Jul. 23, 2003 - 12:03 a.m.
Dear Vincent,
Curious, but I never seem to realize how sincerely I've missed the water until I find myself sitting on the end of an old dock, gazing pensively into the distance like someone who has something interesting to be wistful about. It's when I sit with the wood biting harmlessly into the backs of my knees with just my toes tantalizing the top of the water. It's when I slap away the first mosquito. (It's also when I slap at the forth and the fifth, sixth and so on and damn it, you'd think they'd learn to stay the hell away after viewing the repetitive and inevitable fate of their brethren.) It's then that I remember that every summer of my life has been spent in currents and tides, and hurtling over waves faster than I should, and skimming the surface on skis, and being born aloft upon rocketing too fast over waves. It's always the sunsets which simplify the sail boats into simple silhouettes that I remember, and hardly ever do I recall slapping into a wall of water going forty miles an hour, and trying frantically to determine not if I've broken anything, but if my bikini bottoms are still in the right place. I love the water. Lakes, wakes, waves, oceans, salt- I was lost from the start. I've never needed to be tugged along with the outgoing tides, I am quite the willing prisoner, but I never go quietly- always with a splash. How is it then, that I manage to only miss the water, when I return to it? I suppose, because my feeling for the water is a measure found somewhere in between need and want. It is less than need, but far, far greater, than want.
The little dock is old, and when I walk it I tread carefully. It's like walking the length of someone's spine. And if you step too hard, you will crack the vertebrae. When I sit on the end and it's blustery out, small waves pound the dock and it throbs beneath me like a heartbeat. The dock used to be blonde, but now it's silver gray. I've always thought, that if I ever do well enough for myself to live in my house on a lake I'd like to build the dock myself. The wood will be resilient, proudly new, and glorious golden blonde- and over the many years, the dock and I could go gray together. And so, how can I help feeling that the dock is alive?
The back round that I've neglected to provide, though perhaps it's rather late in the letter to provide it, is that most of my mother's side of the family live on lakes. I am eternally envious. However, when I go visiting my mother's side, it is to small towns, old houses and lovely lakes.
In one of the small towns I visited this past week there is great little ice cream place. It's a rather small shed like building where you walk up to a window and order. Lodged in a lovely little cobbled square it is the pulse of the town. On any given summer evening the line is a lifetime long. It is a line peppered with families, teenagers and small sweaty kids still clad in little league grab. The line is a buffet line for the mosquitoes, they help themselves to soccer mom with a side dish of disheveled dad and cocky teenager for dessert sometimes cheeky three year old, though such things are a bit of a delicacy. Standing in line I found that there was a college guy behind me who had loads of random 'wisdom' to regale his friends with (loudly) while waiting. Wisdom tidbit number one was: "Ice cream is the only thing worth waiting in line for." Not completely true, but a noble outlook none the less. After slapping away the umpteenth mosquito wisdom tidbit number two followed: "If I don't get west Nile this summer, than they made it up as a publicity stunt." A bold claim indeed. Wisdom tidbit number three: "If you smile right at the girls who work here, and ask for their number they'll give you free ice cream." A claim immediately refuted when he asked the girl at the window for her phone number after chatting her up. She looked at him furiously and slammed the window shut, but not before broadcasting "I only give my number to a guy three times and when he forgets to call all three times I write him the hell off!"
It has come to my attention that I pretend to forget much more than I actually forget. I forget very little, though I suppose that claim must go unsupported because how could I remember how much I've forgotten if I've forgotten things? But people tell me I have a great memory (which I guess means I'm relying on the extent of their memories which could conceivably mean I've a lousy memory... oh to hell with it.) Anyway, I remember people and events very clearly. It often discover, that people do not remember specific things like I do. Conversation particularly. I am not surprised to discover that people remember things differently than I, because everybody holds memories from their own perspective, just that they can't recall things as clearly as I sometimes. Often though, I purposely pretend to forget things, if only because I want someone to recount something I remember for me, so I can hear about how they saw it without my prompting. Sometimes, when someone asks, "do you remember how we met?" I'll grimace and say, "you know, I really can't recall." just so I can hear about the first things they thought about me (without coming right out and asking, "so what was your first impression of me?") I find many interesting discrepancies people's memories of the same event this way. I suppose the downside of telling you this Vincent, is that the "I don't remember why don't you remind me?" scam will never work on you. Unless, that is, you forget I told you this.
It is completely wonderful to be thought of, but sublime to be thought well of and often, and best still to be thought well of and often by someone you think well of and often.
So where ever I wander, I think that I have stubbed my toe on a very solid goal. I want to end up on the water. I want a dock to get gray with, and I want skis to whip me wildly along the top of the water (Jesus never had it so good he only got to walk across the top). I want a sail boat to feel intangible in. I want a giant mirror that blurs my reflection but shows the moon perfectly. I want ripples and waves and far shores. I want a canoe for stealth when there is no need for quiet except for the sake of quiet. John Steinbeck, Pearl S. Buck, Willa Cather- all authors who spent the labor of their words on glorifying man's connection to the land. Stressing that he can never leave the land or he cuts off his roots and will ultimately be ruined. For the good reader I am, their message was lost on me. Land is lovely, but I want the water to keep me.
Cannonball!,
Meghan
what they said - what they will say
