Last week I grabbed my datebook to jot something down and realized our friend Steve C’s birthday card was tucked there waiting to be mailed–except it was already a couple of days after his birthday. I’m notoriously late sending birthday cards–believe me, if you get one on time, it’s an anomaly–so when I have them and they’ve been ready to mail forever, and I simply forget–I SUCK. I texted apologies, told him the card would go in the mail, and suggested that I atone by doing a late birthday post in his honor before the end of March. And LOOK! It’s still March!
I asked him which of our vacations or visits evoked the best memories for him so I’d know what photos to include, and he said it was our trip to Maine in 2000. That was a good time. It was bookended for me by lots of family visits. On the way there, a milestone birthday for Tom’s mother that the entire family celebrated together in Gatlinburg. Visits with my sister, nieces, and getting to see Josh’s band play. A trip to Yellow Springs, my favorite Ohio small town. On the way back, another visit with my sister then a stay-over in Alabama with Terri and her mother.
But in between those family visits: Steve was visiting Tim in NYC from California, and I drove from my sister’s to meet him there. After a few adventures (that’s code for “I got lost driving into Manhattan”), we met, hung out a while with both Tims, then headed out of the city. I’d been on the road all day, so the plan was to find a place to stay overnight then drive to Maine the next morning.
Where the plan went wrong was that it was October. In October, the leaves change color. Apparently this means everyone from everywhere will use up every hotel room, motel room, bed and breakfast, and parking lot throughout all of New England. I drove all night while Steve and I talked and talked and talked, mostly to keep me from falling asleep at the wheel. Other than my couple of hours in NYC and the many, many stops looking for lodging, I was on the road for about twenty-five hours. Because where did we finally find a hotel room?
Portland. Our destination city.
There was no way I was going to crash land at James and KK’s place at six in the morning in my zombified state. The hotel–and I don’t remember which one it was–told us we had to check out by 11 AM or pay for another night. As I recall, our four-hour nap cost us about $130. This is the only hotel that’s ever done that to me, but apparently there is no mercy shown during leaf viewing season. You have been warned.
It was all worth it. We had so much fun with James and KK. We went to LL Bean, Apple Acres Farm, and all kinds of shops and cool plant nurseries. We had great food the entire time we were there (and we still have a secret about our favorite pizza place!). We went to Portland Head Light and shot lots of good pictures. We saw beautiful scenery–well, Steve saw more than me, since he and James hiked up some hill and I was all, “Go! Save yourselves!” because I was tired and lazy. We saw an N.C. Wyeth exhibit among many other works at the Portland Museum of Art. Mostly we just had fun exploring the world of James and KK and spending time with them. I believe we even got to meet James’s sister and see the very cool place she was living.
And after it was all over, we enjoyed a drive back to Manhattan (with a side trip to Plymouth Pebble Rock) to spend more time with the Timothys.
Magic days with good friends.
Thanks for all those memories, Steve, and happy belated birthday (again).
In this photo: my father’s brother Dwight, their father, and their sister Drexel. They were together for Father’s Day; only a few months later, my grandfather died at age 96. See Papa’s ears? Gonna have a pair just like them if I live to be 96.
Here’s Uncle Gerald, my earliest writing mentor. I never knew him when he was this age, but I selected this photo because of a resemblance my sister noted between him and our nephew. I think she’s on to something. It’s interesting to see people from throughout my life looking back at me from a new generation. It isn’t only physical characteristics I notice. Speech patterns, ways of moving or holding the body, facial expressions–these link the family kids to relatives they never met, never saw, so aren’t consciously imitating. I remember when Josh was a toddler and was walking across the yard one day, my mother looked at him and said, “He walks exactly like Papa [my father’s father].” Papa died seven years before Josh was born.
Is it innate, the different way we carry our books according to our gender? I have to admit that in all my years of seeing students pre-backpack, it’s most often done this way. Does it have something to do with the different ways our body strength develops?
