The last week at the cabin begins. I'm listening to the crackling fire as it warms my skin, smelling the last essence of a once mighty northern pine toppled last year in a windstorm, much like the thirty mile per hour gusts rampaging outside today. My cup of Folgers coffee, perfectly blended with five spoonful's of sugar and a dose of half 'n half, warms me from the inside. The leaves have finally decide to change colors...a week later than last year. My wife awoke at five in the morning to greet the sun: it hide behind a bank of clouds to tease and anger her. I slept and dreamt of high school friends, some I haven't seen since graduation: Michael Funk was there. Bob Silk was playing a practical joke on someone. Sharon Gyeski giggled behind me in Geography class. Mark Baumeister, Joey Capolunghi, Pete Palmer, and I squeezed into Phil Spies' corvair. Funny thing is, I don't remember Pete doing it in the past. Debbie Betham (God rest her soul) giggled at something, head nodding. On and on it went, but the odd thing is, we were all in Berlin, Germany, where I went to protect our freedom instead of Saigon in late 1974. (Wiping my brow on that one.)
I guess vacation is like that. Stepping away from the current familiar, lounging around on Facebook, ignoring home chores. And if my wife stops cleaning the cottage, shuts off the vacuum, sits and relaxes, I just might let her live so we can both return next year. Otherwise, I'll have a new experience for the senses: the sound of slamming bars in the state penitentiary for murder. I wonder who I'll dream about there?
Is it time to write a high school reunion story? Have you written yours? Did classmates threaten to kill you over it?