During August of 2013, I spent most of my waking hours sitting with Mom.

She was dying.

Just weeks before, in July, I had traveled from my Fresno home to her apartment in Sacramento to help celebrate her eighty-eighth birthday. We had a lovely, relaxing weekend—which included a fun visit with her older sister—and never once talked about her health. Other than the expected physical concerns of someone in their eighties, she continued to walk for exercise, ate her usual three simple meals a day, and kept in touch with friends and family.

Within days of my birthday visit, Mom learned that she had stage four cancer. Because her oncologist said that her cancer seemed nearly “everywhere,” she never had a specific diagnosis.

Though every August day contained more uncertainty and helplessness, there were upbeat moments. As my sisters and I sat by her hospital bed, we shared a little laughter, whispered hopeful prayers, recalled different versions of the same memories. At some now forgotten time between her ability to talk and when she started taking drugs that alleviated pain but eliminated communication, Mom revealed that . . .

They had a honeymoon! (A bit of family history I never knew.)

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Mom was sixteen (yes, sixteen) and Dad twenty-six when they married in July of 1942. Eight days after their wedding, the bride celebrated her seventeenth birthday. My father had volunteered to join the Army Air Corps in 1940, and would eventually be assigned to Castle Army Base near Merced, California. According to family legend, he—probably along with many of his Army buddies—made their way to local churches. After all, a world war was underway. Faith, prayers, and God’s guidance provided hope. Worship offered respite from the grim reports of fighting and dying that spanned the globe.

Well, okay, a visit to a church also meant checking out the girls in the pews.

Based on pictures, Dad was a slender, six-footer who looked darn good in a uniform. Based on pictures of Mom at fifteen, she was a cute, chubby, smiling teenager. But my father arrived at Mom’s church when she had become a beautiful sixteen-year-old woman. What a difference a year can make!

In the time of war, some personal decisions come quickly. There was not much time between a first date and a wedding day for my parents.

In the time of war, many decisions were made by generals that meant newlyweds like my parents might move in a week or month. Who knew? You did what you were told. My parents, like so many during World War II, would live in a variety of places: Florida, Washington D.C, New York, and more. While Dad was never sent overseas to combat zones, he was always at the mercy of the next new assignment.

With whatever I recollected about our family’s modest history, I had always assumed my parents never had a chance for a honeymoon. The war. The orders. The uncertainties.

In our chats during 2013’s August, Mom shared information that I’d never heard before.

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Though my parents had wanted children right away, it would eight years of marriage before my older sister was born. With me holding her hand, with nurses passing in the hospital hallway, and with open curtains revealing trimmed shrubbery and a busy parking lot, I learned something I didn’t know.

“Before we knew I was finally pregnant, we’d started paperwork for adoption,” Mom told me.

On another day, in that same hospital room, Mom’s voice strengthened when she spoke about my younger sister. My parents longed to be parents and the eight-year wait for my older sister had been frustrating. I would come along a couple of years later. But then, nearly eleven years after my birth, with Mom’s fortieth birthday looming, along came my younger sister.

We sometimes joked—okay, I sometimes joked—that my sister had been a “bonus baby,” or a “mistake,” or . . .

“She was planned,” Mom emphatically stated from her hospital bed.

Mom didn’t want to leave any doubt. Maybe she had politely laughed at my attempts at humor in prior years, but this was now a serious time. My younger sister was planned.

And then she quietly mentioned their honeymoon. Maybe we were discussing Dad, who had died the year before in 2012. Perhaps I was talking about backpacks I had taken in the Sierra Nevada. Or there was a silence that prompted her to fill it with more unexpected information. She and Dad, not immediately after their wedding, but before they moved to follow his next orders, carved out a few days for their honeymoon.

“We went to Lundy Canyon,” Mom announced.

“Where is that?” I asked.

She said it was on the east side of the Sierra Nevada. The meant, with where they lived as newlyweds in Merced, California, they drove east through Yosemite National Park, crossed Tioga Pass at 9,943 feet, dropped down (and down) into the Owens Valley. They then traveled a few miles to the north on Highway 395, past Mono Lake, and finally made a left turn for Lundy Canyon. This was 1942! Gasoline was being rationed. The routes through Yosemite were often narrow, poorly maintained after harsh winters, and sections of the road were either dirt or dirt covered with a thin layer of oil.

Why did they choose Lundy Canyon, 150 miles from Merced? Why not go to the non-stop action of San Francisco or romantic Carmel for a honeymoon? I don’t know. I can’t now remember why I didn’t pursue more details. Were we interrupted by a nurse? Did one of her friends arrive to the hospital room and the subject was changed? In her final days, strong medication meant she could no longer speak. Had the surprise revelation about the honeymoon remained incomplete because of efforts to hold back the worst of her pain?

After Mom’s death in 2013, I wondered about visiting the site of their newlywed adventures.

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Finally, after my usual procrastination with its maybe-next-year rationalizations, my wife and I carved out a chunk of the calendar for a visit this year (2024). We chose late September because the Lundy Canyon area has one enduring claim to fame: the many aspen trees at the 8,000-foot elevation transform into a spectacular gold in autumn.

Did my parents’ honeymoon take advantage of the foliage extravaganza? I don’t know.

In 1942, there would have been two resorts to choose for accommodations: the Lundy Lake Resort and the Happy Landing Resort. Don’t be fooled by resort. Along with available campsites nestled by Mill Creek and Lundy Lake, the two resorts—with cabins, a store, outhouses, and a café—were rustic. Or, to use the Cambridge Dictionary’s definition for rustic, “simple and rough in appearance.” In 2024, only one resort remains. The Lundy Lake Resort has had several owners over the decades. The current owner—who I chatted with—bought the property in 2023. It had been closed and for sale for several years. The second resort, Happy Landing, had closed years ago. However, Happy Landing had a claim to fame that may have appealed to potential guests like my parents. Though it’s probably not fair to call her a movie star, Happy Landing’s owner was a well-known actor in the silent films of the 1920s. Nellie Bly worked with Charlie Chaplain and Greta Garbo, among other Hollywood luminaries. She gave up the movies for the mountains in the 1930s.

Which resort did my parents choose? I don’t know.

Or did they ignore a roof over their heads and go camping for their honeymoon? I don’t know, but I’m doubtful they would’ve pitched a tent. Later in life, when our family took vacations, we stayed at motels or with family/friends. Dad claimed, rightly I’m sure, “I did enough camping for a lifetime in the Army Air Corps.” While still in the military, would he have driven across a mountain range to sleep on the dirt? With his new bride? Not likely!

As their second child, born ten years after they vowed “I do,” I probably spent much of my life hearing their stories, but only selectively listening.

How much did I ignore?

What questions were left unasked?

Do I know so little because I didn’t take the time to listen or ask?

I only know the answer to one question about Mom and Dad’s choice for a honeymoon spot. The “where” of where they went. While I can’t time travel back to be a better listener or questioner, I am glad that I journeyed across the mountains. I’ve learned a few stories about rustic resorts and their hard-working owners. Hey, I now have a Lundy Lake Resort T-shirt!

More importantly, I’ve walked beneath aspens flaunting their autumn splendor. I’ve paused to admire the soaring ridges that cradle the canyon. I’ve delighted in the music of Mill Creek that wanders through the Lundy area. I like to imagine my parents had similar experiences on their honeymoon. I even saw a boarded-up, ramshackle building that was once the resort’s café. Maybe, just maybe, the newlyweds shared some meals in there a long, long time ago.

“We went to Lundy Canyon,” Mom announced.

Me too.

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The first picture, of my parents: While not a picture taken immediately around their wedding, this 1949 photo is a favorite and captures their youth and love.