Words like "sigh-REENS" and "worsh" never had a place in my world. Growing up on a tropical island, my native tongue consisted of a strange but delicious concoction of English, Hawaiian Japanese and Chinese. Language originating from the corners of West Virginia and Maryland country side, was about as natural to me as Cajun (which as far as I'm concerned should be illegal to utter without subtitles flashing below the speaker's lips). But after a week around the people who use words like "sigh-REENS," I'm oddly comforted by the simplicity of their speech, mannerisms, and way of life. Where the atrocious grammar once used to offend every fiber of my being, what lies beneath the careless speech is something sweet, innocent, humble, gracious, and even beautiful.
My love had not seen his family on the east coast for about 15 years, and after a much-needed knee surgery had finally found the time and desire to make the 950 mile journey. So with that, we packed my new car and journeyed from Wisconsin with our 3 children to the eastern part of West Virginia for a week-long vacation.
Upon reaching our destination, I was kind of taken aback by the first impression of our accommodations. The River Bend Campsite consisted of camper trailers whose owners had ingeniously built around the simple structures, turning a once-simple camper into an oddly functional hybrid home of sorts. The residences in the campsite were an interesting breed of dwelling that would be produced if a camp site and a Country Living magazine had sex and produced a child, complete with all the creature comforts we town-dwellers know and love. Though small in size, you really could want for nothing, and we were completely comfortable. The campsite sat smackdab on the Potomac River, and was, in a word, picturesque.
Our hosts for the week were Warnie and Jean (who housed the kids) and Alan and Betty (who donated their extra camper to my love and I to use). They were the epitome of graciousness as they extended their homes and food to us for the entire stay. Conversations were light and laughter was heavy every night with our hosts, as we lingered over campfires and deliciously grilled dinners, our smiles illuminated by the light of mosquito-repellent candles in small aluminum buckets scattered on the plastic picnic dinner tables before us. Fireflies (nicknamed "twinklebugs" by Miss Savannah) lit up the tallest maples, the bushes as well as the grass, surrounding us like wintertime Christmas light displays, blinking bright, yellow and festive. Our youngest was all smiles as she spent her twilight hours tripping around the yard, cupping tinklebugs carefully between her small hands. She would carrying them a few yards before opening her fingers to reveal her sparkling friend and then release him in the air, ready to catch another.
The days were sensory-filled as we took lazy boat rides down the historic Potomac River, skimming across the glossy black top, the wind in our hair, the sun on our upturned faces. My subconscious concentrated on taking pure, deep cleansing breaths, somehow knowing that it would be a long long time before I'd experience this level of tranquility again (it was well into the boat ride before I realized that I was breathing deeply, and then wondered why I was doing it). This author is also happy to report that she was not susceptible to motion sickness while on the boat trips (big bonus).
More lively afternoons were spent at the pool with the little one, who enjoyed them immensely. Little wet, tanned bodies clothed in brightly colored spandex suits frolicked about the glisterning pool, laughing, yelling, and splashing water in every direction. Balls, water noodles and inflatable tubes were thrown and retrieved, thrown and retrieved, as the afternoon sun shone down, lighting the pool up with a million little sparkles that reflected back on the slippery skin of the rambunctuous youngsters.
No matter who you are, trips to "back home," where ever that may be, always include the requisite tour down memory lane. Somewhere it is written that when you take someone to your old stomping grounds, you are required to point out every street you ever rode your childhood bike on, every house you ever lived in, every place of employment you held, every memory you've EVER had, in painful, excruciating detail to the poor soul that accompanies you on this pilgrimage. Needless to say I know more about Frederick and its nearby town of Walkersville than its first settlers. It is what it is. I've been guilty of doing the same, so stones will not be cast from this direction. The good thing that came from this three-hour-tour is that my love got to reconnect with the place he calls "home," and I got to steal 1/2 an hour away to have a proper spot of delightful chamomile tea and homemade scone (complete with clotted cream and passion fruit curd) at a tea house in historic Frederick. That more than made up for anything else that failed to capture my attention that afternoon. All were happy. We headed to a store called "Trouts" for our next adventure.
It wasn't all fun and games, though. There was learning to be done, and I received my education on dissecting and eating the famous Maryland Blue Crab from two seasoned veterans. Black, lifeless, beady eyes stared up at me as I sized up my opponent and received step by step instruction on how to deconstruct this creature of the sea. Approving nods from the patriarch of the family, accompanied by sweet smiles and loving glances from my love told me that I was a good student and was doing it right. We sat around a plastic picnic table layered with old newspapers, digging out and consuming every edible morsel of these savory crustaceans coated liberally with the time-honored "Old Bay" seasoning (heavy on the celery salt). The hours went by as the sun sank down silently over the horizon, and soon all you heard was the sound of cracking shell as the crab eaters methodically worked each crab over one by one...cracking, picking, eating. A word or two of conversation would pass, but not much more as the crab consuming held out attention, riveted, we were, in our task. Only when our bellies were full, and our lips burning from all the spice did we concede defeat, and pack the remaining crabs on ice to face them another day.
It was this trip that brought about appreciation and respect for my elders and how they went through the day. In one's youth, it's all about excess. Nights with friends was all about seeing who could outlast the rest, who could outdrink the rest, who could be the wittiest in conversation. If we had a bonfire, for pete's sake man, stoke that thing up so high it can be seen five counties away (nevermind SOMEONE had to stay up until it went out, which could be a good 12 hours later). It was all competition, really, and pointless, especially when the body decides it's time for bed. The older, retired set are severely misunderstood with their lifestyles. Logs are only thrown on the bonfire as needed and for as long as they anticipate people staying awake to enjoy its warmth. Bedtimes are dictated by what their bodies tell them so they can be up at a decent hour to start the next day, not by the "last man standing" rule of thumb. It's not excess, it's measured moderation, and there's comforting, logical wisdom in that. I suspect that my soul is about 30 years older than my chronological age, and that suits me fine.
The entire week wore us out physically with the endless summer activities available to us at the camp, lunching with people, dinnering with people, and sight-seeing. We spent our last social night surrounding a campfire near the river in light conversation, under a blanket of stars, on a comfortably cool night. Around 10pm we all parted ways to retire for the night and went back to our respective quarters. As we drove our golf cart back to our camper, I rode on the back, looking towards the river, our humble campfire slowly disappearing in the distance. Far too late in the evening to expect anymore excitement, a few fireflies buzzed past my eyes in a last-ditch attempt to draw attention to themselves. They lit up briefly and buzzed away as a smile crossed my lips.
It's the simple things you find you derive the most happiness from. This entire experience was proof of that.