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stretchjournalemerson · 5 years

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Turkey Run Inn

By Audrey Iocca -

Before my parents divorced, there was a place we used to go as a family once a year, every year: Turkey Run State Park. It is a small forest preserve about two and a half hours from where we lived in Illinois. It has a few good hiking trails, an adorable inn, two horses, and a river. This random state park on the edge of Indiana was a place of tradition for us, one of very few places our family had. My grandma was taken to this place as a child; camping, hiking, and playing in the river were cheap ways to entertain farm kids. And when she was old enough to need a cheap way to entertain her farm kids, she took my mom and uncle there. And then, as the cycle goes, my mom took my sister and me.

But it never felt cheap. It never felt like we were doing this to save a little bit of cash. It felt like an adventure.

Looking back, everything in my childhood was like an adventure. When I was young, I grew up on a lot of land, like my mom and grandma before me; 11 acres of grass and a pond was my backyard between the ages of 0 and 10. My sister, Isabel, and I would saddle up on our John Deere battery-powered mini truck and ride out as far as it would take us, or until my parents yelled that they couldn’t see us anymore. We would ride it down to the dock on the pond, lay on our stomachs, and look down at the blue-green fish swimming around, sometimes even dragging our fingers through the murky water that often needed cleaning. When the pond got particularly green, my dad would haul out the little faded blue, tin rowboat. Occasionally, he would take us on the pond, fashioning us with bright orange life vests before he began to tell us the wonders of the world beneath the moss. It was in this rowboat that I first learned about tadpoles and schools of fish, all while my dad sprinkled pond moss remover into the water.

Once a summer my parents would take us across the land bridge to the other side of the pond where the blackberry bushes were hidden. It was something that became tradition over the years: going across the bridge, picking the blackberries, putting them in little baskets. There was nothing better than tilting my head back in anticipation as my mom picked one off the top of the bush before dropping it into my awaiting mouth; it was a blackberry paradise. We felt like Mary and Laura in Little House in the Big Woods, the girls we heard about every night from our mom’s lips before bed.

I never realized then that this was a love project of sorts, our upbringing. I imagine my mom and dad planning this life for us, my mom making the apparitions of her nostalgia come to life through this house that was as close to the farm as she could get. And yet, there is a point where nostalgia is not enough; the gaps in life experience begin to fall in on themselves and suddenly, they need to be filled.

At one point, my mom stopped being at the house with us all the time. My mom no longer chased us through the peony and rose gardens on September afternoons; she watched us become a two-man band from the screened in porch as she scribbled away in her college-ruled notebooks. My mom going back to school was something I didn’t understand when it was happening, and so my memories of this time are very fuzzy: I see the textbooks on her bedside table, I smell more of my dad’s cooking in the kitchen, I hear my parents voices gradually rise each time they fight, I feel the rough fabric of her black robe and play with the tassel on the fancy flat hat. I don’t think my mom regrets being a stay at home mom, but I do think she would have done things differently. She wouldn’t have had her first kid at 22. She wouldn’t have gotten married twice. She would’ve had more of her own life. And I don’t blame her for that. I think she wanted to get far away from that place; she needed to see what else was out there.

***

When I was ten, my parents separated. And when I say separated, I really mean separated. My mom moved Isabel and me to Skokie, Illinois--a Chicago suburb over 200 miles from my hometown where my dad stayed. He got a job as an account tech with the state, sold the house and the land, and opted for an apartment closer to the mall. Just like that, our blackberry paradise was gone.

Our new claim to a half acre hardly felt like an upgrade, but my mom insisted we were on to bigger and better things. She worked part time at the park district as a receptionist for a year before being able to put her MBA to use at the local mall. It was about a ten minute drive from our house. In fact, nothing was more than ten minutes away: the grocery store, my middle school, the bank, the mall, the orthodontist, my friend’s houses. It was like a third grader’s drawing of their street in art class, everything in that town was packed together like the charcoals they would have used to color the picture in with. While there were trees and some parks sprinkled in throughout, Skokie was overwhelmingly gray.

Martin F. Peccia Park was the greenest place I could escape to with my friends. It was a half block of grass complete with an unnecessary amount of “no dogs allowed” signs. Laying in the grass with the sun beating down on my forehead, I am taken out of my city for a moment: the birds chirping, the grass prickleing my bare legs, the breeze blowing through my hair. But with that breeze brings the smell of car exhaust and I am brought right back to reality. The park is surrounded by I-94. Commuters whizz past, their horns overpowering the birds and everything else. The highway is visible from the park: only a chain link fence protected us from the insanity of commuter life, a life my mom would join in a few short years. For some reason she wanted this, wanted to prove to everyone that she could make it here, to this polluted daydream.

At this point, my uncle and grandma had moved away from Springfield as well, both settling in Chicago suburbs a little further out from the city. I guess the consensus among the family was that there was more opportunity in Chicagoland: there were better schools, better jobs, better everything, apparently. As a pre-teen, I didn’t really understand the difference between all those “betters.” School was still school, no matter where I was. But now I think I see what they meant.

At Fairview South Middle School, I was in a class of 80 and at least half were not white, if not more. My class at Farmingdale Elementary school was over 100, and I can remember one asian girl and one black boy. I remember one year, the Skokie school district had so much extra funding that we each got five dollar gift cards to Barnes & Noble in the mail. There was a class at Fairview that taught me Latin roots weekly and incorporated the works of Shakespeare and Homer. I was able to test out of Algebra 1 before high school, along with about two-thirds of my class. Spanish was a requirement for seventh and eighth grade. These were all things that I would not have experienced in Springfield, and my mom was well aware of that because she had stayed there her whole life, without being exposed to any of it.

I think, in the end, whether all this was really better or not, it was a better life in my mom’s eyes. Exposure, education, diversity, wealth. I think they were all things my mom had always wanted for herself, things she never got growing up on a farm in the middle of conservative Illinois.

***

One of my best friends at the time was a girl named Julia who spoke Polish at home and English at school. We would sometimes brave a walk home from school together, usually only on sunny days where it meant enough reward for the hassle. To get home, we had to cross the bridge that took us directly over I-94. I was in Dorothy’s tornado on that bridge, desperately clicking my heels three times waiting for it to carry me home. In a whirlwind of fast cars and heavy backpacks, we finally made our way to the other side.

When we didn’t walk home, we always took the bus. There were five of us in the same grade that always took over the back of the bus. I remember one day I was sitting next to Julia while she stared out of the window when suddenly she started slapping my leg excitedly and yelled: “There’s a deer!” Everyone’s heads snapped to look out the window like it was an exotic zoo animal. But it was just a deer. I saw them every day in my backyard where I grew up, and I could not understand their fascination.

***

When we lived in Skokie, we still went to Turkey Run. It wasn’t every year, but we went. It became the place we would beg to stop at on any road trip that went relatively close. It became the place I wanted to bring friends on long weekends. It became the place I thought I was going to get married. It became the place I knew I would take my children one day.

I want to share the journey there with them, the way I know I’m almost there when the curved road turns straight. After what feels like all day, we finally pass the many canoe and kayak rental shacks, the curved road ends, and there is a brown sign with bright yellow generic font reading “Turkey Run State Park.” I want to share with them what is beyond that sign: the magic of the covered bridge and the punch bowl, the family singing “grandma got run over by a turkey” while hiking Trail 3, the feeling of feet sinking into thick mud and reluctantly rinsing it off in the creek, the beauty of wild animals and how even just their sounds would stop me in my tracks.

***

In 2014, my mom moved us again. By then, my dad had bought a house in Springfield, and we had been driving four hours every other weekend to see him for four years. The driving continued as we started new schools in Naperville, IL. Naperville is complicated for me. It was a happy medium of my two very different worlds. It’s a city of nearly 150,000 with many dog-friendly parks, forest preserves, bike trails, ponds, and geese. It also had a real downtown that contained not one, but two Starbucks and had blocks filled with designer stores like Lululemon, Pandora, and Anthropologie. Once I had my license, it was easy to be more concerned with getting a frappuccino after school than riding my bike through the park. I could also now drive myself to either of two train stations that after seven dollars and 50 minutes had me in the heart of the third largest city in the country.

The high school I attended is ranked in the top 20 in the state of Illinois, having some of the best administrators, teachers, and fine arts directors available. It was a rich area equating to ample funding for the district to be able to provide these things to us. I was lucky to live here. Not just lucky--privileged.

This high school allowed me to fill in my own gaps of knowledge. After taking a history class that taught me the beginnings of all the world's religions, I met a girl that actually practiced Buddhism. And a girl who practiced Hinduism. And another girl who spoke Tamil. A boy who spoke fluent Chinese. I was a tutor for a group of English Language Learning who came specifically here from all over the world. I attended the first ever Women's March in Chicago and reported on the March for Our Lives for my school newspaper. By senior year, I had so much in my college portfolio from leadership positions, to volunteer work, to experiences with diversity that I got into Emerson College in Boston and one of the only undergraduate publishing programs in the country.

I don’t say all of this to brag. I say it because it’s amazing to me how different my life would have been if my mom had not made the choices she did, moving us across the state, leaving behind everything she had ever known.

***

The last time I was at Turkey Run, I was learning how to drive. I like to say I first learned to drive on our bright orange lawn tractor, sitting on my dad’s lap at age ten, barely in control of the steering wheel as my dad’s rough and calloused hands engulfed mine, making sure we didn’t crash. We moved before I got to try using the gas pedal. Eventually, I got my permit and had to figure out how to drive a real car with no one's hands to hold the steering wheel but my own.

We were driving back from visiting my uncle in Viginia when we decided to stop at Turkey Run. He had bought a farm out there--one with a house my grandma moved into shortly after its purchase. We figured the park was kind of on the way back, it would break up our 16 hour drive and let us see a place we hadn’t been in years.

After pulling through the gates, my mom and I switched seats, and I could go wherever I wanted within the park grounds. I remember it was bright out and unusually warm for the season, the sun making me sweat through the windshield. Slowly, I pushed on the gas, and we creeped along the dusty road. There was a fork, left bringing us to the inn, and right bringing us to the horse barn. Without much thought I turned right. We quickly passed the horses, all of us rubbernecking to stare at their sleek brown coats shimmering in the afternoon sun. I had never been past this barn though, and so my curiosity took me to where the road soon turned into uneven dirt, right as the shade from the trees swallowed us into their secret wonderland. After driving through the trees for a while, we reached a loop, my mom explaining to me that this is where the campgrounds used to be. This is where she and her brother, her mom and her dad, would set up tents and look up at the stars. I felt a pang deep in my stomach as I gazed out at the dirt patches in the grass and rotted wooden poles that marked each site. We had always stayed at the inn.

***

When I’m missing my childhood blackberry bushes and large expanse of grass, when I’m regretting the money and time I spent at Starbucks, when I’m sometimes wishing that I had never been brought to the city, I imagine my mom riding in the back of her parents car without a seatbelt on, looking out the window as the curved road turns straight. After passing the gates and reaching the fork in the road, I see her watching the lights of the inn fade away as they drive down to the campground.

It is then I remember all my mom has ever been trying to do is give us a life she never had, a life she dreamed of. And I thank her for it.

Acknowledgements

I would like to first thank Professor Kovaleski Byrnes for giving me this call to write. I’m not sure I ever would have attempted memoir if not for this assignment, and I am so grateful that she presented me with the task. I would next like to thank Kayla and Diti for being amazing peer reviewers and encouraging me throughout the whole revision process; your comments and support was more helpful than you know. I would lastly like to thank my mother. She is an incredibly strong woman who would do anything for her children, and I can’t thank her enough for all she has done for me.

#family #moving #childhood #turkey run #audrey iocca #stretch2019

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