Reason Breeds Insanity

One summer when I was about five or six years old, we visited my grandma’s house in Michigan. She lived on a small lake that was situated about ten miles inside the Michigan state line. My great aunt lived there, as well, about three houses down the shore. Everyday to go from one house to the other, we would count the three houses we passed because they were all white and seemed the same to a small child. We only swam at my great aunt Aglaia’s house because her husband had built a long peer and dumped sand on the ice for several winters until there was a beautiful beach in front of their home. Everyone who lived on “our” side of the lake swam at “Keck’s Beach.”

One particular day stands out in my mind—I will never forget it. We were ready to go swimming, all wrapped up in big fluffy towels and donning last years faded swimming lesson suits. No matter what color a swimming suit begins, they all end up a brown-blue that only over-chlorinated public pools can produce. My two or three year-old brother’s suit was stretched out to the point that he had to wear a belt duct-taped to the waistband to keep from losing his trunks as he jumped repeatedly from the dock into the clear cool lake water. My suit was probably indecently thin, as well as being indecently baggy with my tiny child-breasts poking out above the neckline and my little butt showing as the back of Wonder-Woman star-clad bottoms hung loosely, the crotch dangling just above my fleshy little knees.

My brother and I, we must have been six and three, were racing toward the lake clutching our towels and trying to keep from tripping over our flip-flops that were purchased too-big so we could wear them again the next summer. My brother was wearing his Floaties pushed up by his shoulders, because he couldn’t yet swim and was a little scared of the water though no one knew the level of his terror because of his tenacity in jumping off the dock. Instead of waiting until we got to the lake to put them on, he wore them on the short walk to the beach because he, like a miniscule steam engine with a one-track mind, ran full throttle all the way past the end of the pier splashing unabashedly into the water. Suddenly, as we ran, I felt an icy-hot sensation just behind the place where the strap of my flip-flop thonged the big toe and second toe of my right foot. There was something stuck between the sole of my foot and the spongy plastic of the shoe. I reached down with my left hand and whatever it was flew up into my face causing me to emit screams of terror.

As I screamed, I lost my balance and fell forward into a patch of clover. The ground came alive as what seemed like hundreds, probably ten, bees swarmed up from the flowers from which they were feeding. They buzzed and hummed adding to the already chaotic scene. What I know now, that I didn’t know then, is that I am extremely allergic to bee stings. My foot swelled to about twice its size, as well as my ankle and leg growing to mammoth proportions. They were instantly fevered and I couldn’t breath very well. Luckily, only one bee had actually stung me, so I avoided a trip to the hospital. My fun day ended with me groggily drugged up on Benadryl—if only I could find something legal that would do to me now what Benadryl did to me then. For six hours I sat in the warm sun by the lake in a plastic woven lawn chair, dazed with my baking-soda-coated-foot elevated, watching all the other kids play the games I had made up. Maybe bees are Wonder Woman’s Kryptonite? Did they have bees on Thymiscera?

Yesterday, I got the privilege of reading an email from our DM, Catherine. It said something like: I need a shift [supervisor] at Gas City. How about Corby? Can she transfer before May?

Today, I got the privilege of learning that they had already pretty much decided I would be moving to Gas City as soon as we can get two shifts trained for McGalliard. I wanted to transfer at first, but I am not sure I really want to now. I mean their drinks suck, their service isn’t stellar, I don’t know anyone, and my favorite coffee shop is just across the Interstate. How awkward to be on lunch at the BUX and go to Payne’s to get food?!. How can I say no to our DM when I eventually want to work my way up in the company? I was told I am being asked because I am a strong shift. Translation everyone knows it sucks and Catherine wants to get some good baristas in there. I think they are desparate. We’ll see what happens.

At any rate, I have a sixty page paper to write in the next week. It hangs over me like a guillotine, and I am not sure I really want to write it. By next Monday, my head may be in a bucket. Hopefully they’ll put a towel in the bucket first so my head doesn’t make a big clunk.

I was thinking about summer. Longing for it actually.

During the summers for much of the time my brother and I were on our own to find something to do. We lived out in the country and the nearest neighbors our age were at least two miles away. The way people drove on our roads we couldn’t ride our bikes to their houses because our parents were afraid we wouldn’t make it there or back.

There were the summers when my mother would kick me out of the house because I had spent the majority of the days sequestered in my room reading or drawing. There were summers when I would spend entire days in the woods playing with my imaginary horses, Clydesdales. One was named Rosebud because she wore a spread of rosebuds around her neck. I remember gently caressing her nose and neck and snuggling her mane when she would bend down nuzzling my stomach. She was chestnut with a blond mane and tail, just like the Budweiser horses.

Some summers we would spend most of our time in Michigan at my maternal grandmother’s house, and some of the time we would drive the long way to Wilmington, Illinois to visit my dad’s parents and family on the Kankakee River. Once we got lost and ended up in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere on a restricted road that lead to the arsenal where my Grandma worked. My brother started crying because he was afraid we would get shot. We didn’t and spent a fine week pointing at imaginary sharks in the water and making our grandma look overboard to see them. What a sight she was, her short little legs sticking out of her one piece bathing suit, her big orange life jacket hugging her neck, running around the deck of the boat to get a glimpse at the invisible animals!

The best summers were the ones that my brother and I spent out in the gulley in front of our house. Little willow trees stretched up around us forming a house with all the rooms and amenities we could imagine. The rocky stream bottom provided the perfect tile floor and the cool water air conditioned our home as we invited guests of all sorts to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with us. It is a probably a miracle that we are still alive as we frequently drank right from the stream in our little metal camping cups that hung from our tree limb kitchen hooks. My mother always wondered where her silverware ended up, and I am sure that there is a full set of stainless ware at the bottom of our pond, which my parents had excavated when I was in middle school. We used to pretend that we were pioneer settlers, or the American Indians that surely inhabited the land when the big oak tree that we couldn’t reach around was a sapling, or runaway pirates hiding from the law. Do pirates run away and hide from the law?

Before the pond was there, we would ride our bikes up and down the u-shaped driveway, which was later flattened but curved as it ran across the dam instead of through the bottom of the gulley. The old driveway was a true test of our biking capabilities and I sacrificed more than one skinned knee to the bottom of the U. I never understood that when it rained the gravel would wash to the bottom of the dip becoming extremely deep. My portly body on a small bike sunk the tires to a depth that rendered steering impossible. Inevitably, the front tire would turn sideways flipping me over the handlebars into the willow trees. I was so proud the first time I rode all the way from the house to the road without falling, I couldn’t wait to show my mom when she got home from work.

I wanted my bike to be perfect for the show, so I washed her, of course my faithful steed was a girl, from top to bottom and spent several minutes deep cleaning all the mud from between the back tire and the fender. She was one of those cool bikes, turquoise with a banana seat and fenders over each tire to keep the water from splashing up on my behind as I rode through every puddle in sight. I took great pride in my clean bike: I even used a toothbrush to clean the grass from between the links of the chain. When my mom got home I stood straddling her at the top of the hill next to the garage door. “Watch me! Watch me!” I stepped on one pedal and pushed off peddling as fast as I could down first side of the U. I was looking up the other side when it happened. I was thrown off the bike like a bad cowboy at a rodeo. I landed on both knees, bursting the skin and tearing my jeans. It seemed as if the extra mud caked inside the fender had slowed my earlier acceleration and enabled me to complete the U unscathed. Without the friction of the mud against the tire, I was moving too fast and flew ass over teakettle through the front door of the willow house.

More from pride than injury, I began to cry. And cry. This was my first lesson on the most deadly sin: pride. For two or three days my knees were so sore I couldn’t walk, I had ruptured my favorite jeans, and my ego was bruised beyond belief. So much for showing off.

Really. It can be.

My mom and dad made a surprise visit to Starbucks on my dad’s way home yesterday. My dad’s Christmas present from my mom, a Hudson Bay coat that didn’t fit because of all the water he was retaining, fits now. They looked pretty suave together, and it was good to see them not so frazzled. I hope that they will both try to rest for a minute, and that mom can go back to school to the thing that she loves the most. I hope Dad wil actually take some time off, though I doubt it. I wish the doctor would make him skip work for a bit, but he told him that as soon as he felt good enough, he could go back. I assume that is the reason he was solving computer problems for people from his hospital bed. Good thing he didn’t die, Subway wouldn’t be able to sell any sandwiches! *sarcasm implied*

I went to see Hannibal Rising last night–definitely a rental for those who haven’t seen it. However, my brother liked it, so maybe for the adventurous a trip to the theater is in order. I love Thomas Harris because I usually can’t figure out where the story will end up, but in the case of Hannibal Rising, I was pretty sure after about the first ten minutes. Plus the theater was freezing! And the popcorn made my tummy hurt!

Finally, between Becky and Kelly, I think I have my attitude back in check. People ask me if I am angry. I am not. I simply think this whole thing is a matter of life. Life begins, it ends, it has bumps. This is like a Muncie sized pothole, but I think it didn’t break my axel, so I am still going. After all, what else can we do but “keep on keepin’ on”?