Cheers
Ok, this post could be mistaken as sappy. Don’t care if it is. No apologies.
Today was a day I’ll remember. I wasn’t handed anything that I’ll frame. I took no pictures of grouped friends with staged smiles fighting not to be the one guy in the picture who blinked. And to be honest, I’ll probably eventually merge this night into some other memory, and tell it all wrong one day. Irrelevant. I’ve come to recognize nights like this as if by scent. They fall into the following category of nights:
In high school, I had no greater joy than to water ski on Lake Martin. Best feeling on earth: driving home at twilight, mildly sunburned, tight skin, muscles sore from pulling against the ski rope. My motorcycle hummed beneath me. I was young, immortal, and was convinced that nothing but good was ahead of me in life. No pictures. No diplomas. But I remember it like it was today.
In college, I had no greater joy than to take my girlfriend and my discount card to the McDonalds in Saraland, Alabama. Kim and I learned about each other across the table, across a pile of fries and ketchup. Both our moms were nurses named Carol. Her sister: Dana Marie. Mine? Donna Marie. The first night I asked Kim out, I went back to my dorm and thumped my radio on. The first words out of the radio were, “Go west, young man, find a heart that’s golden.” I did. Kim’s maiden name was West. A few pictures, a couple of college diplomas. And I remember it like it was today.
When Kim was in her last semester of med school in St. Vincent, I got an email from home. I had applied to seminary in New Jersey, knowing we were about to be back in America after two years of living in the Caribbean. The email said that I could attend Princeton Theological Seminary on scholarship. I sat on the railing of the veranda of our house overlooking Young Island and the island’s western view of the Eastern Caribbean. I smoked a Cuban cigar, sipped a bit of Grenadian rum, and knew that that moment was beautiful and transient. It was both. I have no pictures of that moment. I have two diplomas from the seminary. And I remember it like it was today.
At seminary, every Thursday, me and anywhere from 3 to 30 of my closest friends would walk down the street to a hotel bar and grill. Snow? No problem. DUI? Nope. Nobody drove. A guy named Keith played cover tunes behind the bar. Guinness was $2 a pint. Theology, politics, sex, morality, sports, and our futures were discussed as if the stream of Thursdays would never end. But they did. Pictures? I can’t find any. Diplomas? Uh, I’ve already covered that. But I do have several stolen beer glasses in my freezer from that bar, up to this very day.
Today. I took lunch from work and ate left over pizza in my own house. My home. I went out to a young lawyers’ bash at a local bar after work. I ate huge shrimp. My wife showed up in scrubs. My friend from Cumberland came and made me laugh. You know who you are. I dropped my cell phone. I drank Coronas. And I made a deposit into the bank of memories for which pictures are impotent, diplomas are inappropriate, and of which life is constructed. I care little what tomorrow holds. I’ll let tomorrow worry about itself. Tonight, I’m OK.
Today was a day I’ll remember. I wasn’t handed anything that I’ll frame. I took no pictures of grouped friends with staged smiles fighting not to be the one guy in the picture who blinked. And to be honest, I’ll probably eventually merge this night into some other memory, and tell it all wrong one day. Irrelevant. I’ve come to recognize nights like this as if by scent. They fall into the following category of nights:
In high school, I had no greater joy than to water ski on Lake Martin. Best feeling on earth: driving home at twilight, mildly sunburned, tight skin, muscles sore from pulling against the ski rope. My motorcycle hummed beneath me. I was young, immortal, and was convinced that nothing but good was ahead of me in life. No pictures. No diplomas. But I remember it like it was today.
In college, I had no greater joy than to take my girlfriend and my discount card to the McDonalds in Saraland, Alabama. Kim and I learned about each other across the table, across a pile of fries and ketchup. Both our moms were nurses named Carol. Her sister: Dana Marie. Mine? Donna Marie. The first night I asked Kim out, I went back to my dorm and thumped my radio on. The first words out of the radio were, “Go west, young man, find a heart that’s golden.” I did. Kim’s maiden name was West. A few pictures, a couple of college diplomas. And I remember it like it was today.
When Kim was in her last semester of med school in St. Vincent, I got an email from home. I had applied to seminary in New Jersey, knowing we were about to be back in America after two years of living in the Caribbean. The email said that I could attend Princeton Theological Seminary on scholarship. I sat on the railing of the veranda of our house overlooking Young Island and the island’s western view of the Eastern Caribbean. I smoked a Cuban cigar, sipped a bit of Grenadian rum, and knew that that moment was beautiful and transient. It was both. I have no pictures of that moment. I have two diplomas from the seminary. And I remember it like it was today.
At seminary, every Thursday, me and anywhere from 3 to 30 of my closest friends would walk down the street to a hotel bar and grill. Snow? No problem. DUI? Nope. Nobody drove. A guy named Keith played cover tunes behind the bar. Guinness was $2 a pint. Theology, politics, sex, morality, sports, and our futures were discussed as if the stream of Thursdays would never end. But they did. Pictures? I can’t find any. Diplomas? Uh, I’ve already covered that. But I do have several stolen beer glasses in my freezer from that bar, up to this very day.
Today. I took lunch from work and ate left over pizza in my own house. My home. I went out to a young lawyers’ bash at a local bar after work. I ate huge shrimp. My wife showed up in scrubs. My friend from Cumberland came and made me laugh. You know who you are. I dropped my cell phone. I drank Coronas. And I made a deposit into the bank of memories for which pictures are impotent, diplomas are inappropriate, and of which life is constructed. I care little what tomorrow holds. I’ll let tomorrow worry about itself. Tonight, I’m OK.
posted by graysandpeas | 9:49 PM
1 Comments:
hey,
Kim went to law school too?? Glad you had a good time last night... so did I. Not exaclty sure what elevated it to this magical-night-status for you... but it certainly was a pleasant evening. Thanks for the laughs... and for keeping secrets ;-)
~Amanda
Post a Comment
<< Home