Every summer, the day after school ended, my mother would hand each one of my sisters and I a large, green black plastic bag. She'd merely hand it over, and say "Pack your clothes." This meant we were leaving for our small cabin in the middle of the New Hampshire woods, with no phone, no TV, and the tiny radio that my parents had convinced us only play "Muzak". We were going until the week before school came back into session because my father was a teacher and this is where we spent our summers. It was a love/hate relationship at any time, and any moment.
But, we'd pack. Haphazardly, tossing all kinds of things that ended up in our dresser drawers since we first bought our spring/summer clothing. I remember finding things in the corner of my wooden drawers that I'd throw in for good measure, because when you're stuck in the woods, sharing a really small room with your two sisters, one never knows what one will need. My second chore was to pack all the writing gear I would need to write to all my friends. I would faithfully write to them, every day almost. They would faithfully write back. Once during the entire summer, if I was lucky. I would walk the mile to the mailbox every day. Every single day. The funny thing was that even though it truly was a mile, and they truly only wrote once, I still was hopeful each and every time I left for the mailbox, and even when I came back empty handed. Because tomorrow the mail carrier would come again, and I would make that mile trek. Yes, it really was a mile to our mailbox. The address was merely RR2, and the town name. So, a mile was a breeze compared to those further down the Rural Route delivery. I packed a calendar, handy for crossing off each day (sometimes I'd add in the hours) that passed because Goddess forgive me if I ever enjoyed a moment in NH with my family. I gathered and packed pens, pencils, small useless pencils sharpeners. A clipboard was imperative, as were numerous envelopes. I wasn't worried about stamps because I could always hit my father up for the 10 cents it cost back then to mail a letter.
Over the next few days we'd assemble the items that were to be packed into the Suburban -- ivory, complete with "wood" paneling. My guitar, and my fife. Yes, I had a fife, and while it's not a common known fact, I could and still probably still can, play my fife along with the John Denver cassettes my parents would play for most of the six hours up there. Honestly, I could not tell you what my sisters packed to take with them. Krissy was only two years younger, Kerry was four and a half years younger. Not a large difference, but being a young teenager, I truly believed that no one other than myself and my friends existed, nor mattered in the grand scheme of things. They had their plastic bags, and a few other assundry items, and I had mine. Mine were important. Theirs got in the way of mine.
Inevitably, we'd leave early in the morning, getting up at six am. I was never sure why we had to leave at this ungodly hour, as we were to spend two and a half months there. Surely a few less hours there and a few more hours of sleep wouldn't have made a difference. Nonetheless, there would be my mother at the kitchen table, dawn breaking through the windows, making everyone's favorite sandwiches, no matter how bizarre they might be. I always had the most bizarre, and she always made sure all the orders were filled to perfection. There would be one large bag of potato chips, and one bottle of soda that had to last us all the way there. There were no stops for water, chips or candy along the way. My mother had her "bag", a cordoroy bag, much like Mary Poppins, that she always, always kept right at her feet during that trip and any trip we took my entire childhood. Among thousands of things, she kept her thermos of coffee. She'd fill it to the brim and that was the only reason my father would stop. My mother would have to use the restroom two times on the six hour trip. He'd complain, but in truth, we were all glad that she had her Mary Poppins bag and that thermos. There were several times that things came out of that bag that unfolded into something the size far larger than our Suburban and brought hours of entertainment. Every few years we might stop at a rest stop and buy those books with the silly questions, and the "magic" pen that you could use to find the answers. Getting this was like a coup de grace. It was a special, special thing, and we knew it, and we never, ever took it for granted. I still love those books, even though I know how they work... They still seem magical to me.
In fact, in truth, green plastic trash bags hold a special place in my heart. I hate that these days they've been deemed suitable for "leaves", mere collections of old, dead leaves. My bag held treasures, hopes and entertainment for months in the greenery of New Hampshire. I won't buy them to put dead leaves in. When I rake my leaves, I lay them back at the foot of the tree from where they fell. Green plastic bags are far too useful, as are those leaves.
Haven't found that perfect Mary Poppins bag yet, but I'm still on the lookout.
