Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Somewhere I'm not scatterbrained...
Been thinking a lot about home lately. Thinking about the funeral, thinking about how fall looks from the lake, and how much that place is tied to me as much as a lot of people I know don't know that, or a lot about my life even.
I remembered the Sprite today as I was reading a post on Rad's blog. The Sprite made the trip over from Germany with my grandparents after my grandfather was done his airforce transfer there, out of nostalgia (and I imagine it would have been cheap to do back then). My mother and her sister camped in this trailer when they were infants, and it still exists today, in all it's 63 square feet of glory, in the posession of my brother. For our whole lives we went everywhere with the Sprite, hijinks following accordingly.
Vividly I remember being on the West coast, waiting for the ferry to somewhere in my white and purple flannel two piece pajamas with my little velcro converse sneakers on. My father had parked on the stern of the ferry parking ramp at sunrise, and the four of us had breakfast on the folding table/master bed watching the wake and the mainland spread away from us. That was probably the stillest I have ever seen the sea, and I kept imagining that I saw porpoises in the shadows of the waves spurred by the propellers, and with that, vainly wishing to see one.
On the same trip (I think), I remember finishing a particularly riveting game of Uno on a rainy day with my brother on the same (only) table, as my father blustered in the door with a canvas bag wriggling with movement. Live snow crabs, $1.99 each. It was quite a steal at that time, and my mother quickly got a pot of water boiling on the small gas stove. My father was in charge of unbanding the crabs and throwing them into the pot. My brother and I (both quite small and likeminded at that age) sat on the bench next to the stove watching in curiousity as he wrestled with the substantially sized crustaceans over our paltry stove and the tin pot. And splash, they went in, and sploosh, one came back out. My mother started screaming as the crab plopped to the floor and started scuttling away from its near death experience- and headed for the children- no doubt visions of vengeance whirling around in it's ganglionic mind. And we started screaming too. Three people screaming in such an enclosed space with an enraged crab clacking its claws at the racket, and all my father could do was laugh. Once my brother and I realized that crabs lack vertical ascension abilities, we started laughing too. My mom does this thing though (continues to, actually) where she's sort of frightened but still sees the hilarity in the situation. The laugh/scream. All things said and done (cliches...YES!) the crab got back into the pot eventually.
I think this was weak humor-wise, but it was still worth recapping.
¶ 4:03 PM
I remembered the Sprite today as I was reading a post on Rad's blog. The Sprite made the trip over from Germany with my grandparents after my grandfather was done his airforce transfer there, out of nostalgia (and I imagine it would have been cheap to do back then). My mother and her sister camped in this trailer when they were infants, and it still exists today, in all it's 63 square feet of glory, in the posession of my brother. For our whole lives we went everywhere with the Sprite, hijinks following accordingly.
Vividly I remember being on the West coast, waiting for the ferry to somewhere in my white and purple flannel two piece pajamas with my little velcro converse sneakers on. My father had parked on the stern of the ferry parking ramp at sunrise, and the four of us had breakfast on the folding table/master bed watching the wake and the mainland spread away from us. That was probably the stillest I have ever seen the sea, and I kept imagining that I saw porpoises in the shadows of the waves spurred by the propellers, and with that, vainly wishing to see one.
On the same trip (I think), I remember finishing a particularly riveting game of Uno on a rainy day with my brother on the same (only) table, as my father blustered in the door with a canvas bag wriggling with movement. Live snow crabs, $1.99 each. It was quite a steal at that time, and my mother quickly got a pot of water boiling on the small gas stove. My father was in charge of unbanding the crabs and throwing them into the pot. My brother and I (both quite small and likeminded at that age) sat on the bench next to the stove watching in curiousity as he wrestled with the substantially sized crustaceans over our paltry stove and the tin pot. And splash, they went in, and sploosh, one came back out. My mother started screaming as the crab plopped to the floor and started scuttling away from its near death experience- and headed for the children- no doubt visions of vengeance whirling around in it's ganglionic mind. And we started screaming too. Three people screaming in such an enclosed space with an enraged crab clacking its claws at the racket, and all my father could do was laugh. Once my brother and I realized that crabs lack vertical ascension abilities, we started laughing too. My mom does this thing though (continues to, actually) where she's sort of frightened but still sees the hilarity in the situation. The laugh/scream. All things said and done (cliches...YES!) the crab got back into the pot eventually.
I think this was weak humor-wise, but it was still worth recapping.
¶ 4:03 PM
