Along the Tioga Road, Yosemite National Park
Thanksgiving was always his day. Almost two decades of a house full of people each year, him begging for snacks at the center of it. The first time the holiday rolled around after he died we couldn’t face the prospect of filling the house with turkey smells, with the happy voices of various friends and nieces and nephews, without him there. Instead, we high-tailed it for the desert.
We rolled up over the oddly-snowless Tioga Pass and down toward Mono Lake, checked into a comfortably drab motel in Lee Vining, and then went looking for a place to eat. Not dinner, but supper. The motel clerk recommended a sports-bar ski chalet place in June Lake.
We ended up ordering the turkey and stuffing and gravy and cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes anyway, and we chuckled at how difficult it was to keep from weeping in the bar.
By Thanksgiving 2008 we had started new lives. She stayed in the house: I don’t know whether the kitchen smelled like roasting meat and vegetables and baked goods. I moved to the desert. Thanksgiving was my last weekend there before moving to Los Angeles. The Raven came out. We woke late and ate little, walked out into the rain and creosote. One hushed storm after another rolled through the Ivanpah Valley, pale orange sky reflecting on the wet desert soil.
Beautifully written.
Bill:www.wildramblings.com
Chris,
I don’t know why you were thinking about this yesterday but it certainly is a poignant and beautifully written reminiscence and wonderful photo.
Terry