KIP OCASEK

Life’s experiences come and go, often with little or no fanfare. But sometimes, a big moment comes crashing down on us – a moment we can never forget. These big moments become core memories and are stored neatly away for recall later. I’ve had a few of these big moments. My first real kiss when I was a strapping 13-year-old kiddo is one of my favorite. My knees still get weak thinking about that moment. My girlfriend and I were returning from a daylong swimming activity. Just before we dropped her off at home, I seized the moment! Later, I married that wonderful woman.

Altogether, I have a handful of these core memories stored away. Sometimes when I need a little pick-me-up, I daydream about some of those moments and relish the recollections and events surrounding them.

One of my core memories is cause for yearly celebration. Each October around the first week of the month, I fix a big pot of my favorite chili and a pan of cornbread. Before eating, I say a little prayer and thank God for the blessing of good parents and the meager circumstances wherein I was raised.

This is the story behind this core memory and the reason it’s cause for celebration each October.

In 1972, I was an eight-year-old kid living in Central Idaho. My family was considered poor according to socio-economic standards of the time. We lived in a small three-bedroom house that my grandpa had built years before. He bragged that he built that house with nothing but a hammer, a plumb-bob, and a Spirit level. The living room and kitchen were separated by a giant rock and hardwood divider that housed a huge potbellied stove. That was our only source of heat during those harsh, frigid Idaho winters.

A couple times each year during the summer and early fall, dad, my brother and I would pick up a dump truck load of ends and pieces from the sawmill in town. Then we would dump the wood in the yard beside the house. To a young kid, those loads seemed to be half the size of our house! It was my brother’s and my job to rick that wood so it would quickly dry and be ready to burn in the stove.

Ricking wood is an art form. For those who are not familiar with this process, it simply means stacking the wood in a length and crossways format in seven- or eight-foot stacks so it will dry. Green lumber does not burn well. After ricking the wood, we would usually throw a tarp over the stacks to protect it from the snow and rain. We had no garage or barn in those days.

I hated ricking that wood; I think my brother hated it about as much as I. It was hard work and the cold, snowy weather made the task even more horrible.

On one particular day, after a couple hours of ricking, my brother and I had worked ourselves into a fury. We were sick of being overworked and underpaid! According to our Idaho math, we were responsible for nearly 100 percent of the work being done around our place. We had slaved-away in the cold, while mom and dad and our lazy sisters sat in the warm house – probably sipping hot chocolate and eating donuts! And to add to our misery, we had missed Hee Haw, our favorite weekend TV show! We two boys had reached the breaking point! Our task master parents needed a wake-up call!

So, as we threw the last few chunks of wood on the stack, we laid out our plans. We went in the back door and gathered our sleeping bags, a few blankets, our rifles and knives, and a gunnysack full of canned food out of the pantry. We decided we were gonna run away and “live off the fat of the land” to quote John Steinbeck’s story. We had a place picked out along the bank of the Salmon River about a mile away. We were both euphoric thinking about our parents crying themselves to sleep because their ‘free labor’ had quit and was GONE, never to return. That’d teach them!

Just as my brother and I were about to head off into the sunset and embark on our new lives living down by the river, dad called that it was time for dinner. “Get in here before it gets cold!” he yelled. We looked at each other and decided one more meal with these ungrateful people would probably be alright.

We threw our stuff down and walked into the kitchen. The table was set with a giant pot of mom’s best chili and a huge pan of hot cornbread, fresh out of the oven. A bucket of honey and fresh, hand-churned butter sat next to it.

We ate fast; there wasn’t much daylight left. That chili and cornbread was the best meal I had eaten since dinner the day before. Mom was arguably the best cook in the whole state of Idaho!

After dinner, I raced into the back room, gathered my gear and was headed for the door. My brother held back and had a contemplative look on his face. “Moving down by the river would teach mom and dad a lesson they desperately deserve, but you gotta admit, we will never eat this well if we run away.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! “What’s wrong with you? I asked. “We have a plan, and we’ve got to stick with it! Are you just gonna give in, all because of food? We can’t let these people win!” I pleaded.

“No, man, I’ve decided I’m not running away. Tonight’s dinner changed my mind. You go if you want; but I’m staying. I like good food!”

And just like that, my brother and I traded in what would’ve been a happy, contented life living down by the river for a continued life of oppression and sorrow…just so we could eat well.

Over the years, as I’ve matured past my 8-year-old self from 1972, I thank Heavenly Father every day for parents who did not sanitize my environment. Even though I was just a kid, they expected me to do hard things. In that mountain valley of Central Idaho, I learned fortitude, responsibility, skills, and a work ethic that has been foundational my whole life.

So, now you know the backstory of one of my fondest, big memories – why, every year around the first part of October, I celebrate those times 50-some years ago with a big dinner of chili and cornbread! Sometimes in life you just gotta recognize and celebrate things of intrinsic worth.