An Entry on Thriving Amidst a Global Crisis
Written by Casey Loring, edited by Jubu, Cora Belle, and Brooklyn
Self portrait submission by Madeline Caldwell
Smile and wave boys, smile and wave.
Yesterday I woke up at 1 pm. My dad was waiting in his truck reading something. He harassed me for a second about being lazy.
“No no don’t worry about me, Casey, I know you have a busy schedule you don’t have to mind ‘ol chop liver over here.”
Chop liver? I think in this context it could be synonymous with that time you got picked last for the early morning kickball game before the bell rang for morning meeting.
My dad makes my sister, Jubu, drive. He broke his back and thirteen ribs a few months back in a horse back riding accident. You remember as a kid being enamored by movies like Pirates of the Caribbean or Angelina Ballerina. Y’all ever start wearing bandanas or tutus because it would’ve been really cool to be a pirate? Well I think my dad got a little bit too attached to John Wayne’s character which manifested into what is his undying middle life crisis of the lone cowboy. And for the record, this wasn’t the first accident, or the second, or third. Hate to be insensitive but the guy has got to give it a rest.
We drove around our town showing Brooke all the hot spots with a vocal highlight real and anecdotal narration by my father. We passed the local high school where myself, my siblings, and my father all graduated.
“The South Portland Penitentiary,” mark yells out.
My brother and I laugh in unison. Not because my dad is any sort of funny but because there’s a mutual understanding within our household that high school jus sucked.
We loop around a neighborhood where my dad has been revamping old single family homes. Jubu stops in front of a 1200 square foot bungalow sitting atop a newly seeded yard and a meticulously oriented walkway urging us inside. The house is fixed with dark blue shingles and a pastel yellow entrance.
Simple and traditional yet rustic and patented with my dad’s creative touch.
My dad gave Brooke a tour, distinguishing each detail of the house and not failing to flex his knowledge of construction. From the stain glass window pieces he resurrected from an old colonial to the crown molding that wrapped around the interior of the house like a Christmas gift.
She was astounded and truly appreciated his masterpiece. I could tell my dad was proud, and so am I.
We passed the Christmas tree farm where we annually fight over who gets to pick out the Christmas tree because we always forget who did it the year before. Passing all the beautiful trees and untamed forests I remembered snip-its of some of our most lively years.
We cruised through our favorite beach front to show Brooke the rocky shores of the East Coast that one will truly long for if they ever have the fortune of experiencing. Beyond the breathtaking dreaminess of this honey pot was the number of my fellow townies out and about: living the dream.
The beach was packed as if it were ninety degrees on the Fourth of July. They were all smiling. As we paralleled the beach from my dads truck I even waved from the window to all the dog walkers and parents trying to wrangle their kids—I felt like a damn star.
Jubu circled back past the beach market and the inn and we pointed out all our favorite houses. Of course the blissfulness of drive was cut short when Jack wouldn’t stop whining about being hungry. It was okay though, I think we all secretly had to go to the bathroom so no one complained. Coffee is a risky symptom of boredom.
Upon circling back, my dad told Jubu to pull into the farm.
“You guys want to see the scene of the accident?”
He refers to his cowboy antic.
So, we drove down the winding backroads while my dad gave us an ESPN play-by-play of the event, successfully making us pee our pants laughing at his own demise.
But that’s our humor.
We stopped at the Italian market for sandwiches before returning to our bunker. I had to call in the order because I had the slowest reflex in the “nose game.”
I grabbed 5 sandwiches, Cool Ranch Doritos, and a dumb amount of 20 oz. Red Bull’s. I caught up w the family cheffing it up in the back while Jack caught up with our buddy from high school. They asked how my dad was to which I responded with the usual sarcasm that infamously characterizes my family. They laughed and told me to give my father their best.
Before walking out we ran into one of our old middle school teachers. She barely recognized us. Peering over her sunglasses trying to make out the 6”5’ guy towering over my 5”3’ self, she asks with bewilderment:
“Is that Jack?”
He’s tall, we get it.
She told us that her son was in good health and had started a family in Washington state. She introduced us to her husband, Larry. I didn’t even know she had a husband. I’m glad she has him.
We exchanged our regrets for the unfortunate circumstances and wished each other the best. She was stoked to have run into her old students. It probably feels cool knowing you made some kind of imprint on another child’s life.
And we drove the little ways back to choke down sandwiches and slug more caffeine.
Our town isn’t dead. Our town isn’t asleep. We are alive. We hound our kids to come walk the dog with us. The roaring thrusts of the off shore winds don’t stop us. We storm the beaches to go surf. Suiting up in full winter wet suits to get kissed around by 2 inch waves like a little kid wading in a tide pool. We are still enthused. We happen to run into our sixth grade science teacher. We reconnect and gush over the “good old days”. But we know the days are still good. We talk and chat and drink way too much coffee for, at the moment, no good or healthy reason at all. Perhaps we are sinning a tad bit too much (but then again I may be speaking for myself; I’m an advocate for embracing indulgence). We tell our homies we miss them and send them old pictures from when you were a “4” with acne. But we love ourselves and each other anyway. We tell our family we love them. Because we do even if we aren’t around all the time. We smile and wave.
And the days are still good.
Smile and wave, boys, smile and wave.