It was the rumbling exhale of a nearby horse that finally woke me on the 3rd of July, 1976. Rising mentally from my dream state, I inhaled slow and steady the moist fresh morning air scented with dewy grass and waking soil. When your head is down there against the surface of the earth you realize the shifting that takes place in the whisperings of the morning. I had planted my sleeping bag, as usual, under the wagon bed in order to escape the filtered moisture that distilled through the night. My sister Libby, who has always suffered from a titch of claustrophobia, slept a few feet away in her brown cotton bag on the grass to the side of the wagon.
Weeks before, in the early summer of 1976 our mother had driven us out to Roundhill Park near our home in Pittsburgh, PA. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. Her sister, my Aunt Mary, had called from Idaho to tell us that her friend Zaven Green would be at the park with the rest of the Bicentennial Wagon Train. That whole year, in celebration of the 200 year anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, covered wagons representing each of the 50 united States had been traveling the old trails that were used in the settling of America: the Oregon Trail, the Southern Trail, the Northern Trail , and were joined by other trails, the New England Trail and the Great Lakes Trail. They were pioneers in reverse. At well over 80 years old, Zaven was the oldest wagoneer in the bunch. Renowned for his skill with horses, he had been enlisted to drive the Alaska Wagon, which came down and over through the Oregon Trail. They had travelled at roughly ten miles a day through the temperate months of 1975 and early 1976 on their way to the cradle of America, Valley Forge. The President of the United States, Gerald R Ford, would greet all 50 wagons on July 4th.
Zaven sat atop his wagon, the reigns attached to his obedient team of horses wrapped in his leather-skinned hands, his broken-in felt hat cast a shadow over his face down to his chin. He patted the buckboard and invited us to sit beside him up there in the wagon. That sweet little tingle of "I am special" rose up my spine as I planted my foot, decked in flip flops, on the little wooden step attached to the side of the wagon. The faintly familiar aroma of horse sweat and fresh manure mixed with a bit of new campfire smoke and cigarette smoke that drifted above the crowds of Western Pennsylvanians who came to see the wagon train.
The large circle of wagons began the process of tying down for the night. Horses were led to temporary corrals or tied to posts attached to wagons. Tarps were laid out and slip knots were released, allowing canvas closures to come down behind the wagons. The little girl who always hides inside of me, even though at that point I had turned 18 and graduated from high school, completely embraced the pretend mode. I had always, since I could remember, dreamed of being a pioneer. I had thought I was born in the wrong era. (I know better now.) This was a dream come true! I sat up there on the buckboard pretending all these people walking around us were a futuristic dream, and I was, in reality, sitting beside my husband as we maneuvered our wagon across new and treacherous trails on our way to a land of new opportunities.
You can imagine the yearning I felt when Zaven asked if we would like to ride along with him for a few days. We three girls, Ann Marie, Libby and I, swarmed around our mother like Little Women around Marmee, begging her to let us go. Of course, because she had the heart of an adventurer herself, and she understood the value seizing the moment, she said yes. The next morning she dropped us off before the sun had found its way into the morning sky. A hug and a kiss then off we went with Zaven at the reigns. After a few blissful days Mom met us in another town, forty five minutes away by car and three days travel by wagon. The plan was to pick us up and take us home. But again we wrapped our arms around her and begged her to let us continue. Zaven was happy for the company. Even though it meant I would not be starting that new job that would earn me some money for college, Mom conceded. By that evening Mom and Ann Marie drove off, leaving Libby and me in the care of Zaven, with a case of Campbells chicken noodle soup, a box of saltine crackers, and a large jar of peanut butter. Libby and I lived on that for the next month as we worked our way toward Valley Forge. Those weeks on the trail were filled with charm, and adventure, and memories made with my sister; riding on the wagon bed, our legs dangling off the back, flipping up with every bump and pothole; jumping off to cool off in an accommodating stream or to find a five and dime in some random town square. I learned that I am not a good horsewoman. I bounce up and down when I ride, my legs unaccustomed to the strength it takes true horsemen to ride. Shane, the son of our outriders, who came from Kodiak Alaska, rode his horse ahead of me through the open grassy fields of Eastern PA, teasing me to follow him. Ah, Shane. (sigh)
On the morning of July 3rd we rose early, all of us, well before the sun had dried the dew. We cleaned our wagon, folding everything in neat piles, clearing all garbage, and wiping down even the wagon wheels. It had rained for days before this, and it was quite a task to get everything spic and span. Horses were cleaned and brushed, their tails braided. Polished saddles were cinched around their bellies. Many of the women wore dresses; pretty cotton pioneer dresses with fine cotton print, neatly pressed and packed away at the start of this long journey, prepared for such a day as this. American flags were tied to the wagons.
We all waited until we heard the echoing call of the Wagon Master: "Wagons Ho!" One by one each wagoneer repeated the call, and one by one the sounds of metal and leather and wood working together with the voices of animals and humans joined in a beautiful chorus of liberty. Thousands on thousands of Americans gathered as we rode into Valley Forge, the flags strapped to our wagons floating in the breeze, people clapping and cheering as we passed. We all regained our patriot hearts that day, every participant and spectator.
Later that day we drove to Washington DC, where we reunited with our brother George, who had just that day returned from a two-year mission in Brazil. It was his literal day of independence.
That word, independence, sits in a bed of irony for me. The older I get the more I see that what I perceive as independence is in fact an admission of utter dependence: on myself, on the people who share my values, and most accurately, on my God.
