Our family vacations typically consisted of anywhere from 5-7 campers full of Weavers hitting the road around 6:00 on a Friday morning. There were the 8 of us: me, Mom and Dad, my brother, my sister and her family of four. There was Ray and Cindy's bunch, Uncle Gene and his wife Sharron, their two kids, and both of their families. My aunt Debra and her branch of the tree. Sometimes our cousins Jeff and Jody would bring their camper and Cindy would invite some family friends. Mamaw and Papaw would always go: Mamaw for the beach, Papaw for the golf. It was them that held us all together- the spray glue on the world’s weirdest shaped puzzle.
It was never a question of where would go, but when. Myrtle Beach was a long drive, but only the men who drove it minded. We all had fun. Even after cell phones, we all still had at least one walkie-talkie per vehicle (turned to the “7290” station.) It was always my job to make the scavenger hunt. I’d make a list of interesting things to look for on the way down and on the way back; Mom would make copies for everyone. Every few miles you’d hear someone come on the radios: “Picture of a bug on a billboard! Mark it off!” Or at the next stop you would be asked: “Did y’all see the Alaska plate? We got it!” Leaving from Morehead, we’d hit I-75 southbound, not even thinking about breakfast until our wheels kissed the Tennessee line. As soon as the state sign revealed itself, our stomachs would tap us on the shoulder and, in a universally understood language, ask: “soon?” The welcome center was half a mile away. Reflexively, all of our campers moved, like a centipede, toward the exit lane. One at a time, we’d park and our legs were already aching, ready to stretch out beyond the backseat of our trucks. For the first time since Morehead, we’d all step out and assess the damage. Us kids were wearing our comfiest clothes and our sleepiest eyes. Dads were happy to beat the traffic. Moms were rushing us all to go potty. But Mamaw and Papaw had already transformed into low-budget caterers. Napkins, cups, orange juice, milk, boxes of donuts and cereals flooded out from their travel-sized kitchen and filled the wooden picnic tables to the right of the building, just between the vending machines and the edge of the woods that almost looked like home. Everyone started to settle among the tables. It’s almost uncanny the way they were always vacant when we arrived, as if everyone innately knew we would be arriving soon. Like the center had reserved them exclusively for our family. “We have to be getting close to Weaver Vacation this year. May as well go on and throw a sign up.” We stretched our meal over the wooden boards and listened to the men talk about the drive, barely louder than the dull roar of interstate traffic. Bundling up in hoodies and sweatpants and crocheted blankets we’d all made for each other turned the early morning chill into a friendly reminder that we’re all alive and here- right now- finding solace in one another. My little hands would wrap around a chocolate-glazed Krispy Kreme while my eyes would sail over the Smoky Mountains. Right now they were more like the 9 a.m. foggy mountains, but I didn’t know the difference. I would look over the legacy my grandparents had created and yawn softly, swearing I could already smell the salty breeze of the ocean to come in only nine more wonderfully taxing hours.
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You will wake up with coffee already in hand and the news screeching in your ear with the sound of sirens and gunshots and screams seeming closer to you than your own heartbeat.
But you will understand. You will get into your car and practically levitate to work because this is the routine rut society has dug for you to define your own worth as the most productive cog in a machine. But you will understand. Then, that song will come on the radio that your twelve year old son will know all of the words to and for the first time you will really begin to hear those lines about "smokin' herb and drinkin' burnin' liquor" yet your son won't quite be able to place where he once heard "the Lord is my shepherd I shall not want." But you will understand. The break-room buzz today will be about that rapist who will have to suffer six long ribeye-free months in jail for "only twenty minutes of action" and your heart will break a little deeper. But you will understand. Soon it will be Election Day and it is your civic duty to choose which actor or actress that you would like to be cast into the role of our nation's leader and you will start to question what patriotism even means. But you will understand. And your mind will begin to wander toward ideas about growth and love and acceptance and Orlando. But you will understand. You will understand. You will understand This is the way the world ends. |
AuthorDallas currently teaches 9th, 10th, and 12th grade English and CCR classes at Fleming County High School. ArchivesCategories |