The story of Spring Break, part I
Her St. Patrick's Day had been spent uneventfully. She awoke at her grandparents' house, earlier than she would have liked, to the sounds of a heated discussion about the validity of Messianic Judaism (one is either a Jew or a Christian, but one can't have it both ways) that came floating up the smooth, wooden staircase. Reluctantly she climbed out of bed and descended to her grandpa's office, still in her pajamas. She groggily greeted her aunt in the hopes that her presence as daughter, granddaughter, and niece would break up the tense atmosphere, and made her way to the adjoining kitchen to help her mother finish cooking breakfast, all the while still rubbing the sleep from the corners of her eyes. It wasn't too much longer before a quiet breakfast had been consumed by the four family members, and cleaned plates were dripping dry in the dish drainer. A quick shower later and she was soon laying freshly dressed on her grandparents' bed with her mother watching The Wind and the Lion while her grandma watched from an armchair several feet away. The familiar sound of the music sent a thrill through her that reminded her of the thrill of marching through a soggy field in a distant SMS stadium, blowing her heart out to add to the melodious interpretation of such a genius score. The year her high school marching band had used the score from that movie for their show was the year they had placed second at the most prestigious marching competition they attended. It was still a fond memory to her.
Several more quiet hours later and she was driving through Swope Park on her way to I-435, which would take her to I-70 and home. Less than an hour after stepping out of the car into her own driveway, she was reluctantly dragged back to her high school to watch her brother perform in the dreaded One Acts plays. In high school she had always held a grudge against theater people (perhaps unreasonably- although she had more than justified her hatred to herself) and now she was disappointed that her little brother, for whom she felt responsible, was so intent on immersing himself in this self-important cult of whiny prima donnas (interestingly enough, as a younger child she had always thought "prima donna" was actually "pre-Madonna"). However, she was determined to support him in whatever he did, and the particular one act in which he was participating seemed interesting enough. The bad news was that she first had to sit through three others. The first one was "Flowers for Algernon," a story she has always intensely disliked; the fact that it was directed by a certain drama queen named Izzy who she had never cared for and who always had grated against her nerves didn't help the situation at all. The next play was a Mark Twain one, which was much more bearable given the fact that Mark Twain is an underrated genius, especially when it comes to his short stories. Not only that, but two of her favorite juniors (even though they were now seniors, they'd always be juniors in her mind) were involved in it. The third play was called "Gynecologist" and was surprisingly funny and pulled off well despite the fact that Summer (another junior-senior only slightly more tolerable than Izzy) had directed it. Her brother's play was enjoyable and she decided that he was doing better at this acting thing, especially in that he wasn't so awkward about it all anymore. The last One Act was skipped (much to the benefit of her preservation of sanity) in order to spend some time with her friend who had recently made it back from visiting someone in St Louis.
It had been a while since she had made the drive out to Deb's house. She had brought The Russian with her to be returned to its rightful owner, but not before everyone involved could get some pleasure out of it first. But she was unusually tired that night and went home somewhat early. However, despite her few extra hours of sleep, she didn't get up as early as she had wanted to the next morning. It didn't matter too much, though, as she still accomplished everything she had planned. In several hours she had thrown two more terra cotta vessels on the pottery wheel and made quite a few glass beads all by herself, of which she was more than usually proud. That evening was intended for making baklava and packing, but she got an unexpected call from an old friend and decided to put off these two important activities for a trip to one of her favorite houses and a small dinner party. As per usual, the job of making guacamole was delegated to her, and she did it with a perfection that was unusual for the mood she was in. Most of her time was spent soaking up the house and the memories of summer nights it held. She knew those moments were all gone and would not come again, but the beauty of the house itself was enough for her. As the hours wore on and she felt tiredness creeping up on her, she returned home, via her cousin's kindness, to quickly make baklava and pack. It all took less time than she had expected, and despite her worries, nothing was forgotten. She and her cousin, who had driven in from Lawrence several hours earlier, fell asleep quickly without the usual gossiping that preceded that gentle lull into unconsciousness.
The next morning she awoke to the mad scrambling sounds of preparing to leave on a long trip, thinking it was much later than it actually was. One last, warm shower later, she was expertly maneuvering duffel bags, tents, sleeping bags, and boxes in the trunk of the car. The goal was to leave by ten, which in more realistic terms came out as 12:30 after the Lottes Law was applied. By 12:23 they were merging onto the highway, after having tires rotated, power-steering fluid refilled, and lunch eaten. A long and silent five hours later (she attributed the silence to her brother's presence in the car, a new development), they arrived at their familiar destination. Conceding to past experience, she and her cousin wasted no time and immediately set up their tent next to the picturesque lightning tree, laying out egg-crates and sleeping bags inside and chairs outside, next to a hastily made fire-ring and a small pile of wood graciously gathered by her brother. After that it was the oh-so-familiar migration to the central fire that never went out and was continuously surrounded by a variety of different chairs, and a pleasant surprise when she discovered that both Sean and Boone had made it down that year. As it was already getting dark and the cooking grill was laid across the fire already, she and her cousin prepared the foil packs and chicken breasts her family had brought for dinner that night. They were absolutely delicious, especially when complimented by a rather large cup of Bacardi and cranberry juice. The only downside of the situation was her little brother following her like a shadow, mooching off the limited alcohol supply he didn't pay for.
She sat contentedly by the fire relishing in the familiar faces (two, in particular, that were especially welcoming), the familiar conversation and sights and smells. And then, as happened every year, things suddenly became much more interesting when someone suggested doing a sweat that night.....
*stay tuned for "The story of Spring Break, part II: the climax and denouement"*
Several more quiet hours later and she was driving through Swope Park on her way to I-435, which would take her to I-70 and home. Less than an hour after stepping out of the car into her own driveway, she was reluctantly dragged back to her high school to watch her brother perform in the dreaded One Acts plays. In high school she had always held a grudge against theater people (perhaps unreasonably- although she had more than justified her hatred to herself) and now she was disappointed that her little brother, for whom she felt responsible, was so intent on immersing himself in this self-important cult of whiny prima donnas (interestingly enough, as a younger child she had always thought "prima donna" was actually "pre-Madonna"). However, she was determined to support him in whatever he did, and the particular one act in which he was participating seemed interesting enough. The bad news was that she first had to sit through three others. The first one was "Flowers for Algernon," a story she has always intensely disliked; the fact that it was directed by a certain drama queen named Izzy who she had never cared for and who always had grated against her nerves didn't help the situation at all. The next play was a Mark Twain one, which was much more bearable given the fact that Mark Twain is an underrated genius, especially when it comes to his short stories. Not only that, but two of her favorite juniors (even though they were now seniors, they'd always be juniors in her mind) were involved in it. The third play was called "Gynecologist" and was surprisingly funny and pulled off well despite the fact that Summer (another junior-senior only slightly more tolerable than Izzy) had directed it. Her brother's play was enjoyable and she decided that he was doing better at this acting thing, especially in that he wasn't so awkward about it all anymore. The last One Act was skipped (much to the benefit of her preservation of sanity) in order to spend some time with her friend who had recently made it back from visiting someone in St Louis.
It had been a while since she had made the drive out to Deb's house. She had brought The Russian with her to be returned to its rightful owner, but not before everyone involved could get some pleasure out of it first. But she was unusually tired that night and went home somewhat early. However, despite her few extra hours of sleep, she didn't get up as early as she had wanted to the next morning. It didn't matter too much, though, as she still accomplished everything she had planned. In several hours she had thrown two more terra cotta vessels on the pottery wheel and made quite a few glass beads all by herself, of which she was more than usually proud. That evening was intended for making baklava and packing, but she got an unexpected call from an old friend and decided to put off these two important activities for a trip to one of her favorite houses and a small dinner party. As per usual, the job of making guacamole was delegated to her, and she did it with a perfection that was unusual for the mood she was in. Most of her time was spent soaking up the house and the memories of summer nights it held. She knew those moments were all gone and would not come again, but the beauty of the house itself was enough for her. As the hours wore on and she felt tiredness creeping up on her, she returned home, via her cousin's kindness, to quickly make baklava and pack. It all took less time than she had expected, and despite her worries, nothing was forgotten. She and her cousin, who had driven in from Lawrence several hours earlier, fell asleep quickly without the usual gossiping that preceded that gentle lull into unconsciousness.
The next morning she awoke to the mad scrambling sounds of preparing to leave on a long trip, thinking it was much later than it actually was. One last, warm shower later, she was expertly maneuvering duffel bags, tents, sleeping bags, and boxes in the trunk of the car. The goal was to leave by ten, which in more realistic terms came out as 12:30 after the Lottes Law was applied. By 12:23 they were merging onto the highway, after having tires rotated, power-steering fluid refilled, and lunch eaten. A long and silent five hours later (she attributed the silence to her brother's presence in the car, a new development), they arrived at their familiar destination. Conceding to past experience, she and her cousin wasted no time and immediately set up their tent next to the picturesque lightning tree, laying out egg-crates and sleeping bags inside and chairs outside, next to a hastily made fire-ring and a small pile of wood graciously gathered by her brother. After that it was the oh-so-familiar migration to the central fire that never went out and was continuously surrounded by a variety of different chairs, and a pleasant surprise when she discovered that both Sean and Boone had made it down that year. As it was already getting dark and the cooking grill was laid across the fire already, she and her cousin prepared the foil packs and chicken breasts her family had brought for dinner that night. They were absolutely delicious, especially when complimented by a rather large cup of Bacardi and cranberry juice. The only downside of the situation was her little brother following her like a shadow, mooching off the limited alcohol supply he didn't pay for.
She sat contentedly by the fire relishing in the familiar faces (two, in particular, that were especially welcoming), the familiar conversation and sights and smells. And then, as happened every year, things suddenly became much more interesting when someone suggested doing a sweat that night.....
*stay tuned for "The story of Spring Break, part II: the climax and denouement"*
posted by Emma at 7:59:00 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home