There are so many obligations in my hectic life right now: working a full-time job, attending three classes this semester, a brand-new home, one step-daughter in college and the other ready to leave for the Air Force before Thanksgiving. There are times when I allow the dizzying pace of my life to steal away my good sense, so I dream of a place of my youth where my family and I camped. I was free to run through the woods and release the anxiety of the week. Whenever I need to escape my reality, I drift away to my years at Lincoln Trail State Park in Marshall, IL.
The 90-mile venture from our home to the park always felt like an eternity. The anxiety and anticipation of our arrival would build as we left behind the frantic pace of the city. It did not seem to matter that all eight kids were squeezed in the back of my father's pick-up truck like a can of neatly packed sardines. Once the sweet smell of fresh country air filled our nostrils, the energy level expanded like a balloon being filled with helium. We knew that it would not be long before we could escape all that bound our young, carefree bodies.
The excitement reached a feverish pitch as we finally turned right off Route 1 into the park. The winding gravel road always looked like it was carved out of the surrounding wheat fields. I remember feeling like we were driving across the ocean as the top of the fields swayed in unison like waves rippling across an open sea. The site of Mr. Cooper's farm always brought me back to reality, especially when we passed the plot where his faithful wife of 65 years laid to rest peacefully amongst the wild flowers.
My father would carefully bring the trailer to a grinding halt next to the kelly green ranger's station so he could select our weekend campsite. I always held the rangers in such esteem as they looked so smart in their freshly starched uniforms. We were always nervous as he spoke to the rangers because we had a favorite section where we liked to camp, and we just had to have it.