I am sitting anxiously at the weathered wooden picnic table just in front of the mini-estate. This is what my boyfriend calls his camping trailer. The trailer and the picnic table have been meticulously positioned just so by the boyfriend and are nestled in the bosoms of towering honey locusts, sycamores, pin oaks, sweet gums, maples, and one complexly gnarled cedar. These hardwoods are rooted in the loamy soil of south central Kentucky, in beautiful Bowling Green, and they are absolutely majestic, and maternally soothing as their canopies, blanketed in green, sway and rock in the evening breeze, effortlessly blocking the mid-June rays of the late afternoon sun. To my right, two scrappy little squirrels argue with a fearless blue jay over a piece of bread that the boyfriend has thrown down the hillside at the back of the camper.
Our mini-estate is a special haven to the little creatures at the park because the boy friend has lovingly purchased a bird feeder just to hang on a line that is stretched between two of our trees. Once the little critters have eaten their fill, they fly over and roost in the tree limbs that stretch out over my burgundy Nissan Sentra. In the morning, there are large white splats of fresh, wet bird droppings splattered across my windshield. But the precious little things will have a full tummy as long as the boyfriend has a beating heart. God bless them all.
To my left, said boyfriend is up by the road, lounging in his chair, trying to stay away from my work space to allow me to write; he busies himself by waving at the other campers who are cruising by. This is a special weekend here at the park so he is waving almost constantly.
Most of the folks here have arrived in the past two days driving every assortment of vehicle imaginable, pulling every sort of camper imaginable, pulling garages on wheels which contain every kind of classic car and dragster imaginable, even some that are beyond imagination. Everyone seems happy to be here. They are busy polishing their cars, making friends, drinking beer - but not too much - and grilling out. They drive around the meandering park roads in golf carts that look like golf carts, and golf carts that have been modified in audacious ways to look like classic cars and hot rods, and everyone is friendly, even when they are competitive, even when they go past the limits of good taste, even when they are shining up the most in-your-face muscle cars in this country.
The boyfriend had a special surprise for me today when I arrived back at the camper from my grueling day of class. He told me that tonight, at the car show's main stage, was a woman who would perform as Karen Carpenter, The Captain and Tennile, and The Supremes. I asked him directly if he thought she did this at the same time, and he assured me it was his belief that she did her performances consecutively and not concurrently. The woman's name is Sarah Getto, and she has hung fliers all around the park's bathrooms with her picture on them. She is dressed in a leopard skin top, and she smiles at you, regardless of what it is you are doing in the bathrooms. Sara Getto will be appearing at the Bath House Stage.
Just in case you need it, there is also a tattoo camper and tent here at the park. If anyone wants to remember his trip to beautiful Bowling Green, this car show, or even Sara Getto, he can do it without getting too far away from the cars. Handy. There is something here for everyone.
My computer is at the picnic table, which I have converted into a writing desk. Who says camping has to be rustic? I hear the boy friend chatting away with people who pass that he has met during the day. I hear bits of the conversation drift over to my picnic table, and his warm, hearty voice calling out, "Hi, buddy!" He is eager and friendly, and has already made friends with the neighbors and many of the newcomers. I know no one here. I am not on vacation. We are not here for the car show. I am irritable.
I do not have time to hear Karencarpenterthecaptainandtennileandthesupremes sing because I have worked all day as a Fellow at the Western Kentucky University Writing Project, and I am tired physically, but especially mentally. I wrote all day as I am writing now, and later I will be writing in my sleep as I dream. I have been grumpy and stressed and agitated and stressed, and anxious and stressed for two solid weeks because at nearly 50, I have to adapt to technology and new teaching standards, and I am terrified of not keeping up. I am pulling strips of skin away from my nails with my teeth over politics at my school, and also, I have been getting zits. I thought I was too old for all of this.
I am wondering all over again what it is I want to do when I grow up, and I still don't have the answer. The only respites I have had from myself in the past two weeks is that I have discovered Riley's Bakery, and eaten lots of creamed cheese, nut and olive sandwiches on the finest, sweet-sponge white bread I have ever seen, and I have sucked the meat off the bone from the ribs and pork butt at the Smokey Pig just off of State Road 31. During a normal week, this would be enough to send me to nirvana. But not now.
Now I drive my car in the early morning while everyone else sleeps at the campgrounds, I wind along Bowling Green's hillocks, and past the misty parking lot awaiting the influx of park visitors. I find my way around the broken miasma of streets in this college town well enough to competently locate my building on the campus of Western Kentucky University and park. When I walk up the daunting hill to Cherry Hall, I try to forget enough my fear and anxiety for the seven hours of class to make new connections with other teachers who are younger than I and better versed in the processes Kentucky wants us all to use to teach its students. My great solace is that on Thursdays we share our personal writing, and so far I have received positive feed back. I have learned that if I want to be an artist someday I can, but since I will likely starve in the process, I've got to work. I know I am a paranoid, fearful, fresh divorcee with a terrible, inferiority complex, but I have to be able to depend on me. In spite of those deeply personal disabilities, I have managed to discern what it is I do want to do when I grow up. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, taking a deep breath inward. I allow myself to exhale slowly, and I fantasize for the first time today.
I want to retire. Just like my waving boyfriend. I continue to exhale, and some of my irritation leaves me. I want to sit in a reclining lawn chair and make friendly gestures at people, and occasionally ride my bicycle when the mood strikes me. I want to be relaxed and engaging. I feel my irritation begin to turn to wistfulness. I want to cook for someone who really appreciates it, have a partner who adores me and looks up to me, and I want to laugh often, just like my boyfriend, Bill. I want people I barely know to call my name and wave at me vigorously when they pass by. I want to find someone who will lightly rub my back and give me goose bumps just because he loves me. I want to have ambitious hope for my grandchildren and think them beyond compare. But there's more. I want song birds and squirrels to flock to me because I have a good heart and I feed them, even when they don't really need it, just because they are beautiful, and I can see it. I want to get excited about singers who perform at bath houses in parks because they will do anything to fulfill their dreams, and I want to go and hear them because I realize that is the one small way I can help them make that dream come true. Bill isn't just retired, and he isn't just friendly. Bill isn't anxious; he isn't afraid; Bill is a good, good man. Bill has let go. I want to let go.
I open my eyes, look over, and see the familiar shape of the back of his head underneath his red Marine Scout Sniper cap he wears to honor his comrades from Viet Nam. He doesn't realize I am looking at him and loving him very much right now, even as my neck aches from typing, even as I hang on to thoughts and images and record them for myself to figure out later what they might mean because that's the crazy way I am. I think I will go over and kiss him and rub his back very lightly, just enough to give him goose bumps. I will tell him I love him. I will take the goodness from his outstretched hand, and I will be just like all of the other little birds who flock to him. With Bill, I don't need to worry about whether I sow or reap; he nourishes my soul.
Sometimes important lessons come from outside a classroom, when the sun sets, and birds sing their goodnight songs to a certain slant of light. Lessons can come with a breeze that carries the fragrance of a charcoal grill and barbecue sauce. Lessons surely come when a dreaming Sara Getto sings her version of Muskrat Love outside the bath house during Car Week at Beech Bend Park. These are the lessons of the little birds, and surely I have as much value as they.
No comments:
Post a Comment