Before the Age of Free Agency

Island Park. When I was a child, the name always called up images of lake villages, rustic inns that could only be reached by boat, and, of course, water everywhere. The reality is much different. Especially today. In December, Island Park is trees and “snow everywhere.”
Our friends the Allens tried to come to our rescue way back in November when we lamented to them how we had gotten ourselves into a position with our kids and Santa Claus that we didn’t know how to get out of. They had the perfect solution: ditch all our Santa Claus adventures at home and go up to their cabin in Island Park, where they would be staying from December 23rd to January 2nd. Instead of trying to figure out what to do this year to bring that Christmas magic home, along with all of the Santa Claus presents, we could make our own Christmas magic in the forests of central Idaho.
At first, the idea seemed exciting, probably because it was so new. Then came the bomb. Our two oldest sons decided they didn’t want to go. It just wasn’t going to be fun. Unfortunately, for them, they are sixteen and fourteen years old, and there are some decisions in their lives that Mom and Dad still insist on making—“for their own good.” This was one of them. In spite of all the grousing and whining about the trip, and even their logical argument that they could feed and water the animals if they stayed home, they didn’t get to stay. As our family grows nearer and nearer that age of no return, when they will of necessity be off into the world, one by one, Debbie and I find it more and more important to continue doing activities together. If we go to a movie, a concert, or anything close to home I can see letting them have their freedom of choice. But with our being gone away from home, and with the chance to experience the outdoors close up and personal, there were no choices but ours. I knew they would have fun. They were the ones who had yet to find out. I have been in close enough contact with my children their entire lives to know what they will and will not like. A bold statement, I guess, but at least in this case it turned out to be true.
We stayed at my mom’s last night, Sunday, which ended up almost being a mistake. It ends up being fairly tough to keep a positive attitude by the time one leaves her house, since in her eyes the world is falling apart so rapidly it can’t possibly last many more years. That may very well be true, but nothing I can do will change it in any big way, so I choose rather to live with it and enjoy life. Bury my head in the sand, if you want to call it that. But this morning when she heard the boys saying they didn’t want to go, Debbie and I became these evil ogres who weren’t giving their children a chance to use their own free agency. We were forcing them against their will to go to Island Park. She offered to drive them the fifty miles back home to Pocatello rather than their having to suffer the next three days being with their family. Grandma is so helpful. After the fairly short but fairly tense argument involving basically telling Grandma that we know our kids better than either she or they themselves do, we piled in the van and headed north.
We stopped for ice cream an hour later in Ashton, by which time everything had already settled down and not a soul in the vehicle seemed unhappy in the slightest about being there. The snow isn’t nearly as deep this year as normal, but it is still beautiful up here, and the beauty grew as we climbed. The rivers sparkled in an incredibly bright December sun, and as we ascended Ashton Hill the boughs of the lodgepole pines and Douglas fir trees bowed beneath the weight of what appeared to be cotton batting infused with a million shattered diamonds.
The forest grew dense, the shadows a deeper purple, especially against the brilliant snow that was catching the sunlight and using it for a blanket. The road was absolutely clear of snow, it was 20 degrees outside, and no day could have been more beautiful. When we topped out onto the plateau, the forests continued to sweep off into the distance, but here and there meadows sparkled with those myriad snow diamonds, and dagger-like icicles hung from the pine limbs, beneath their mothering blankets of snow, and reflected the sun like tiny, warped windows.
At one point the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River crossed under the highway, and here its wide, dark expanse was dotted with trumpeter swans who called to each other across the water. One proud mother pushed a late brood of cygnets we were surprised to see before her, teaching them to swim, as if a young swan doesn’t already know that when it leaves the egg. On the water they floated like white-clad maidens, their long, graceful necks bent like unfinished bridges, their cries speaking of their joy in the day.
Our friends picked us up at a parking area and took our belongings the mile to their cabin. They also took our children. Myself and Debbie, we couldn’t stand the stink of the snowmobiles, and I couldn’t resist the call of the deep forest, now settling into the last couple hours of daylight, with the shadows lying in long blue and purple tendrils across the snow-bound road. So we walked. In spite of the occasional snowmobiles that roared past us, leaving their blue vomit of pollution in their wake, it was a scene of tranquility, with elk, deer, coyote and fox tracks crisscrossing our path now and then. Cold, yes. But in spite of the cold heaven can’t be much more beautiful than this.
Now I’m in our bedroom, and out the window the icicles hang down, some of them ten feet long and touching the ground. The trees, standing straight and perfect in this wind-less paradise, hold tightly to the several inches of snow that are piled on every bough. It’s a scene straight out of a Christmas postcard, lacking only the elk or the deer, or maybe a faraway Santa sleigh careening across the sky. I’m not saying I wish I was out in it, but from inside the cabin it looks pretty near perfect out there to me. Sorry, Grandma. Sometimes you just have to force your kids to do things they don’t yet know they want to do. I wish she had forced her own kids a few more times than she did. Who knows what fun we might have missed out on?
Imagine the forsaken horizons I never discovered because I was allowed, in my laziness and indifference, to exercise my free agency and do my own thing. Admit it. Sometimes kids just don’t know what they want. That’s when Mom and Dad have to take over.

(As a side note, Debbie and I had to go back to Pocatello for the retirement party of three fellow firefighters. Our two boys who hadn’t wanted to go in the first place begged to stay with the Allens, and we agreed to come back for two more days at the end of their stay. The boys stayed, had an incredible time, and are probably hooked for life. And our three dachshunds (wiener dogs, if you prefer) also loved the snow, even when it was a foot over their heads. That one I wouldn’t have bet money on.)