Mes Dépêches

Perhaps the first sign of trouble was an easy table.

On a blustery Wednesday, mid-March, a buddy and I flagged a car in New York’s West Village and gunned it to Brooklyn, giddy at the divine gift we held: a same-day reservation to Peter Luger.

Steak for two – a porterhouse, served rare – spinach, tomatoes, thick-sliced bacon… I digress; we ate well. But there were a few empty tables between those wainscoted walls, which in this famously packed institution foreshadowed the week to come.

I’ve hitchhiked in Medellín, partied on Soi Cowboy, even survived the cabbage casserole at the Dillard House, but was unprepared for the mercy ships, tent morgues and food lines that sprouted in the week ahead.

So as any proud 34-year-old would do, I called Mom and Dad. “Can I come home?”

As my Elberton vacation comes to a close, I’d be remiss to not publicly thank my family for being such gracious hosts. I didn’t plan for half a year in my high school bed, but given the chance I wouldn’t change it.

Richard’s homemade chips and Hawaii Five-O reruns easily stood in for wallet-sapping Friday night burgers at Bar Sardine. Hours of being shoved around for a boulevardier at Dante gave way to cool spring nights at the fire pit with my parents’ friends and a couple Coors (Jerry Self might’ve opened a Basil Hayden’s with me, but I’d never tell on him here).

With those I left behind hunkering down in 450 square feet of four-walled solitude, here we sailed the open seas of Clarks Hill. And we walked. Dear sweet Lord did we walk. Monitoring home and business projects from the street, deciding our own facts and then cornering Larry Guest in his driveway to fill in any gaps; Mom and I knew all.

Lacking a Bloomberg terminal to kill days, I picked up a hammer for the first time in years, volunteering my surely-unwanted services to help Dad build (read: assemble) a shed. Proof of God’s sense of humor, it’s still standing.

Grandma was game for road trips to fill slow days, aimless drives to anywhere away from our thoughts. We caught up over shrimp po’boys and family plot tours at the Union Point Methodist cemetery, reminiscent of similar escapes we shared with Grandpa years ago.

We trekked Appalachia to see my uncle Glenn, forever Grandma’s favorite and never too shy to say it. But, in fairness, his homemade bleu cheese dressing made the abuse more tolerable.

While Wee School took a break, I stood in to educate my nephews, leading off with a lesson in shattering a dining room window with a soccer ball. We searched storm drains for ninja turtles, mastered mazes with grandma Jane, and, leveraging a cash register the McAvoys gave Max for his birthday, became quick capitalists: “Coffee is $30. You gave me $40, here’s 9 cents change.” Your move, Wee School.

Max will one day play in the majors. And when he does, maybe he’ll remember this was the summer he learned to call his shot, just like the Great Bambino. At three, inquisitive James has already learned from his dad how to take apart and (occasionally) rebuild most anything, and he’ll break hearts with that smile. Not sure what les enfants terribles have left for little baby Chandler, but after an overnight serenade of teething screams I have no doubt he’ll make his presence known.

They also taught me. I experienced my first drive-through zoo, somewhere in the hinterland north of Hartwell. The boys were hungry, their wails for Kona Ice dampening my joy for the leaping lemurs, my sister Laurie and I fully convinced the experience was a bust – until we heard from the backseat, “that was awesome!”

The chaotic drive to the zoo was emblematic of a summer in which nothing went exactly according to plan. I planned for summer Fridays in New York, our family planned for the beach, the kids planned for school and sports and friends. And alas it wasn’t meant to be. But what it was, was pretty special.

This year will justifiably be remembered as tragic on the whole, but tucked neatly between disappointments will be memories, of time not wasted no matter the circumstance, of living.

In this golden age of Fox News and CNN, vacuous entertainment stoking spiritually corrosive dissension, envy and paranoia, it’s easy to become engrossed in what-ifs, implausible conspiracies or audience-tested worries of the week. But this world, and our lives in it, are filled with good; we just have to be willing to look beyond fears and imperfections to see it.

For being the good that fills my life, for giving me a place to smile in a year marked by frowns, and for the million smiles I carry across the pond, a heartfelt thank you to my family I already miss, and to the town that’s forever home.

As originally printed in The Elberton Star