Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Listening to my past; loving it's in the present

It’s rainy. Off and on. And muggy, here at Jekyll Island campground, where they spray twice a week for mosquitos, failingly. 

Most of the campers pulled out early this morning because, well, because it’s rainy off and on and the mosquitos wear their bug armour well.

A few families remain, soaking in what might be the final weekend of the summer for the kids to be just kids and not students, too.

I’m sitting inside my RV, just lounging in the air conditioning. And that’s when I hear it.

My childhood. My past.

“Ready or not! HERE I COME!”

And I get very quiet. Pavlov. Shhhh. Don’t move. And, for goodness sakes, do not breathe.

I know it’s coming. Yep. It’s coming. "EEEEEKKKKK!” The high-pitched screech of discovery. Then the pounding of little feet zigzagging "home," dispersing leaves and broken branches, to where it’s safe.

I don’t look out. I just listen. Like to a radio show.

“I see you,”  a little girl says, so quietly and so closely, I think, for a flash, she’s talking to me. But then I hear giggles and another chase. 

Finally, I hear no more game. I peek outside and see two little girls:  a 5-year-old, all in pink, and a 10-year-old with a leg cast on walking around. Maybe they've teamed up to hunt for a hidden little boy I saw earlier.

When they find him, maybe they’ll play Tag, or Simon Sez or Mother May I. Red Light Green Light? 



Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Making memories

Sometimes, we do things more for the memory than the experience.

For instance, we’re riding bikes around Jekyll Island off the coast of Georgia and it’s lovely. But it’s suffocatingly hot. We swim through moisture thick air.

At home, we would NOT be riding bikes.

But we continue on here because, well, look at what we are seeing. We pedal under an umbrella of trees dripping with Spanish moss. And we pass a corral of horses all saddled up for a ride. To the left, through a break in the trees, we see dozens of herons taking flight. Up ahead, a fishing pier beckons us to visit, with its shade-offering roof, comfy benches and Atlantic Ocean vistas. Just above the pier, a flock of pelicans circle, broadcasting the presence of fish down below.

So, we park our bikes and visit the pier, where I see an older man teaching a little kid all about crabbing. About the rotting chicken that’s used as bait; about how long it’ll take to catch ‘em; and how to avoid those pinchers.

The kid stays down with the crab cages and the older guy (gotta be grandpa) comes over near us to check on some fishing lines they have in the water.

“You know you are giving that kid some great memories,” I say to this guy. He grins, gives me a wink and a nod. “That’s why I do this. Heck, I don’t even like fishing.”

He then reels in one of his lines and finds a small fish, a croaker, at the end. Quickly, he lowers it back into the water and moves down to check his other lines. He calls to the kid. “Hey. Come help me check these fishing poles.” He nonchalantly points to that line, the line he just checked. The one with the fish.

The kid obliges, picks up the pole and begins to reel. Then, he squeals. “GRANDPA! A SHARK!” he insists! “A SHARK!”

What a great memory.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Surprised by a smash-up

I’m sitting in the grandstand of the Ozark Empire State Fair in Springfield, MO, crossing two adventures off Our List.

(Our List is a bunch of things my husband and I want to do together as spectators, just the two of us, so we can leave early if we hate them.)

Tonight it’s Monster Trucks.

And Demolition Derby.

And so far, we’re not budging.

We’re loving the Monsters. And so is this crowd. A collective, raucous cheer rises with each crunch of metal, bounce of skyscraping wheels, deafening roar of unmuffled engines.   Allen and I are clueless. (Why did that guy win?) (Why is he doing donuts? Where is he going?) But we’re loving it anyway, absorbing the thrill  of the crowd, watching everyone leap out of their seats, punch the air, cheer on these trucks. Trucks with names. Barbarian, Outlaw, BountyHunter, TailGator and Smashosaurus (I kid you not).

And now, the Demolition Derby.

Four, six, no eight misshapen, ratty tatty cars grumble and sputter onto the field. They park, heads in, in two lines of four with their tails toward each other.

Someone drops a flag and it’s a go.

WHAT A HOOT! These little cars spit and spin, smash and push and wobble like Weebles. They dig in and grind their way into and out of pileups.      

I’m shocked at how much I enjoy this. Me. Non-combative me. Non-violent me. I’m loving the pounding these banged-up little cars give each other.

And my favorite? The one with a painted message: “Don’t Tell G-Ma.” HA!

Right now, G-Ma's sitting in the middle of the field, her rear end stuck under the tailgate  of a station wagon. Her wheels spin dust bunnies, but she's going nowhere. The other car’s trapped, too. Then WHAM. G-Ma’s  slammed from the side. (In unison, the crowd reacts: “OHHHH!.”) And WHAM,  she’s slammed from the other side. (“OHHHH!”)  And then she breaks free (“YAY!”) The crowd’s on its feet! 

The station wagon immediately plows into a third  car (metal flies; crowd: “YAY.”) Two cars sandwich a third.  (“OHHHH.”) And yet another loses its front bumper.  Someone lost a tire. (A cacophony of cheers  ensues.)

No one but me seems to notice G-Ma’s not getting her wind back. She coasts outside the action. And just sits there.

And now it’s over and a winner declared (a last-man-standing sort of win.) Wreckers, front-loaders and Bobcats cart off the sick and injured.
And now, it’s just G-Ma. She’s cooled down and her driver gets her running. Backwards. But on her own volition, she leaves the field. Backwards.

No one seems to care.

But me.

I silently cheer.

Because I’m loving this.