Vacation Magic!

By Sidney S. Stark

Childhood fantasies are important ways we have of communicating with ourselves. Sometimes vacations taken decades later can cause flashbacks that remind us of some of our most significant imaginings. For example, a writer friend of mine always wanted to be a Texas Ranger when he was a child. As a city kid, he wanted his own horse and a ranch out west. A summer trip across the country that included almost all the elements he’d dreamed of nourishes some of his best writing today as well as his happiest real life pleasures. Another had visions of joining Joseph Conrad to live on a tall ship. A year of sailing as an intern on just such a vessel one summer gave her the life she’d always dreamed of and still delights in remembering. Were these real life pleasures stronger because they started with a child’s imaginings? Possibly; I had the same experience one winter on a ski vacation with my parents.

My way of disappearing when I was little was through my imagination. I went to live somewhere else for awhile in my head if I was upset with my surroundings; and books were a wonderful way of priming my inventive powers. Heidi’s alpine cottage in Switzerland supplied my most frequent escape. Everything about Heidi’s life enticed me, from her walks with goats in the high meadow to her bed tucked up under the eaves in her grandfather’s cottage. But I took her life and embellished on it a bit. Bringing it into my world, I decided that living in just such a cottage on a mountain top, where I had to ski down to go to school and could ride a lift back up to come home at night, would give my fantasy the modern twist it needed. It represented the perfect balance between safety and adventure, while being both isolated and connected to nature and civilization. I knew I could never have that cottage or the attendant lifestyle, but that only made them all the more desirable.

One afternoon many years later, my parents informed me we’d been invited to visit friends of theirs after we were through skiing for the day. I was fourteen at the time, and had always been included on my parents’ social forays. The couple we were visiting had a philanthropic name that even someone like me, who struggled with history and current events classes, found recognizable. New York City had skating rinks and universities, as well as numerous buildings named after the family. I envisioned a mansion of gigantic proportions surrounded by hundreds of acres of mountain property and many servants running around to keep everything humming. As we drove over the top of the mountain separating our resort from the neighboring one, I wondered why my parents hadn’t insisted I change out of my ski clothes to visit such wealthy and important people.

Coming down the back of the mountain and nearing the bottom Daddy stopped the car where a small stream, now frozen from winter’s sub-zero temperatures, showed through the trees. But there was no house; just the snow, trees, stream and the narrow rural road we were on. Where was the Versailles I expected? When I asked Daddy the same question he pointed straight up the mountain and said,

“There! In those trees. It’s hard to see in the woods and especially with the snow starting to fall again.”

It was true. I could see nothing but took his word for it. “So how do we get up to this great house in the woods?” I asked him. I could see no road and no way up.

“Oh we’ll use their lift. You can see it over there at the base of the stream. It goes over all this to their door.” His sweeping hand gesture covered the woods and stream.

Things were getting curiouser and curiouser, but the idea of riding a lift to someone’s home seemed vaguely familiar and intriguing. Now I pictured a house like the one in Hitchcock’s North by Northwest on Mt. Rushmore. Something grand and modern would await us at the top of this lift; all glass and soaring roof-lines. Clearly this wealthy couple didn’t want people to know their mansion was up there and that’s why they had the lift with no road for cars. Wrong again. As we climbed out of the little four-person téléphérique the philanthropist’s house greeted us in the most amazing way. It was a tiny A-frame chalet literally built into the side of the mountain. It had a small porch running around the three exposed sides and green shutters on the few small windows I could see. Our hosts appeared in their doorway and welcomed us in. I was introduced and found that they indeed were the famous couple and not the servants, and that this tiny place was the home we’d been invited to. The interior was even more unique than what led us to it.

Inside we found only one main small room that included a kitchen, living room of sorts and dining area. Everything was built from solid exposed timber and there was no furniture other than what we saw built around the walls. A wood stove supplied the heat.

“Everything’s attached” our hostess explained cheerfully. That way I have so much less trouble keeping up with housework. There’s no furniture to move or clean under!”

I curled up on one of the built-in bench’s down pillows with the hot tea she’d prepared for me and stared at the cozy room. It was then that I realized I was sitting in Heidi’s cottage instead of Versailles. At last; the sudden recognition gave me a forwardness I wouldn’t ordinarily have shown on an introductory meeting with my parents’ friends. I asked our hosts where they slept.

“We have one master bedroom for ourselves,” I was told, “but the only other one is a bunk room for our children and grandchildren, and guests when they visit.”

“Could I see it?” I asked without hesitation.

My mother looked surprised and my father laughed and said, “Shy, isn’t she?”

But our hostess didn’t seem to object and led me into what could have been Heidi’s room. The bunk beds lined three walls and had big puffs on each one. They were built from floor to ceiling and layered so the top ones were tucked up under the eves. Small windows peeked out at intervals so some of the bunks had direct views to the mountain. Their lucky occupants could lie there looking at the view of heaven.

“Heidi,” I breathed as I looked around the room.

“Quite,” my hostess said. “I couldn’t think of anyplace I’d rather be than a cottage tucked into a mountain when we built this. I can see you agree.”

How could I tell her my lifelong dream had just come true? I turned around and around in the room, absorbing the enchantment and wondering how I was going to leave this place now that I’d found it. But of course I did, and never went back to see it again as fate would have it. I think that cottage is still there, although I’ve found a way not to try to seek it out. One childhood dream brought to life was enough to show me that imagination can be made even better sometimes. I’m sure the impact of that discovery so long ago was more powerful because it started as a fantasy; and I wonder if my current aversion to the McMansions being built today by those with financial wherewithal came from an early appreciation for small things. Don’t they know how to build cottages anymore? It’s not about money. It’s about magic.

Filed Under: Uncategorized

We welcome you to the conversation! Please share your thoughts.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.