I sat contentedly in my fold-out chair, as the waves from jet skis and party boats splayed across the river. Their ripples caused my siblings and cousins to laugh, most of which were playing in the water near the dock. I spent my Memorial Day stationed at the River Lot, mostly watching, sometimes conversing, but mostly watching. I took in the sounds of kids' laughter, the muffled conversation of relatives and strangers, the roar of waverunners zooming across perfectly blue water. I ate sausages and hamburgers and potato salad, and maybe more than one brownie. I exhausted my arm muscles by canoeing upstream with my step-dad. It was a pleasant day.
Those activities may entangle each other, but of all the family and strangers that I encountered today, one keeps me smiling, long after the day is over.
He must have been in his late fifties, early sixties, and was one of the more boisterous guests that attended the get-together. He was a retired high school teacher (taught history and honors english), and had no problem playing whiffle ball with the kids, learning how to do back-flips off the dock, and thrashing his arms around with vigor as he explained something to Lacey or Gavin. His face was bright red, half sunburned, but probably permanent, and he sported a bit of belly that certainly favored alcohol. He had large blue eyes and somehow reminded me of a Lit. professor I had during my freshman year of college.
In all reality, I am deterred from boisterous, loud people. I am not one for obnoxious parties or booming conversation, but the words that came out of this man's mouth seemed wise, or at least well-rehearsed. Something about him made me want to listen, loudness and all.
He told tasteless jokes about Michael Jackson, and blantantly stated that he was excited for my family to be at the Lot today because the others were getting tired of hearing the same old jokes and stories. We were "new blood". As the afternoon wore on, I sat by myself by the dirt mound my brother had been excitedly sliding down for the past three hours, and looked out at the mountains. This man shuffles on over, a beer in his hand, and takes a seat next to me.
"A view like this makes me want to write the next Great American Novel." He blurts out, then takes a sip.
I smile and knowingly nod my head. "I know exactly what you mean."
We sat in silence for a bit, and then he went on to ask me about this Semester at Sea I would be participating in in just a few short weeks. My uncle had mentioned my trip in earlier conversation, and he had decided to bring it back up. I enlightened him on some details and he listened, his blue eyes bulging with unspoken words.
And then I dared to ask him a question that I wouldn't have normally have asked so blantantly to anyone else. "Have you ever been out of the country?"
He smiled and moved his eyes toward the sky. " Well. I wasn't born in this country. My name is ((Some Irish name that is completely stereotyped)) Moved to the US as a baby. I haven't been to China or India. But I've been all over Europe. It's like my second home."
This comment naturally piqued my interest. I would have never guessed this man had ever traveled a day outside of the midwest. Shows how much the surface picture provides.
"When I was younger, I took three months and biked and drank my way around most of Europe. I'll tell you what. The most beautiful place I've seen is Brussels, Belgium. Have you ever been there?" He asked this question in all sincerity.
I told him no, but that I was going to be in Bulgaria this summer. They kind of sounded similar. He told me to go, if I ever got the chance, to Brussels, Belgium. I told him I would be celebrating my 20th birthday in Spain this summer, and he smiled. You won't forget it, he said.
As we were getting ready to pack up and leave after a wonderfully interesting afternoon, the man tapped me on the shoulder. He grinned, and swigged back another gulp of a different beer. "When's your 20th birthday?"
"June 24th."
"I tell you what. I'm incredibly envious of you. But I will toast your birthday. When is it again?"
"June 24th."
"A toast! I will toast your 20th birthday in spanish on June 23rd at midnight! You can count on that!"
I did not know this man before today, and who is to say if I'll see him again before I leave or ever. But I have the feeling that even if he is an Irish alcoholic, he won't forget. He will proudly hold that glass of wine, or can of beer, and nod his head in spanish birthday wishes to a girl who will be across the world, his old stomping grounds, and celebrating that unforgettable 20th birthday in Spain. Some people are inspiring because they are familiar. Others are unforgettable because they are so different from us, and something about them sticks with us, where ever we decide to go, or whatever we decide to celebrate.
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