There used to be a path over a hill, that I remember well. It was an important part of my growing years.
As I mentioned before, our family home sat on the hill in Othello. My parents also owned the adjoining lot which ended the block. The lots sloped a bit. We could walk down the street from our house to the end of the vacant lot, cross the street, and stand on the crest of the hill. The entire hill was vacant from our street to Main street.
The path I’m speaking of was in the middle of that hill and led downtown. At the foot of the hill was the first building – the post office. The rest of the business buildings spread out from there in different directions.
I remember at a very young age, walking to town with my mother. Our little dog Fluff, who I’ve mentioned before, would follow us to the top of the hill, then stop, sit and refuse to go any further. Fluff would be waiting, in the middle of the path, when we came back up the hill.
If I close my eyes and think for a moment, I see myself as a child. I can feel the soft sandy dirt, puffing up through my toes, as I run barefoot over the hill on a warm summer day. I went down that path at least once a day, and sometimes two and three times. As soon as I was old enough, I was the one that usually got the mail, and was very often Mom’s legs, especially during canning season. To me, then, it always seemed as though she never had enough of what she needed. Maybe that’s why I was such a skinny, healthy kid.
My Dad took this path each day he went to work. I met him so many times, at the top of the hill, as he returned from his day on the job. We would talk as we finished the walk to the house. Always available to listen, he was my most important reference for life. Lucky me!
That well worn path made a perfect sled run, when we had the right amount of snow. When the snow came, all the kids in town came to that hill with their sleds. The older boys would build a big bonfire at the top, and though many of us had eaten dinner, we always brought a potato to roast in the fire. I slid down that hill from the time my brothers took me for my first sled ride, until my last year in high school.
I got my first kiss on that path, and a Christmas gift from the boy who lived across the street from me. I was fourteen. It was a crisp, winter evening, bright with stars, and so still, I could feel the snow crackle underfoot.
How did we kids know when we were supposed to meet each other, without any prior communication? We didn’t use the phones like the teenagers of today do. I just knew I needed to go for a walk and there he stood on the path at the top of the hill, waiting for me. We outgrew our puppy love, but never our friendship.
It was on that path, down over that hill, I would go to Grandma’s hotel, anytime I wanted to. Often I would be with one of my cousins and we would come home after dark. We used to try to scare each other with ghost stories, each trying to outdo the other. By the time we got to the top of the hill we’d be out of breath from running away from whatever we imagined to be chasing us.
At dinner time one Spring evening, I ran as fast as I could down the path to the back door of Kneppers Variety Store to get some Unguentine for my little nephew. He’d pulled on the cord to the coffee pot and though I caught it, some of the hot liquid spilled on him. My sister-in-law screamed out my name. I felt sure she thought I’d knocked the pot over on him. I sobbed as I ran down the hill, so afraid he was badly hurt. Fortunately, his burn was not a serious one.
A young boy in our group had a most wonderful voice. During the summer, in the early evening he’d stroll up the path singing “There’s a Gold Mine in the Sky” and other songs of the day. I remember that one so well, because it was a favorite of mine. His voice rang out so clearly that by the time he reached the top of the hill, his song had brought us all out to meet him. In a way he was our “pied-piper.” He would sing for us for a while and then we’d all play street games.
Many an early morning I traveled the path, with members of my family, to the train depot for our trips to Spokane or the Coast. In the wee hours of the next morning, we were back on it again carrying with us our treasured purchases. How good our own beds felt after a trip like that.
It brought me home on weekends from school in Spokane. It was on that path and up over the hill, I brought the young man who is now my husband, to meet my family for the first time.
Various buildings cover the hill now, so there is no trace of the path left. Change is a given, and hopefully progress is good, yet I miss that path, over that hill, and I’m grateful it was one of my privileges to enjoy the wondrous free space it offered.