How I Spent My Summer Episodic Style

Piedras Negras, Mexico in June

"?Como te llamas?"

The punk refused to tell me his name. Refused flatter than my pancakes. Refused more obstinately than a brick wall. The punk refused to smile. Refused to look me in the eye. Refused to show any semblance of emotion. The punk, that nameless, attitude-touting punk, loved to color though. He colored his picture with such care that he almost missed his snack. The punk waited patiently for los colores: rojo y azul y morado y verde. He refused once again. He refused to do less than his best. Refused to back down from his creation. He was Michelangelo. He was Vincent Van Gogh.

"We think he can't hear out of one ear." I remember the whispered conjecture from the day before. Yes, Vincent Van Gogh is an apt comparison. One does not need ears to make colors come alive.

I gave him coloring advice in my best broken Spanish; I gave him encouragement with my language-less smile and twinkling eyes; I gave him a box of los colores y mas picturas; I asked for one thing: "?Como te llamas?"

The punk smiled and looked away. He refused to give me his name, but he gave me something better than that (for what's in a name, a rose by any other would smell as sweet); he gave me hope that he was capable of joy amidst the harsh conditions, amidst the bleak poverty, amidst the gang culture.

He got up to get his snack and began to play. Before he left I had one more question for my nameless, artistic punk: "Yo necessito un abrazo. ?Y tu?"

The biggest grin infected his face and my nameless, artistic punk gave me a hug. Of course I forgot my camera, but his hug and smile will be forever etched into my memory, filed under the heading "things that make me smile and cry at the same time."

_________

"I do think we can fit everything into my suburban and your car," my father said with a hopeful inflection.

"If you think we can, let's try it," I responded like the hopeless optimist I am.

One quick hour later we both turned to realists. Fifteen minutes later a small UHaul trailer found itself in our driveway.

"I think we can clean this house pretty quickly once we get everything moved." My father has turned into Danny Tanner.

I briefly turned into a realist: "Hasn't everyone been offering to help with anything? Let's call everyone."

One quick hour later three everyones had arrived with cleaning hands. Two quick hours later the house was much closer to empty and surface clean. Eight horizontal hours on an air mattress and seven vertical hours of miscellaneous packing, errands, and showing the quirks of the house to the new owners later it was time to say good-bye. Nineteen years after saying hello to the spacious backyard where we said hello to our quirky miniature sheltie (and much later said good-bye to); hello to the green and gold clad floors and walls (and very quickly said good-bye to); hello to the warm kitchen where our taste buds and then our stomachs said hello to countless chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, casseroles, cups of Ramen soup, and a cornucopia of countless culinary concoctions; hello to the screened-in patio with our rollerblades and aloe vera plants (and later said good-bye to in order to say hello to a much nicer, extended family room and laundry room) it was time to say good-bye for good. Nineteen years of saying hello to memories and the feeling of home. Nineteen years later it was time to say good-bye. We captured our good-bye of nineteen years (which is only 6,935 days or 166,440 hours or 9,986,400 minutes or 599,184,000 seconds) in less than a millisecond. My father's blackberry hardly skipped a beat as it pixalated us with the UHaul and house in the background. With smiles on our faces and a little sadness on our hearts, I filed this photo into my memory under the heading "things that make me smile and feel a little sad at the same time."

_________________

The shy boys hung tentatively behind their mother's legs. "She's a teacher, so she's really nice; you don't need to be shy or afraid of her."

I smiled as I thought of a few teachers that wouldn't quite qualify as "really nice" in my book, but beamed on the inside at this gracious concept. The mom's words cracked their shyness barrier. The oldest slyly queried, "Want to see my new room?" And thus began my tour of my old and their new home. And what a tour it was.

My feet were guided to the dual rushing waterfalls of their new upstairs bathroom, to their new upstairs bedrooms, to the basement lair, and back upstairs to the fascinating dual waterfalls. And then I, the old tourist, showed my tour guides a new location: the raised closet by the dual bathroom waterfalls. My arms raised and lowered those two boys, bubbling over with excitement, up and down and up and down. Giggles grew into laughter and laughter filled the house.

"Are you boys keeping her from work?" Their mom was a little concerned that they were usurping my time and that I was getting bored with my tour. I reassured her they were giving me a delightful tour that was well worth my time.

The oldest boy stopped giggling for a second and looked at me with quizzical eyes, "You're really good with kids. Do you have any of your own?"

"No I don't," I replied with a smile dancing across my face.

"Why not? I think you should get some."

I filed that moment away in my memory under the heading "things that make me smile."

___________

The father-daughter dance started with a traditional sappy love song about a father's love for his daughter. I leaned over to Faith, "Isn't Laura such a beautiful bride?" When all of a sudden the music shifted several beats and the eclectic sound waves of "Jump On It" reverberated through the air. A choreographed dance ensued for approximately 72 seconds and then the music shifted back to the sappy song.

We laughed.

I filed that moment away in my memory under the heading "things that make me want to get married before my father has a walker."

_____________

Bismarck to Louisville is a major shift in climate, culture, and distance; however, wherever you are, people are people, but they do tend to get a little more non-North Dakotan the farther you travel from North Dakota, which can be a good thing or a bad thing or for lack of a better word, an interesting thing.

Thunderstorms and tornadoes nudged me into the company of four non-North Dakotans. We greeted each other with a reluctant, yet relief-filled hello.

A 55-year-old quintessential traditional Kentuckian woman, complete with shoulder pads, Southern drawl, and horses. She was trying to get home from a business meeting in Chicago.

A sexagenarian quintessential absent-minded philosophy professor who used to be in a rock band, complete with flip flops and a Hawaiian shirt. He was devastated about missing his philosophy conference where he was supposed to present his paper entitled "Much Ado About Nothing" and was now trying to get home.

A 32-year-old quintessential businessman complete with a power suit. He was trying to get home from a one hour job interview.

A 28-year-old quintessential contained free-spirit complete with a two-week old engagement ring and GPS. She was trying to get home from a business trip.

A 24-year-old quintessential anomaly complete with a North Dakotan accent and a backpack full of books. I was trying to get to my sister's in order to move her home to Chandler, AZ.

We said hello and less than 24 hours later we said good-bye. A very memorable less than 24 hours that started at the O'Hare Airport in Chicago and ended at the Louisville airport.

I filed that less than 24 hours away in my memory under the heading "things that make me know that God is in control of the details of my life."

___________

The intense 115 degrees bore down on my pale white epithelial cells. An instant later the cool air invaded  my senses. I pulled the Sears receipt out of my pocket and entered the retrieval code into the touch screen.
"If we fail to serve you in five minutes, you will receive $10 off your next purchase." The screen began to count up. At 2:41 (only 2 minutes and 19 seconds away from that elusive $10), a man emerged from the swinging doors with the dull-edged box holding a sharp looking Dyson vacuum cleaner. We ventured out into the heat. He deposited it into the trunk, I deposited myself in the front seat, and my sister announced she must have deposited her Macy's bag on the top of the car. Thus, we backtracked looking for a Macy's bag melted to the back asphalt. Our backtracking yielded nothing.

I slid out of the air conditioned carrier and entered the Macy's with a tongue full of questions. The nearest associate was a sharply dressed man. My tongue spewed forth questions as coherently as it was capable of spewing. The sharply dressed man did not have an answer, but he was willing to help me out. His tongue passed on the question to another associate. We were not successful in finding the bag. His response, "Well, I guess your only other option is to go back outside and scour the parking lot and get a tan while you are at it."

I wanted to give him a stern lecture on skin cancer and the unsightly wrinkles that such sun exposure would induce; however, I found it within myself to refrain.  And after I had refrained all the way out the door, I had my epiphany.  We had visited the infamous Macy's shoe department before exiting the famous Macy's department store. I went back to the car and sent my also albino sister in this time.  She returned with a Macy's bag and without a tan.

I filed the moment under the heading "things that make me glad I am not superficial and that I have albino tendencies."