Warm River

Warm River is a favorite picnic and tubing place for my family. It’s about an hour and a half from my front door, and people can camp there. Requisite metal picnic tables dot the wide, grassy banks as do willow bushes where raccoons and skunks like to stave off the heat of summer until sundown. (One year when we camped there overnight, a skunk circled our tent for what seemed like the entire night, and at some point he brought friends that tried to scratch their way in. Afraid to venture out, I peed in a red plastic salad bowl.) If you fish, you can catch brook, rainbow, and cutthroat trout in the slow, shallow water. But beware: the name “Warm River” is horribly misleading, as the water never thinks of approaching tepid, even on the lengthiest, most sun-soaked of dog days. Unless you’re hammered or have fortified waders on, you’re going to have to con some kid to wade out to the middle of the frigid water and flip over rocks to scare the fish out. You might want to offer a twenty.

Despite the icy water, many people go tubing on Warm River because it’s slow, relatively narrow, and easy to climb out of—all you do is grab hold of a willow bush or a stout clump of grasses and pull yourself out. The year of the skunk, my 60-something mom, dressed in a long-sleeve button down, jeans, sneakers, and big dark sunglasses, hopped on a pink inflatable raft and floated down the river like she was Rita Hayworth. We laughed about that for at least a year.

When Kendall, my first grandchild, came along, I bonded with her so deeply it was like she was mine. I began to dream of all the places I’d take her and things we’d do. There was so much I dreamed of sharing with her, so the first time we (the family) took her to Warm River, it was extra special.

There’s a bit of back story that gives weight to this event. Kendall was born in 2013, and I relished all the typical grandma activities—bathing her, feeding her—but my favorite was to rock her in the rocking chair, hug her sweet, squishy body, read to her, and sing “Twinkle, Twinkle” as many times as she wanted.

But she hasn’t had it easy. Her parents split up when she was six months old. To recount all that it entailed would reopen a wound that still festers with a latent bitterness that we have all learned to swallow. Two years ago, however, a new wound tore our family apart. Kendall’s mother ended up in rehab in another city for 30 days due to alcohol abuse; she was self medicating her undiagnosed bipolar disorder. After several terrifying manic episodes (and who knows what Kendall witnessed during these), she was arrested and later entered rehab. Kendall lived with my daughter and me during this time.

At two and a half, she was distraught beyond her ability to articulate. She was alternately listless and depressed, angry and confused, and I wanted to quit my job and hold her 24/7. I was unable to provide solace for more than a little while; Kendall was aware of the hole in her life. She would lay on the floor and repeat “I lost my mama. I lost my mama.” I thought I would break in half. Swallowing my despair and anger was like swallowing a boulder, but I tried to keep my voice light and reassuring as I hugged her and explained that Mama was sick and was trying to get better. Would you like to play with playdough? Would you like to color? Let’s go make some pancakes.

And so you see the smallest thing, like taking her on a road trip to Warm River, became an event, a production. We pulled out all the stops. We had hot dogs and sparklers and things to float on and fire and s’mores. We had music and silliness and night games with a glow-in-the-dark football.

The photo is of Kendall and my daughter (her aunt). It was taken during a hike on this particular trip. It is one of my very favorites of Kendall because it highlights the sweetness in her wide, curious gaze—the roundness of her cheeks, her lashes like Japanese fans. I see the resilience and love in her clear blue eyes. The sun’s rays, like the fingers of God, so clearly shine down on this beautiful child, almost like He is blessing her as He tousles her hair. I’d like to think that’s it’s Him, willing his protection on her, shielding her from the slings and arrows of her outrageous fortune. But I’ve seen too much, carried her through the fallout.