Recently my sister Bec and I got to talking about family vacations. As children, we had many of them. I have mentioned before that since she and her family lived away from family for much of their lives, their family vacations often consisted of visits to see Nana and Poppo in Colorado. Some of her family’s best memories are visiting them during their years in Dillon, Colorado. She shared this journal entry with me, and agreed to let me share it with you.

Journal entry, Wednesday, July 11, 2001

They say “Home is where the heart is.”  I grew up in Columbus, Nebraska, 15+ years in the same house.  I only spent a few weeks each summer from 1980-1990 in Silverthorne, Colorado—Summit County—but that is where my heart is.  Summit County:  Dillon and Silverthorne are nestled in a valley.  Dillon Lake, which has to be one of the most beautiful sites in the world, reflects the Rockies in its usually calm waters.  When the sun shines on that lake, it is spectacular.  The sun is hot, the air is cool, and the smell of pine drifts on the breeze.  Lunches by the lake are never to be forgotten.

Every summer I would pack up the kids and head to Colorado for a couple of weeks.  Sometimes we flew, but for three years in a row, we drove.  That’s right, 1500 miles at 55 mph, one driver, two kids.  Some of the best memories of my life.  We would drive 12 hours a day for three days, with few stops.  One year, we listened to Michal Jackson’s Thriller tape the whole way.  When we finally reached the Colorado border, we would shout “HooRay!”  Our first strained glimpse of the mountains got the same cheer.

But, coming down the hill from the Eisenhower Tunnel and seeing Silverthorne spread out below, circled by the peaks, was worth every fast food meal and nasty rest stop.  We would cruise down Highway 6, take a left into Willowbrook, and turn into my parents’ small but wonderful home at 222 Woodchuck Court.  My mom—Nana—would be waiting for us, always with something aromatic on the stove for supper.  If we arrived earlier in the day, we would surprise her at work at Colorado Drug and then walk to King Sooper to shock Popo, behind the bakery counter.  What would follow were weeks of bliss.

Mornings in the mountains are cool, even in July.  Nana always got up early and I would wake to find her at the stove, maybe making soup for lunch or browning something for supper.  I would climb onto a stool at her counter and we would chatter until she had to leave for work.

By mid-morning the three of us were ready for a visit to the shopping center.  Mom would be busy in the drugstore, unpacking shipments or waiting on customers, usually tourists—turkeys, as she called them.  (Occasionally I would hear the distinctive accent of a visitor from the Lone Star State and I would have to smile.  “Texas turkeys” were mom’s least favorite people.)  Sometimes if she was working stock in the back room, she would regale us with her latest chipmunk stories.  “Chippies” were the bane of her existence, as she fought a never-ending battle to keep them out of her Reese’s and Peanut Cluster candy bars.  She would erect little barricades to keep them out, but they always foiled her.  Kate would beg to stay and “help Nana” but usually the three of us would walk across the parking lot to wish Popo good morning.  Bakers go to work early, so he was always long gone by the time we got out of bed.

The kids would fly to the back of the store, where Popo and his crew would be working on filling the cases with bread, rolls, and cakes before the noon rush.  Chocolate chip cookies were part of the ritual, and Erik would beg to cut or roll or mix something for Popo.  Eventually everyone had to get back to work, so we headed back to the house and Trent Park.

If there’s a better place to play tennis anywhere in the world, I’d like to see it.  Trent Park, consisting of a small baseball diamond and tennis courts, sits at the entrance to Willowbrook.  A small creek stocked with fish (for 15-and-under only, please) bordered the playing field and courts.  Erik and I would bat the balls around, not really playing games, but enjoying the activity.  Often, our balls would be errant, flying out over the high fence and into the pond or the Blue River.  We would fish them out, undaunted.  We just couldn’t get over looking at the mountains all around.  No Wimbledon winner took more joy in tennis than we did.

Soon it would be time for lunch.  We would pick up Nana, drive to Dillon, and get meatball subs from Mad Munchies.  Down a few blocks were picnic tables that sat on the shore of Lake Dillon.  Often, it would be starting to cloud over but still sunny, and we would drip marinara sauce and gaze at the lake.  Erik and Katie would inevitably climb down the steep bank to skip rocks or wade in the icy, snow-melt water.  We always thought Mad Munchies made the best meatball subs in the world, but maybe it was just the ambience.

As I sit here today, flooded with memories, I can’t help but feel that I’m home.  I’ve been all over this country and many parts of the world, but no place has brought me greater joy and contentment than this spot. My mom loved the lake, and having lunch with her daughter and grandchildren gave her so much happiness.  This is home, because my heart is here, in the mountains, by the lake, with Mom and Erik and Katie.