From my earliest days as a beachgoer at Gunnison Bend Reservoir, a.k.a, the Rez, I have loved sand, water, and sun. When I was in my older kidhood, I rode my bike the 6 miles to the western-most shore of the Rez every day of summer when I had time, unless my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless had a day off work. If she did, she drove us out to the water to bake under the desert sun on our bigly beach towels. Ah, the smell of Coppertone coconut oil lotion sizzling on our skin.
On the beach, we listened to static-y AM radio stations broadcasting out of Provo, on a clunky transistor radio fueled by D-size batteries. It weighed as much as a jackhammer. We read magazines and paperbacks we had bought at Service Drug or the Rexall, and we drank Tab and Diet Rite Cola—in glass bottles. We ate Clover Club potato chips with Nalley’s dill pickle dip. I had a one-person blow-up raft I lazily paddled across the Rez. I had a goal of crossing over and around the bend to the Sherwood Shores side of the Rez in my little raft, but I never did for some reason. I’m not crying about it, or anything. It was never a Bucket List kind of goal.
The wind at the Rez—as in Millard County, in general—seemed to breeze up almost every day around 5pm, if it hadn’t already been stirring sand up earlier. When the Rez began to get choppy, it was time to get home for a quick supper. I was always eating summer dinner in a perpetual hurry. I had places to be. I had to head uptown on my bike to Delta’s outdoor swimming pool for the evening swim session—to splash in yet another local body of water, and to walk-don’t-run-by-the-pool under what was left of the sunlight on perfect summer days. Even as a child, deep in my skin, I could feel the burn of vintage moments passing.
Holiday Tie Tally: 60 Neckties. 10 Bow Ties.
#amaskadaykeepsthecovidaway #wearthedangmask
