Holy Cow

I keep coming by to the edit page on this post with every intention of writing about this photo, which is one of those images that becomes iconic in a family -- the pic of Che and I in the cooler has been in various frames -- dimestore models upgraded over time to the fancy modern kind with the bevel-cut mats -- in various places since I was four or so.

That cooler has almost talisman status from my childhood. Bright yellow Coleman with a white plastic top. Metal handles. Remember them? Bumpy texture that inevitably retained dirt from campgrounds across the midwest, despite frequent hose-downs. Pop-off white plug to drain the melted ice and spilled beer.

The situation in this photo: the cooler had recently found itself sitting in the back guest room that Che and I used for Saturday-morning cartoon watching. Not sure how, but I suspect it was related to my father. My mother is just a little too organized to not ensure that the cooler makes it back down to the garage.

It then became a carriage -- there were imaginary horses and somewhere, not in this shot, but somewhere, there were two long pieces of fluffy pink yarn I had fashioned into harnesses. We were trotting over the river and through the woods for a couple of hours of early-morning cartoons before mom and dad stumbled upon us, sleepy-eyed.

I don't ever remember Rachel being this young. She was a little person to me already, at this point in our lives. A co-conspirator. But this is clearly evidence to the contrary.