Eight days later, I was back in Ye Little Town in the Middle of Nowhere, Northwest. Willingly, this time. S. and N. were going, and there is nothing more boring than a long weekend with my second family out of town, so I crashed the party. I crashed S. and N.'s crashing of their second family's party.
When we arrived, J2 told me, "This is a grabbing house. If you want something, grab it; otherwise you'll go hungry." There were twelve adults and four kids in a ranch house and a camper. We made full pots of coffee over and over. Entire bags of chips disappeared immediately after they were opened. We ate meals around two tables with three highchairs. When we stood around them to hold hands and pray before we ate, the kids started laughing hysterically, every single time. There was no moment of silence between the kids getting up at 6 am and the last of us trickling off to bed after midnight. Only S. and N. and I got to sleep in - we were lucky enough to be sent off to sleep in the camper.
We played MarioKart on the Wii in shifts, with N. and A. consistently at the top of the rankings and the rest of us vacillating wildly between last and third. One round, N. and A. in 1st and 2nd place and little I. and I in 11th and 12th, little I. sent his car flying off into the water. "SHIT!" he said, and we all stared and fought our bursts of laughter. "Did his mom hear that?" J4 asked. "Where did he learn that? I., you can't say that. Say, 'shoot' instead. But you did use it in exactly the right place."
On Saturday morning, we got up early and scrounged up goggles and snowpants and sandwiches and drove up into the mountains. I finally understand why people mock the tiny hills we use for skiing in Michigan. I haven't been skiing in 6 years, but it came back, mostly. I only once had to bail because I was skittering straight toward a slope with a name that ended in CLIFF. I slid off the edge onto the cliff-slope, landing a few feet down with my head right about even with the top of the cliff. A ski patrol guy happened by and asked if I was okay, which I was, but he had to ski below me, take off my skis, and push me up from below in order to get me back on manageable snow.
"What kind of idiot would ski down that?" S. asked, as we rode the chairlift up the last few hundred feet, above a nearly vertical rocky slope, not marked as a trail, that was carved with a few ski marks. "Only crazy people."
A ride or two later, I looked down and said, "Oh, look. There are N. and J3 going straight down that scary part."
It became our repeated joke. It was funny every single time we rode the chairlift. "What kind of idiot would ski down that?" S. would ask. "Only crazy people."
"Oh," I would say, "I don't know. Possibly people we know. Maybe YOUR BROTHER."
Another time, we noticed N. off-roading through the woods... just in time to watch him somersault, skis whirling, head over heels. When he bounced back up, we yelled and cheered from above.
Back at the house, we were exhausted and happy. We talked late into the night about health care reform and national debt and international work. M., who I have met only once before but who works internationally and so is automatically a sister, sat on my feet on the couch, keeping them warm. In the morning, Little A., the same age as my nephew, came and brought me a baby doll and a blue train tender car and a shiny quarter in a doll stroller, handing me one at a time, taking them back, and handing them to me again.
"I like the B.s," I said in the car on the way home, ruffling S. and N.'s hair, "almost as much as I like the K.s."
"They are basically the same." S. said, since the six kids all grew up together.
We sang along to Garth Brooks while driving through the high desert, a thousand stark, beautiful shades of white and gray.
"Give me some of that juice," I called up to the front seat.
"It's an energy drink," N. said. "If you call it juice again, you aren't getting any more."
I turned the can around and said, "Ingredients: mango puree, orange juice. I can call this juice."
"Only kids call it juice," he said, "If you want more, you have to call it by the right name."
When we arrived, J2 told me, "This is a grabbing house. If you want something, grab it; otherwise you'll go hungry." There were twelve adults and four kids in a ranch house and a camper. We made full pots of coffee over and over. Entire bags of chips disappeared immediately after they were opened. We ate meals around two tables with three highchairs. When we stood around them to hold hands and pray before we ate, the kids started laughing hysterically, every single time. There was no moment of silence between the kids getting up at 6 am and the last of us trickling off to bed after midnight. Only S. and N. and I got to sleep in - we were lucky enough to be sent off to sleep in the camper.
We played MarioKart on the Wii in shifts, with N. and A. consistently at the top of the rankings and the rest of us vacillating wildly between last and third. One round, N. and A. in 1st and 2nd place and little I. and I in 11th and 12th, little I. sent his car flying off into the water. "SHIT!" he said, and we all stared and fought our bursts of laughter. "Did his mom hear that?" J4 asked. "Where did he learn that? I., you can't say that. Say, 'shoot' instead. But you did use it in exactly the right place."
On Saturday morning, we got up early and scrounged up goggles and snowpants and sandwiches and drove up into the mountains. I finally understand why people mock the tiny hills we use for skiing in Michigan. I haven't been skiing in 6 years, but it came back, mostly. I only once had to bail because I was skittering straight toward a slope with a name that ended in CLIFF. I slid off the edge onto the cliff-slope, landing a few feet down with my head right about even with the top of the cliff. A ski patrol guy happened by and asked if I was okay, which I was, but he had to ski below me, take off my skis, and push me up from below in order to get me back on manageable snow.
"What kind of idiot would ski down that?" S. asked, as we rode the chairlift up the last few hundred feet, above a nearly vertical rocky slope, not marked as a trail, that was carved with a few ski marks. "Only crazy people."
A ride or two later, I looked down and said, "Oh, look. There are N. and J3 going straight down that scary part."
It became our repeated joke. It was funny every single time we rode the chairlift. "What kind of idiot would ski down that?" S. would ask. "Only crazy people."
"Oh," I would say, "I don't know. Possibly people we know. Maybe YOUR BROTHER."
Another time, we noticed N. off-roading through the woods... just in time to watch him somersault, skis whirling, head over heels. When he bounced back up, we yelled and cheered from above.
Back at the house, we were exhausted and happy. We talked late into the night about health care reform and national debt and international work. M., who I have met only once before but who works internationally and so is automatically a sister, sat on my feet on the couch, keeping them warm. In the morning, Little A., the same age as my nephew, came and brought me a baby doll and a blue train tender car and a shiny quarter in a doll stroller, handing me one at a time, taking them back, and handing them to me again.
"I like the B.s," I said in the car on the way home, ruffling S. and N.'s hair, "almost as much as I like the K.s."
"They are basically the same." S. said, since the six kids all grew up together.
We sang along to Garth Brooks while driving through the high desert, a thousand stark, beautiful shades of white and gray.
"Give me some of that juice," I called up to the front seat.
"It's an energy drink," N. said. "If you call it juice again, you aren't getting any more."
I turned the can around and said, "Ingredients: mango puree, orange juice. I can call this juice."
"Only kids call it juice," he said, "If you want more, you have to call it by the right name."
1 comment:
sounds great!! xoxo
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