“Whelp, just another case of the Mondays,” my sister calls to me, coughing and hacking, plagued by some yet to be diagnosed case of hypochondria. I’m attempting to shake off her Monday disease by chugging a medium coffee from McDonald’s — two creams, two sugars, but soy latte it is not. So instead of fighting the impossible, I’ll cure all of our “case of the Mondays” blues with a story.
Although my story is certainly not solely mine to tell, I will relay it, best I can. Because although it is brief, I find it lovely all the same.
My story started many years ago, but I’ll begin with last Friday afternoon. I decided to drive home on a whim — because it was Friday, and because it was sunny, and mainly because I was having a slight “oh my, I’m overwhelmed” moment, but that’s another story. In any case, it was my second time driving alone on the interstate and, after discovering cruise control, it was my first time getting that high from operating a vehicle at high speeds.
My mother asked me, after I surprised her by careening up the driveway, how my drive was. “I gripped the wheel and tried not to swerve into the other lane, but other than that, great!” I said. And it was great, because I knew my mother would be happy to see me, and I knew I would hear ridiculous tales from my 17-year old brother, and I knew my dogs would remember me and welcome me with hugs and kisses into our home.
I was the friendly sojourner, popping in for a one-night visit, expecting everyone to cater to me in some way. I wanted to sip a margarita at the local Mexican restaurant and gossip with my mother, a plan that she was more than happy to oblige. But first I would partake in her plan, a happy hour visit on the neighbors’ porch. “Just stop by to say hello,” she told me. “Just for a second.”
I dramatically piled all the books I’m attempting to read and analyze and synthesize for my thesis on my neatly-made twin bed in my bedroom. A bedroom that has now become a pseudo “guest room” even though I’m pretty sure we’ve never had a guest stay with us. I flipped open my iPad and settled it on its keyboard, prepared to organize all my material; I had allotted myself two hours to make a serious dent in my preliminary thesis work. After five minutes of sketching out a plan in a torn up notebook I had stolen from my mother’s pile of things, I hopped off my bed and threw on a sweater. I was just going to swing by the neighbors’ porch for a second. I poured myself a cup of coffee and mentally prepared a few banalities of “hello,” “how are you?” and the like. I’d be back home within five minutes.
My neighbors have lived next door to us since I was about nine or 10. I remember when they moved in. Our neighbor before them had been an older single woman; she moved away and these Midwestern strangers took her place. A nice couple — older than my parents, but not as old as my grandparents. Kate and Barry. The Foskits. The neighbors.
I hopped up their front steps and greeted my seated parents, the neighbors and the dogs. I was just taking a quick break from my labors, I casually explained. They smiled and nodded, giving me a second to breathe before throwing questions my way. I was happy to answer the questions, excited really. I hadn’t seen Kate or Barry in a while, and yet, via my mother’s ceaseless emails, they knew almost everything I was up to. They didn’t ask me general throw away questions, not the kind of “how’s school?” questions that are the bane of every student’s existence — whether they be 12 or 22. They asked me specifics: they were interested in my life, what I was doing. I was highly caffeinated; I became incredibly verbose about my schoolwork, my social life, any and everything for my captivated audience. It never occurred to me, once I shut up, that my audience would have tales for me as well.
“My friend called me the other day,” Barry started. He, like my father, is not a man of many words, so when he starts a story, I listen intently. “…we hadn’t spoken since college…” I heard these words and suddenly I felt incredibly small. What would I feel like in 50 years, sitting on a porch, telling 21-year-olds about an old friend from college? “He was in Schenectady, New York and he thought of me, so he called me up,” Barry continued.
The story went on to include tales of debauchery involving Barry being social chair of his fraternity and ordering trailer-truck full loads of “rot-gut” wine and beer for parties. My parents and the neighbors laughed about their own versions of drinking “rot-gut” in college, each with a different brand name more horrifying than the last. I laughed along with them, not as an understanding partner in crime, but instead, as a child of another generation, listening to the beauty of stories that can last 50 years. I stayed on the porch for at least an hour. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to pretend to pore through theoretical readings on a sunny Friday afternoon. I wanted to stay on my neighbors’ porch for as long as I could, so that in 50 years I too would have stories to tell.
Mary Scott’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at m.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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