent tainted with nature. It was organic before organic was a thing. I can call that smell to mind every time I think of the valley. However, in the winter, there was no smell. It was too cold to have an odor.

One night, I remember sleeping soundly, when my sister nudged me and said, "I have to go potty." I knew she didn't like to go to the outhouse alone. Casey was probably three or four years old to my five or six. I pulled myself out of bed, helped my sister into her snow boots and coat, and walked her out to the outhouse. The cold seemed to hold me up in my own, wool coat. We stumbled through the deep snow with our flimsy nightgowns under our outerwear. Casey pulled opened the door to climb into the small space. I held it open for her, so she didn't get lonely. Also, there was no light inside, only the fading moon filtering through the trees, dotting the hills on either side of the valley. The creek roared nearby, even though it was almost frozen over. At the time, I was so sleepy and cold, but now, I look back on that moment fondly. It was such a privilege to grow up in such an extraordinary place. That cold night, helping my sister to the outhouse, among other moments in the valley, shaped me into the woman I am today.

Electricity was installed in the cabin when I was about seven. Until then, there was no TV in our house. I’m terrible at Jeopardy questions dealing with the pop culture of the 80’s. I didn't watch The Smurfs. I didn't watch He-Man. I was busy doing other stuff. We played outside a lot. Casey and I would walk up and down the creek. We knew every pebble, every curve, and every swirl in the water. Rocks and stones became our blocks and balls. We built dams for imaginary towns. Our competitions involved who could throw the biggest rock the farthest, or who could make the largest splash with the littlest pebble. If it rained really hard, the creek would change. Those were the best days. It was like the neighborhood playground changing its arrangement. The swings being replaced by a climbing wall or the slide turning into a merry-go-round. All the rocks we knew were moved somewhere else. All the cray fish we had hunted were washed away. We became like little explorers, trying to map uncharted territories. Finding new pools, carved out rock ledges, and familiar critters would occupy us for hours. We would move farther and farther from home to discover every change in our beloved body of water. It felt as if that creek only belonged to us.

When we weren't in the creek, we were making Play-Doh, one of our favorite pastimes. My mom would make it on the stove with tons of salt. The best was when it was my turn to pick the color of the batch. Mom would present me with the three primary colors from the McCormick food coloring box. Sometimes, she would even let us experiment with a couple drops of each color choice. I didn't know Play-Doh came from a can until much, much later. One day, in Kindergarten, I looked at my teacher and asked, "Wow! How did you make this bright, pink color?" I pictured her, standing at her stove with a pensive finger to her lips, considering how to mix in just enough red to produce the perfect pink. I came home from school and told my mom that Mrs. Wolf had pink Play-Doh. She just smiled at me, like the grown-ups had a big secret that I wasn’t supposed to know.

Since there was no television, my mother was a big reader. When I was old enough, I became one, as well. She introduced me to Nancy Drew. I read all of them, even after we got electricity and TV. This was before all these fancy cable providers and satellite dishes. Once we did get a television, using many versions of antennae, we could only get three channels, and they were mostly snow. My parents, who are die-hard Steelers fans, only suffered through the bad reception for the Black and Gold. As an adult, I'm still a big reader. According to Goodreads, I read 62 books last year, thank you very much!

As amazing as my childhood home was, I never appreciated it until I left. My sister and I both fled for college, then off to more metropolitan areas. My parents still live there! Now, they have all the modern conveniences our time can offer. They have DirectTV and a DVR. They have a full bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub. They built an addition onto the house that has a heated floor. They still use the wood stove for those cold, winter nights, and if I visit the valley with my husband, I have to start the fire. Their mailbox is still a mile away, up a mountain, though.

It's still beautiful. Every once in a while, it calls me, like a siren, away from the city. I feel the need to jump in the car and drive there as fast as possible. I need the trees and the creek and the fond memories of growing up in the woods. I long for the green hills, and the primitive smell of the outhouse, which my parents took down, years ago, because it was blocking their view of the creek. See, even hippies can change.