by Pat Laster
Fifty-one years ago today, Gordon Allen was born, and from the first instant I laid eyes on the tiny blond, I knew he was a keeper. He, his wife Karen and their daughter Breezy live in Pensacola area. Happy birthday, son.
Poet John Berryman’s “Dream Song 104” begins, “Welcome, grinned Henry, welcome fifty-one.” I hope that’s your attitude, too, Gordon.
Speaking of birthdays, I observed my seventy-sixth on the ninth of July, but the sisters gifted me early with a gorgeous long, ruffled scarf and multi-beaded bracelet to match the army-green tunic I’d bought in Lebanon on the way to the rendezvous. My song for the year is “Seventy-six trombones.”
Now to the unfinished sisters’ vacation report. Thursday
morning, while others were at various activities, I sat out on the deck and
journaled. Several black wasps circled. I reached up and flailed the air to
dissuade them, and one attached itself to my left thumb long enough to sting.
I knew to go straight for the ice and the sting
abated, but I kept watch on the digit. First, the lower thumb swelled, then the
poison spread from there to the back of my hand all the way across. I’ve been
stung before and am not allergic, but it was the end of the day before the
swelling disappeared.Later that morning, we piled in (literally--with three in the back seat) Barb’s Honda hybrid sedan, and began our daily foray for fleas and ‘tiques. And lunch at a tearoom we’d discovered two days earlier.
We had a reservation for a 5:00 pontoon boat tour of Lake Dartmoor, so—without going “home,” we drove (quite a ways) to the marina. Clouds had moved in during the afternoon like they often do in the summer. We hoped it would cool the air through one of the half-covered pontoon boats that we’d heard were piloted by “comical old geezers.”
We paid our $8 fares and soon an “old geezer” called for “the Stefan party” to board. The fine-looking older man saw us safely in and, being first, we headed for the back seats. Three retired couples joined the tour. We putt-putted out of the slip even as the clouds darkened.
Lake Dartmoor, the largest of seven lakes in Fairfield Glade, lapped up against huge houses with terrific lawns. Mr. Guide pointed out one house belonging to a retired Fed-Ex executive who retired at fifty. Other owners were similarly well off.
The wind began after we’d passed the first golf course. Many tiny white caps dotted the water. Mr. Guide looked worried. He asked his passengers what to do? One of the Stefan party (not me) said, “Turn around!” He seemed glad to oblige; we started back to the marina.
In the meantime, a blast of water hit one of the women, soaking her shirt. She quickly took cover with us who’d scooted closer together to make room. Another woman came back, too, and their mates stood up on either side of center. The other couple stoically stayed put.
The second pilot was waiting for us and helped to get us moored. The wind whipped and whirled. We held on to each other walking down the pier and to the safety of the inside. “Don’t go for your cars, yet,” one of the men said. “The wind’s too strong; a limb might break off.” We obeyed. One sister took all five rain checks against the possibility that she and Husband might stay at this resort later.
The next day, we packed—not a short-term task—and a little after 1 p.m., all three cars pulled out—two headed for Virginia and us homing toward Arkansas—and many good memories went with each person in each car.
By the way, Tennessee is 440 miles long, but only the 36th largest state in square miles. Arkansas is 29th! I guess it only seemed like a long way. I still like the idea of hover cars or monorails.
And I think I’ll watch “The Music Man” tonight. (“Seventy-six trombones…”)
