Unexpected – A Memoir

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Unexpected

How could I know they were plotting against me? I was in such a state of blissful contentment that I wasn't even aware that I was the target of their plans. My moment of perfect contentment was unexpectedly shattered by a practical joke. Now, the memory returns as nostalgia, family history, and food for thought.

My grandparents, on my father's side, had a summer home in Round Lake, Illinois. Chris, Steve, and I would visit there every summer. By the time that I was around twelve years old, my older sister, Christine, was getting a little too old for these trips. Her interests had widened beyond the family. Steve, my younger brother, was young enough to have no say in whether or not he would vacation with us. Sometimes, we would be joined by second cousins Kimberly and David, as we were on this trip.

The home in Round Lake had always been a rickety two-room cottage with gray asphalt shingles covering the walls, but earlier that year they had torn the little cottage down and built an actual house in its place. Despite my grandparents' housing progress, Round Lake remained a sleepy lake town with a Sinclair station, a Piggly Wiggly supermarket, and little else.

I remember that the drive there seemed to take a very long time, although I now know it was less than fifty miles. Grandpa Stan would pick us up in his white Chevy Greenbriar van, and we would bounce down two-lane roads anticipating our little respite from the boredom of late summer. Being a tobacco chewer, Stan would periodically pick up a paper cup and spit into it. We kids never fought for the front seat because it was a little too close to that paper cup. Stan, my father's stepfather, was a rough-and-tumble character, sharp-faced and bald. His occasional stories of prejudice and bad behavior always shocked us. Still, we enjoyed going to the lake, and he was the one who took us there.

We arrived and unpacked. Things seemed to be settling down, so I grabbed a paperback book and headed across the road to the open field. My grandparents' dog tagged along. Apple, daughter of Taffy, was a Chihuahua-Terrier mix. She was a little, glossy-black sweetheart. A mature dog, she paid little attention to the butterflies we saw in every direction. The breeze was gentle and the sky was a deep blue. We found a place on the dry summer ground to stretch out and enjoy the perfect day.

Apple lay on her stomach with her legs pushed out behind in a funny bow-legged way. Lying on my back, I alternated my attention between the science fiction book I held in my hands and the wonderful world of green and blue surrounding me. I felt good. I felt relaxed. I felt as if everything was as perfect as it could possibly be.

After about a half-hour of reading and daydreaming, I heard talking and giggling. Apple, ever aware, jerked her head up from her front paws. I looked up from my book and saw the other four kids heading across the field towards me. Less aware than the dog, I didn't notice that they were all holding a hand behind their backs. I sat up and Apple moved away. Laughing uproariously, they produced hidden glasses full of water that they promptly dumped over my head. Holding the book at arm's length I accepted my drenching. Feeling confusion, I couldn't quite get a handle on the situation, but then someone said, "We're all working and you're lying in the sun relaxing!" The other remarks made it clear that I was being picked on for being lazy.

While I had wandered across the road, Grandpa Stan had put them to work. The recent construction had left the backyard an uneven jumble of rocks, dirt, and construction debris, and the kids had been assigned to clean it up. In the confusion, I never found out whose idea it was to come out and drench me, but the deed had Grandpa Stan written all over it. Feeling unfairly characterized as lazy, I jumped up, returned to the house with them, and pitched in to help.

I think about Grandpa Stan every once in while. He and my grandmother, Peggy, have long since passed away. Their generation, having gone through the Great Depression and World War II, could hardly have thought that the kids of my generation were worth a damn. The sacrifices they made were monumental; our generation sacrificed little then. (Later, those born a little sooner would see a war and its affects.) Perhaps as a result of the lives they had led, they were a little austere and not overly affectionate, but they gave us their time and attention.

In addition to the trips to Round Lake each year, they would also take us up to a lodge in northern Wisconsin for a couple of weeks each summer. We would sleep in a cabin, fish, swim, and explore. My brother and I even learned how to fire a rifle there. How grown up we felt, as if we had survived a primitive coming of age ritual. We were raised as city kids, a little sheltered by our mother, and the trips expanded our knowledge of the world and nature.

Why do I still think of the events of this day when I have certainly forgotten thousands of other days' events, including those that my family or friends recall vividly? What made this episode memorable? Was it a new experience to see that there were multiple ways of looking at the same situation? I could not say that I was sufficiently self-aware before that day to understand that life's events, like beauty, can be in the eye of the beholder. Was it the unfairness of being branded lazy when I just hadn't known that there was work to be done? I have always hated injustice, especially injustice done against me! Was it some lingering sense of shame that I hadn't done my share of the work? Dedicated to trying to do the right thing (in those days) I would have if asked. Any of these reasons might be sufficient, but still, I can't help but feel that it was the contrast between that sense of perfect contentment and its abrupt reversal that has stored this one life moment as a significant memory, and I'm touched by an odd sense of gratitude that I can retrieve it today, this treasured thing.

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