Songs, stories, cliches about the weekend are everywhere. Hell, they even named a restaurant chain after one of them. Everybody looks forward to their days off and rightly so. A hard week's work should be rewarded with some relaxation or entertainment. Sometimes there are just moments that occur, usually insignificant at the time, that come back to us. One of these very recently came to me, almost like a dream. I don't know what the feeling was that day, or why it took place, but it mattered. That is all I know.
I was away in New Hampshire, working at Pierce Camp Birchmont. I don't recall which summer, but I do know it was a Monday. Our day off was always Monday. The bus took us into one of the harbor towns, I believe Portland. We ran off the bus and into one of the local pubs. Drinks were poured and swallowed at an alarming rate. The new staff did their shopping, while the old guard sat and downed pint after pint. Eyes became glassy, speech became slurred and everyone was giddy, because we still had half the afternoon and the evening ahead of us. It was business as usual at PCB.
When I would go away to Birchmont it was for a little shy of nine weeks. During that time I made calls home very infrequently. To go two, maybe even three weeks without a call home was not an oddity. Right or wrong, Birchmont time was mine, I did not share it with others, until I arrived home. This day, I got up and excused myself from the table. I walked outside into a slight drizzle. I walked about two blocks away from the pub in the direction from which we parked the bus. I remembered seeing a pay phone. As I walked the rain got heavier, but I didn't notice at the time. I got to the phone and dialed home. My mother answered and soon after my father got on the other line. We spoke, about nothing and everything. The tone was always the same. There was no joy, no sorrow, just touching base. We shared stories of our summers and talked about plans for the near future. We talked about our lunch that day, maybe our dinner plans. Like I said, nothing special. About an hour later I hung up the phone, we said our goodbyes.
I honestly don't know if we talked again that summer other than to make arrangements for my arrival and pickup in Roslyn, NY. To this day, I don't know what happened. I don't know what drew me to the phone. I know that my day was meant to happen this way. I returned to the bar and joined my friends. The magical thing about Birchmont is nobody asked where I was. There was no need for an explanation. I left, quietly and without fanfare. I returned and continued in the quest for a debaucherous evening.
Over the past ten to twelve years, this day has come back to me. A light drizzle, a pay phone, a school bus. Every day occurrences, that sometimes go unnoticed will trigger this memory. What was said will always be unknown, forgotten, maybe subconsciously making me realize how lucky I was to have my family, to have Birchmont, to have the life I complain about so often. Maybe something else. Maybe it kept me from something. Maybe it lead me to something. Maybe the girl of my dreams walked in the bar while I was gone. Maybe it was to be my darkest hour. I don't know why this seemingly insignificant moment is so emblazoned in my memory, but when that trigger does happen, I remember a day, cool by summer's standards, standing in the rain, just calmly chatting with my parents. As I closed my eyes that night, I thought about what a wonderful day it was. Others complained about the rain, the bus ride. Not me. In many ways it was a reflection of my life. The little things that make me happy. The little things that make me who I am. The little things that we take from our experiences that make the biggest impact. These I'd like to think are our heavenly moments on earth. Early Sunday mornings, feeding my baby brother his bottle, meeting eyes with someone you know you'll have some future with, shaking the hand of someone and knowing they will be a friend forever, and talking on the phone, in the rain when everyone else is there to party. These are the times in my life I remember. At times they bring me to tears. At times they bring a smile to my face. We can't manufacture these times. They just happen. I'm thankful this day did and I remember it fondly. I always will.
I was away in New Hampshire, working at Pierce Camp Birchmont. I don't recall which summer, but I do know it was a Monday. Our day off was always Monday. The bus took us into one of the harbor towns, I believe Portland. We ran off the bus and into one of the local pubs. Drinks were poured and swallowed at an alarming rate. The new staff did their shopping, while the old guard sat and downed pint after pint. Eyes became glassy, speech became slurred and everyone was giddy, because we still had half the afternoon and the evening ahead of us. It was business as usual at PCB.
When I would go away to Birchmont it was for a little shy of nine weeks. During that time I made calls home very infrequently. To go two, maybe even three weeks without a call home was not an oddity. Right or wrong, Birchmont time was mine, I did not share it with others, until I arrived home. This day, I got up and excused myself from the table. I walked outside into a slight drizzle. I walked about two blocks away from the pub in the direction from which we parked the bus. I remembered seeing a pay phone. As I walked the rain got heavier, but I didn't notice at the time. I got to the phone and dialed home. My mother answered and soon after my father got on the other line. We spoke, about nothing and everything. The tone was always the same. There was no joy, no sorrow, just touching base. We shared stories of our summers and talked about plans for the near future. We talked about our lunch that day, maybe our dinner plans. Like I said, nothing special. About an hour later I hung up the phone, we said our goodbyes.
I honestly don't know if we talked again that summer other than to make arrangements for my arrival and pickup in Roslyn, NY. To this day, I don't know what happened. I don't know what drew me to the phone. I know that my day was meant to happen this way. I returned to the bar and joined my friends. The magical thing about Birchmont is nobody asked where I was. There was no need for an explanation. I left, quietly and without fanfare. I returned and continued in the quest for a debaucherous evening.
Over the past ten to twelve years, this day has come back to me. A light drizzle, a pay phone, a school bus. Every day occurrences, that sometimes go unnoticed will trigger this memory. What was said will always be unknown, forgotten, maybe subconsciously making me realize how lucky I was to have my family, to have Birchmont, to have the life I complain about so often. Maybe something else. Maybe it kept me from something. Maybe it lead me to something. Maybe the girl of my dreams walked in the bar while I was gone. Maybe it was to be my darkest hour. I don't know why this seemingly insignificant moment is so emblazoned in my memory, but when that trigger does happen, I remember a day, cool by summer's standards, standing in the rain, just calmly chatting with my parents. As I closed my eyes that night, I thought about what a wonderful day it was. Others complained about the rain, the bus ride. Not me. In many ways it was a reflection of my life. The little things that make me happy. The little things that make me who I am. The little things that we take from our experiences that make the biggest impact. These I'd like to think are our heavenly moments on earth. Early Sunday mornings, feeding my baby brother his bottle, meeting eyes with someone you know you'll have some future with, shaking the hand of someone and knowing they will be a friend forever, and talking on the phone, in the rain when everyone else is there to party. These are the times in my life I remember. At times they bring me to tears. At times they bring a smile to my face. We can't manufacture these times. They just happen. I'm thankful this day did and I remember it fondly. I always will.
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