Casper
When I
was two years old, my family moved to Casper, Wyoming, where my dad was born
and raised (for the most part), and where a number of my dad’s family members
still lived. This is where my first and best (and probably also worst) childhood
memories are rooted. Most people have scarcely even heard of Casper, let alone
been there or desired to go there. Indeed, it is a small town, like most in
Wyoming (although it is the second largest in the state), and if I visited it
for the first time today with no other connection to it, I probably wouldn’t
have much to write home about. Nevertheless, knowing it from the inside and
from the perspective of a young child, I can say it is near and dear to my
heart. I have too many memories of Casper to share in one blog post. The
following are just a few of the best ones.
This is actually in Yellowstone, not Casper, but I just love the buffalo in Wyoming!
I don’t
know if it’s a matter of era, small-town culture, or some combination thereof,
but I remember spending lots of time outside as a kid in Casper and knowing
almost all of my neighbors. Frequently, random kids in my subdivision would
just come up to my sister, Meghann, and me on the front lawn and start playing
with us, as if we were old friends. The reverse of this happened often, as
well, and it was not unusual for us to go door-to-door at houses where we had
seen kids our age, asking for a playmate. Meghann and I had perfected the art
of lawn gymnastics, believing our shaky cartwheels, messy round-offs, and clumsy
somersaults rendered us as talented as Dominique Dawes and Kerri Strug. We had
also perfected the art of living room ice skating, for that matter, and we
excitedly practiced our routines whenever the Winter Olympics rolled around or
we got into a “Christmas-y mood.” Although we both had tragic short haircuts
that always got us mistaken for boys, I was the one that always got stuck being
“the guy.” Given that I had neither the size nor the strength to fling Meghann into
pseudo-triple salchows, I’m sure my parents got quite a kick out of this. Blame
it on my haircut, constant comments that I had “such beautiful eyes for a boy,”
or binary gender norms themselves, but I was DESPERATE to be feminine as a kid.
I recall putting my 1990s turtlenecks on my head and letting the sleeves
gracefully dangle in front of my shoulders so that I could pretend I had long
hair. I remember secretly putting on my mom’s makeup (what girl didn’t?) and
feeling shameful when she said she could still see remnants of her eyeliner on
my lids. I remember memorizing the lyrics of “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid, and singing them
with angst in the bathtub—she may have wanted to be a human, but I wanted so
badly to be her! Despite the ridicule I constantly received for my appearance
and tom-boyish attributes (by the way, did I mention I was the only girl on a “coed”
soccer team? Yeah, that was fun.), I had a really great childhood, and Casper
was a great little place to grow up.
Meghann and me on my fourth birthday. I usually enjoyed sharing the attention with her, and she gladly accepted it!
Some of
my best memories from Casper are from Casper Mountain, a small mountain
basically nestled within the city, which takes only about ten minutes to get to
by car from the center of town. We frequently went up to the mountain for summer picnics and day trips,
and after my siblings and I moved away to Washington, we always begged our dad
to take us up there when we stayed with him during the summer. We especially enjoyed
buying a loaf of Wonder Bread at the grocery store and driving to Milo’s house.
Milo was an old man who lived on the edge of Casper Mountain and was known for
having hordes of white-tailed deer outside his house, as he routinely fed them
himself. We would perch next to his garage at twilight (the best time to catch
deer roaming and grazing before they settle in for the night), roll down the
window, and call, “Here, deer-y, deer-y!” Bread was their favorite snack, but
they ate just about anything we happened to have on hand: Neccos, cereal,
saltine crackers, trail mix, candy cigarettes. Although they were basically
just hogs who were using us for grub, I felt a special connection with the
deer. Every time one let me touch its wet nose or velvety antlers, I felt it
was sending me a personal message: “I love you! Forget boundaries between
nature and humanity, I let you into my world!” Since then, Milo and passersby
like ourselves have been cautioned to not feed the deer, as it interferes with
their natural eating habits and self-sufficiency. For that reason and other much sadder ones, it’s not as easy to see deer wandering around Milo’s house
anymore, but there are still many other reasons to visit Casper Mountain. My
stepmom’s father built a family cabin towards the top of the mountain when
she was a kid, located right next to the sprawling Bear Trap Meadow. It is a
small and humble abode—no cable TV, no bedrooms, just a vaulted open living
room with a kitchen, a bathroom, and a loft. My dad and stepmom have taken care
of the cabin for a while now, and my siblings and I have had the pleasure of
staying there during several summer vacations. I love that it is simple and
isolated enough that all we have to do is enjoy our beautiful surroundings and
each other’s good company. It’s especially fun to stay there during mid-summer,
when the Bear Trap Summer Festival, a local bluegrass music festival, is
happening in the meadow nearby. The festival is a lot of fun, complete with
fattening BBQ and comfort food, cheap beer, great music from local musicians,
and a carefree crowd who loves to get up and dance. Yes, it is a little bit
white trash, but it is the best kind of white trash. The people-watching is one
of my favorite parts of the festival! To this day, when I think of summer, I
think of Casper Mountain. The smell of a campfire or the glimpse of wildflowers
always takes me back there and fills me with pure contentment. I’m sure it
always will.
We ran into a pretty big herd of deer up on Casper Mountain last Christmas.
Dad and me at Bear Trap Summer Festival in July 2008
In
fact, many of my best memories of Casper are set in the summertime—probably
because after the six years we lived there, most of my return trips were during
the summer. Another place that I unequivocally equate with summer and happiness
is Alcova Lake. Alcova Lake is situated about an hour southwest of Casper, and
my grandparents always had a lakeside trailer there when I was growing up. This
is a summer hot spot—literally and figuratively—for many Casper residents
because it’s a great place to go swimming, fishing, and boating, and they also host
a pretty cool firework show off the lake on the 4th of July. Many
folks own a trailer near the lake, while others drive in with their RV’s or
just stay or camp out for the weekend. My siblings and I spent many days and
nights at my grandparents’ trailer as kids, and we were never bored. We
fashioned the trees and thorn bushes next to the trailer into a makeshift fort,
where we spent literally hours per day in our own little world of domestic
bliss. My grandpa cut some plywood for us to nestle into the branches as a
table, and my grandma gave us some old plastic dishes to use in the “kitchen.”
After realizing the fort was a great way to get us out of their hair for long
chunks of time, my grandparents gradually helped us add more and more trinkets
to our fort. We were thrilled when my grandpa crafted us a coffee table out of
the cheap wood he stored under the deck and when my grandma let us steal her
plastic grocery bags to use as flags alerting would-be trespassers. Of course,
this wasn’t the only activity we indulged in during our stays at Alcova Lake. One
of our favorite rituals was walking to the marina to get Flinstones Push-Ups
and pointing out all the wild lizards and rabbits we spotted on the way. I was
one of those weird kids that liked collecting rocks, so I would carefully
uncover the best pieces of quartz and obsidian I could find in people’s yards.
(People really didn’t have “yards,” but rather rock beds, since the climate
there is too hot and dry to feasibly maintain a lawn.) I would take them home
and put them in Ziploc bags full of water, marveling at their sheen. At least
once a week, we would hit the lake on my grandpa’s pontoon boat to go fishing.
The lake is filled with various kinds of freshwater fish, but mostly rainbow
trout. Some days, we would find just the right spot, or as my grandpa said, “hold
our mouths right,” to catch our limit for the day in a matter of a couple
hours. Other days were less lucky, but the thrill of the potential catch and
time spent bonding with my grandpa, my dad, my uncle, my aunt, and whoever else
joined us, was well worth it. I was never much for eating the trout, and
watching my dad and grandpa gut them and throw their innards into the lake for
the sea gulls to gobble up was one of the most disgusting sights of my life. Nevertheless,
I had a strange obsession with poking the fishes’ eyeballs. That’s right, dead
or alive, I loved to dab my little finger on those poor souls’ jelly eyeballs
and watch them jiggle—to the amusement of my entire family. The memories I have
from Alcova Lake are really endless, and it will always remain a cherished place
in my life. Before my grandpa passed away at 66 from lung cancer, he requested
to have his ashes spread out across Alcova Lake, especially in his favorite
fishing spots. My dad and his siblings did just that, and whenever we go back
to those spots, we think of my grandpa sucking in his cheeks and telling us we’ll
catch lots of fish if we just “hold our mouths right.”
My grandpa's memorial bench, which overlooks Alcova Lake  | ||
| View of Alcova Lake from my grandpa's bench |
