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and they ask me why i don't have kids. as interminable as it seemed, stranded in the middle of it, my yearly concession to domestic harmony concludes. despite the latent wanderlust just below the surface of my skin, and the constant draw of exotic locations, the last of August brings the familiar path to the OuterBanks of North Carolina. before we ever came together, Yoko and her daughter vacationed there... this, then, is their pilgrimage more than mine. the past seven years, at the same house, we've spent this week together as a "family". the only variable, outside of the offspring, has been Eva's male companion at the time. as of this year, this is her fourth. the roll call ever expands. as do amount of children... four, this year. three, hers. one, his. for all intent and purposes, Yoko is her sister and best friend. excluding all others, except for the babies. at least, until they are old enough to talk. then, it's my responsibility. or so it seems. thankfully, the new beau is of sterner stuff than the previous ones... and a lot easier to hang with. not like the HeadGamer. or the Thug. or the Cop. a Man of the Delta... home of the Blues. music, as it always seems, sets foundation for friendship. good thing, too... it was our one means of retaining sanity. three weeks previously, Yoko&Eva had taken the kids to Orlando for a week of fantasyland... a dream trip for most. it was like it had never happened... a week of stampedes and whines and wants was what the beach turned out to be. with Delta and i as crowd control. so much for fun & sun. though it was both. praises to the Most High for the curative and exhaustive properties of surf. and threats. i even made the best of Yoko's indecision when it came our few hours alone. a trip across the inlet to the preserve... to the BeauxArts mansion. but, as usual, she was never happy unless her daughter was near. in the end, the haven, as it's become, was the screened porch. equipped with cooler. boom box. and stacks of blues and soul music. the Healer. this would sound like the standard bitching, otherwise. people made the time tolerable, too. strangers that didn't stay that way long. talking IrvineWelsh with a Scotsman... ManchesterUnited with a Yorkshire lad... flirtations with a Russian girl... inevitability with a native islander. and always, the sea. hours of boogieboarding, and simply watching the surf roll in. depleting the inexhaustible energy supplies out of little feet. |
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