It occurred to me this past week that, until I was a married adult, I never spent a day in July at home. In fact, from the time I was six years old until I left my parent’s house, I spent all of my Julys at my grandparent’s home on Eastern Long Island with my sisters.
Each year, sometime toward the end of June, we packed up our things and made the long trek east, traversing the significant breadth of Pennsylvania in the family sedan, listening to story tapes and Amy Grant tapes, John Denver and Neil Diamond, singing along, waiting for the Delaware Water Gap. The Gap marked Progress, you see: we had finished Pennsylvania, and could move on to New Jersey, and then came New York.
The trip typically took us at least eight hours, maybe more. In those days, I wasn’t really aware of the time. It took a Long Time, that was all I knew, and it was my job to fill it or, at the very least, Endure. For all those eight hours or more, we stopped Only Once, and then briefly, because the trip was about endurance and Making Good Time.
There is a good deal lurking to prey on Good Time. There is traffic, something New York with its five boroughs, three (is it?) tunnels and abundance of bridges has in spades. That, typically, was what could slow us in the summer. But there are weather issues, too: rain, fog, that kind of thing. One thing we would Not Allow to spoil our efforts at Making Good Time was the bathroom.
And then finally we were There: All five of us, and my grandparents, and my aunt and uncle and two young cousins, who really were like brothers. And further “in” on the Island (and by “in” I mean closer to NYC) was More family: two of my father’s brothers, and their wives, and more cousins. My parents typically stayed for a week or so, and then headed west again, home to Pittsburgh. My sisters and I (could we have known how blessed we were?) stayed behind in the house near Peconic Bay, to spend July with our noses in books, our feet in sand, our care in the capable hands of our grandparents.
That was Good.
Almost two weeks ago now I made a similar trek, north, this time, with my children and my dear tworivers, to that same little house where my parents now live. We did not Make Good Time. No indeed. We stopped A Lot, and we had Dreadful Traffic in Queens, though our EZPass made the tolls faster and, surprisingly, amusing. No, our trip took a Long Time, and then tworivers’ stay was Dreadfully Short, and I missed her.
But there wasn’t much time for missing. The next day, my sister Meghan, her husband and their two girls arrived from Alaska; and that same night, creeping silently up the stairs at two a.m., my other sister Emily arrived with her husband. And then Bill arrived, and we were All There Again.
What a wonderful time we had! On Saturday we had a huge picnic celebrating my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary, and it was a little like a scene from “This is Your Life,” where people we hadn’t seen in Too Long remind us in a glance of how much we love them.
Janke (that’s Emily’s husband) fixed the Sunfish and so, for the first time in Years (I’m not even sure how many), we were sailing again, and I, surprised, delighted, remembered how to do it. And William started learning how, too. But that’s another posting.
And Meghan’s husband Randy built a new shower stall outside, so that now we can shower outside again, something we haven’t done in years, but always did for years, and all enjoy doing (although we do it separately, for the most part).
On the Fourth, all five grandchildren were dressed in red, white, and blue for the little New Suffolk parade. It ends on a grassy space near the beach, and we have hot dogs and lemonade and apple pie for Free. And then we were off to Annie and Unc’s for water gun fights in the yard, and my dear little first-cousin-once-removed delighted by all the children, and real New York pizza for dinner. And after that, late, we went to see the fireworks in Greenport.
We spent mornings sipping coffee and going for walks, afternoons clamming, canoing and sailing. We spent one afternoon at the “big wave beach,” which is what we call the ocean, and rode the waves and buried children in the sand. When the lifeguards abandoned the mound of sand that had been support for their lifeguarding chair, we held a rousing game of King of the Hill. I am sure everyone will agree with me that I was the Reigning Champion, despite my broken foot.
And then it was time to go home. Emily and Janke went first; the very air felt a little deflated as they drove away. We rallied, though, and played a good game of Scotch Bridge. Our family left the next morning, which was only yesterday, but feels like it could have been months ago.
Yes, we drove home, through the city this time, dodging traffic while we looked for the Lincoln Tunnel. Then the Jersey Turnpike and the endless stretch of 95, moving around Baltimore and Washington D.C. It is good, this long drive: time to feel the road between my first home and my home in North Carolina.
I was surprised, though, that the passing motorists didn’t notice the singular appearance of our vehicle. The aura of our time on Long Island clung to the van. Massapequa, Peconic, Cutchogue: these names hung on our bumper. Did the strangers in the parking lot of the Walt Whitman service center on the Jersey Turnpike smell what we carried: the smell of my grandparents’ and parents’ house– the smell of old books, and linens dried on the line and, somehow, the warmth of wooden furniture? Did they smell what the van was wrapped with– the air that blows over Nassau Point, the salty, mild wind? At the gas station in northern Virginia did anyone note the streamers made of sea weed that were wound about the van’s antenna and were tucked into the closed windows? Did they slip on the sand that poured through the van’s open doors? As we pulled away from the parking lot, did they hear the light tinkle of the shells and small stones that clung to the sea weed and dragged behind us as we went?
All of this stayed with us all the way home, growing quieter as our minds turned toward home and our responsibilities here. And when we drove onto our street, I heard it: the barely audible sigh as all of these things which had held on so long finally released their grip. Cutchogue and Peconic bumped onto the pavement and their fragments dissolved; the seaweed unfurled itself and floated to the side of the road. The shells and stones rolled away and disintegrated, the last breath of salty air was blown out in the van’s exhaust.
In all, the return trip took us about twelve hours, better than on the way up, and it would have been better still if it hadn’t rained so hard in Virginia. We’re home now, but the important thing is that we were There, and when we were There, we most definitely Made Good Time.
When I woke up this morning, I didn’t for a moment remember where I was. When I washed my face, I rubbed my eyes with my towel and, eyes closed, tried to convince myself that I was still there, in the upstairs bathroom of the other house. When I opened my eyes, I was Disappointed.
All day we’ve been slowly unpacking and cleaning; soon we’ll make a trip to the grocery store. Meanwhile, there is a good deal of sand in the van, and I’m thinking I’ll leave it there for awhile. Also, I noticed a grain of sand in my cell-phone. I hope I won’t be able to get it out.
