I was seven when my parents piled us into the station wagon for a ride over the Cascade Mountains to Great Uncle Jim’s for the Apple Blossom Festival. One of Mom’s cousins was supposed to be Parade Grand Marshal.
It was 1965 and, like today, Washington was king of American apple production. Wenatchee was at the center of it all, the Apple Capital, if you will. Apple blossoms are literally a promise of continued prosperity, so the festival was, and still is, a pretty big deal: parades, beauty queens, carnivals, arcade games, Chamber of Commerce speeches.
I don’t remember any of that. I can’t even recall which cousin rode at the head of the parade.
My only memory is Uncle Jim. His grin made me feel like I was the only person in the world who mattered. And I got to ride in the front seat of that Chrysler land yacht he drove around town.
“Hey Will, push that button there for me, would ya?” He pointed to a white gadget on the dash as he eased into his driveway. At the touch of a finger, my whole world changed. I watched, shocked, as Uncle Jim’s garage door tilted open while he sat proud, chuckling behind the wheel.