Every year I reach out and grab a fistful of June and July in each hand. Much like a truant child in a candy store when the proprietor turns his back, I greedily stuff as much of these months into my pockets as possible and beat it for the door. I have no choice. I’m a school teacher. How else could I survive August?
I always turn my thoughts toward summer shortly after the New Year. As days drone on in February with little Johnny asking to be excused from the test due to the death of his beloved grandmother, the same one who died in November when the research paper was due, and with parent emails forcing a hostile takeover of my inbox as they demand a reason little Suzie just failed her fourth consecutive literature test when they watched her read those Cliff notes themselves!, the thought of hopping on a plane to, oh, just about anywhere, becomes intoxicating. This year I dreamt of Paris and Rosetta Stone language lessons that would yield leisurely cups of espresso while gazing out over the Seine and being snubbed by authentic French citizens. I dreamt of castles, fine breads, overpriced fashionable clothing and types of cheese that did not arrive in cellophane wrappers. In short, I dreamt of a trip that involved a passport. But as with any dream worth its salt, I watched it flat line one fine morning in March when a doctor told me that not only was back surgery imperative, it was also imminent. As an astute bookkeeper in spite of my literary predilections, I quickly reallocated the Jeffersons in my Mona Lisa account to my favorite lumbar charity.
In April, as I lay flat on my back during my spring break convalescence, I decided to set my vacation sites on something more palatable to my budget, and yet, still far enough away to be an adventure. Given that free climbing, sky diving and cattle wrangling might still be questionable ten weeks down the road, I sought tamer avenues that would still generate excitement. After hours of research and deep scrutiny of a U.S. map, I declared New England the destination of choice. The more I thought about it, the more I warmed to my resolution. The weather would be an exotic change from South Georgia in June, and I could witness the lifestyle and behavior of those people known as Yankees in their natural habitat. While of couple of old timers in my church still affectionately referred to them as Damn Yankees, I didn’t know them well enough en masse to assign such intimate terms of endearment, but I could remedy this unfortunate circumstance with a couple of clicks on Orbitz and a B&B reservation. Land of Lobster, prepare for invasion.
© 2012 – Traci Carver