Spring is Coming! - Canoecopia

72
“Rooted in the outdoors since 1976”
Sketches of a Semi-Normal
WHITNEY BUSH
Childhood
Usually memories for me are silent. An image takes shape in my
head and the details are slowly added as if my mind is the illustrator
for an animated movie. First there is the pencil sketch, slowly a
steady hand adds colors and setting and observers until the picture is
complete, as well as the feeling that accompanies it.
When I say sound I don’t mean music. I mean the choking of a
lawn mower when the grass is too wet, or the rusted squeak when you
turn on the hose. My memories are full of images. Of colors and lights
and faces. But there is one exception; one noise that acts as a catalyst
as well as accompaniment.
I heard that sound last week as my roommate pushed hard on the
clutch of her old jeep and rolled right and back, throwing the car into
reverse. As we backed out of our parking spot I heard it.
There is no sound quite like a manual car accelerating backwards.
There’s the hum of the motor which becomes a whir and as you
speed up the pitch grows higher and louder. I hear that noise and the
illustrator beings sketching in my head.
First there is the car itself that makes the noise. An old blue Corolla
wagon affectionately named Blue Car. Above the driver’s door handle
white sticker letters spell out “EXPERIMENTAL.”
It’s funny how many people believed that. Maybe it was just one
tollbooth worker, but still. Then there is the Yakima roof rack, which
seems like it was just a natural part of the car. Now the illustrator
begins to outline the lake and the boathouse. We find Blue Car facing
the lake, just above the dock and boat ramp.
Lake Wingra is 339 acres, fed by a spring. It’s small enough that no
motors are allowed but big enough that when we paddle on the more
western half, by Big Spring, the cattails and the old beaver lodge, we
aren’t bothered by the people swimming or fishing on the far eastern
shore near Henry Vilas Zoo. There the water leaves and begins its
journey down Wingra Creek, on its merry way to a string of rivers
and lakes, maybe all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, if it’s feeling
ambitious. But we don’t really care about that.
The illustrator keeps sketching and in the picture in my mind the
sun is getting ready to set. It was usually evening when we went
there. Blue Car was as close to the lake as you could get and Dad
was unloading canoes and setting them on the grass. Then there is
the noise that brought us here as Dad, or sometimes Mom, reverses
back to the area designated for parking. I created a contradiction in
my mind. Even though I could see we had the lake to ourselves and
I loved that fact, I still assumed this was how every other four year
old girl would spend her evenings: in a lilac canoe custom made for
her and her birthday with sunflower print Tevas, pig tails and her dad
teaching her the j-stroke.
I’ve realized that just because I learned something when I was little
doesn’t mean everyone did. My sophomore year in college, I was
talking about beavers with my good friend. No, I don’t remember how
the topic came up, but considering I study Wildlife and Wildlands
Conservation it’s not really unexpected.
We were discussing Christmas tree ornaments, specifically one that
has been on our tree forever— a beaver on snowshoes. I told her how
disappointed I was that Farm & Fleet hadn’t double-checked their