Preparing for this weekend’s garage sale, I came across a canvas bag I hadn’t seen in years. It was filled with pinecones. Giant Sequoia pinecones. Some of these babies are almost a foot long, and my memory of first seeing them goes back to 1949.

1949? Yes, I was alive then – and out of diapers. In fact, I was out of third grade. But the huge pinecones that my mother brought home from California fascinated me for their pure size. I studied redwood trees and the giant Sequoias, and I knew I had to see them for myself someday.

My mother’s first trip to California in 1944 whetted her appetite for a return. Sadly, she was there for her youngest brother’s funeral. He died in a tank on a French battlefield and was buried in San Diego. But while she was there, she fell in love with the land of milk and honey – the ocean, the sun, the opportunities. And oh yes, the climate. The contrast to Boston’s winters and humid summers had her yearning to make the change. However, on her own, she couldn’t gather sufficient funds all at once to make the move happen.

Mom planned a return trip to explore the options, and talked her brother, Chester, into going with her. He was a carpenter and floor layer, and she was pretty sure he would have opportunities in the Golden State, especially because of their contractor uncle. Uncle Garnett had migrated to Orange County pre-war, creating a successful business as a fancy floor layer. He was in great demand as the movie stars began to settle into their mini palaces. He created inlaid floors in many wood tones to please the stars’ interior designers – herringbones, plaids, Greek key designs, inlaid flowers… and much more. So yes, Chet was intrigued.

Mom and Chet had only two weeks’ vacation from work, so they planned their trip carefully. They decided not to sightsee on the way out, hoping time for Yosemite might be available on the way back. They planned to split the driving into 4-hour shifts, stopping for some meals and making the remainder from their food stash.

Chester somehow made bentwood arcs for the truck bed, and my mother sewed a huge canvas covering to stretch over the hoops. It was the original hybrid vehicle – a Ford Conestoga wagon. Inside the cozy traveling “suite” was a cot with extra blankets for traversing the Rockies, two orange crates full of sandwich foods and fruit, a kerosene lantern, flashlights, and their luggage. Mom suspended a bar below the rear window for hanging clothes. Snacks and maps rode in the cab.

The trip went well until the High Sierras. Mom, wearing Chet’s leather jacket for another layer of warmth, was driving. At 2 a.m., the narrow mountain road was as black as the inky sky. She never saw the long patch of black ice until she entered the heart-stopping spin. And when she hit dry pavement again, the tires grabbed the road and tipped the truck over. Twice. It landed on newly bent wheels. During the rollover, Mom was thrown from the truck down the mountainside. Chet, sleeping in the bunk, was ejected from the tailgate.

They were both bruised and badly scraped up, but luckily no broken bones. It took time to find their flashlights so they could gather their belongings strewn down the mountain. It was dawn before another vehicle approached the curve where their undriveable truck stood with both right wheels bent.

All their spare time and spare cash evaporated the next morning. Flat-bedded off the mountain road, they waited in the village at the base of the mountain for new wheels and tires. For 4 days. “What were ya doin’ up there in the middle of the night?” asked the mechanic. “Nobody drives up there in the wee hours. Ya coulda hit black ice. Ya coulda been killed.”

Once the “Conestoga” was back on the road, they enjoyed the rest of their trip, but it was decidedly too brief to pursue serious job opportunities. The only things I remember Mom bringing home from their journey was her frightening mountain tale, and a basket of Sequoia pinecones that she had freely scooped up under the enormous trees.

For years, we used those pinecones at Christmas. Mom added red ribbons, pine sprigs and candles to the giants gathered in the center of our dining room table.

I’m keeping just one pinecone for the Christmas memories and my mind’s picture of Mom arriving home with the basketful. Some lucky buyer – a crafter, traveler, or student of the world’s wonders – will enjoy the rest.

After 76 years, I know they’re too dried out to grow a Sequoia here in Pennsylvania.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at moby.32@hotmail.com