Memories of Summers in the Ruch Metroplex

Last weekend my husband and I hopped in our little Nissan and took I-5 South to beautiful Southern Oregon.  Ruch, Oregon, specifically.  It’s the little (almost) town where I grew up in the late 60s and 70s.  (It didn’t even have a post office.  Still doesn’t.)  Ruch (say “Roosh”, please – not “rutch”) is located in the spectacularly gorgeous Applegate valley and boasted (during those years) 2 gas stations, 2 grocery stores, 2 churches, a bar, a hair salon, a trailer court (where I lived my first 6 years) and my small elementary school.  It was populated with farmer, red-neck, timber-worker types and (further away from the busy metro center) pot-smoking, bead-wearing, skinny-dipping hippy types.  (Who didn’t necessarily like each other.) Guess which of these sets I herald from.  (Clue: my dad is a Rush Limbaugh fan.J)

Well, the jaunt south brought back memories of summer in the ol’ hometown …

My summers were spent in the water. The Applegate River was one huge playground.  We would swim, dive and (a few brave/stupid ones – not me, mom!) jump off the bridge at Cantrall-Buckley Park. And be chased by harmless but absolutely terrifying water snakes.  Or if we had a full afternoon, we would grab inflated, old tire inner tubes (remember the smell of those things??) and float on the river with our faces turned up toward the hot summer sun.  And severely scrape our butts on the jagged rocks that caught us by surprise. (Awkward place for band-aids.)  

I also spent hours and days at a time in the pool of my best friend Sheryl.  Above ground pools were pretty new back then (ok… at least in Ruch) and we would swim, talk about boys and lay out on the deck of the pool listening to the Beach Boys and Evie.  (No comments on that combination, please.)   After a dinner of grilled hamburgers and fresh-from-the-garden-corn-on-the-cob, we would watch the sun peacefully set on the other side of the Applegate Valley and then swim late into the hot night playing Marco Polo, tag or whatever.  Ahhh, summer.

In junior high, when I felt especially motivated, I would call a friend, hop on my purchased-with-my-own-money-in-4^th-grade Schwinn 10-speed. (Do you even understand how much $130 was to a 4^th grader in 1974??  Yep.  Still proud of that.)   We would ride 15 miles over the mountain into the neighboring (Rogue) valley and the 15 miles back.  It was grueling and steep going up (oh, my lungs burned!) and very steep, fast and wonderfully adrenaline-buzzed going down.  Clocking 40 mph, logging trucks passing us – WHY am I still alive?  Well, when we arrived in Medford, we would go directly to Bi-Mart. (Why Bi-Mart, you ask? I have absolutely NO idea.  Who really understands the mind of a junior higher?)

My dad owned a Honda 90 motorcycle.  BEST.  VEHICLE.  EVER.  When I was 8 years old, I learned to drive it.  No, not ride it.  Drive it. I was not tall (read: short), and once on the bike, I could not touch the ground.  So I would stand by the motorcycle, put it in gear, THEN I would jump on the seat and turn the throttle and go – all in one simultaneous motion.  Once up and moving on that Honda 90, I was a demon on wheels.  We lived on the side of a mountain that had paths, back dirt roads, deer trails and old logging roads.  I tore them up.  Then I discovered places I could catch air and do some pretty impressive jumps.  And land right side up.  Most of the time. (Remember Bactine?  Went through about a bottle a summer.) 

Well, there you have Connie and a little slice of her childhood summers... Totally fearless. (Except for the snakes.)  Unbelievably stupid.  Oh. And utterly feminine.

Next blog… more about the trip to Ruch and our surprisingly meaningful visit…