The three of us were about to head to Maine. It is a trip we’d taken so many times over the last seventeen years that I imagined, the kids, now that they could share the driving, would be able to find their way to the old homestead just as if they were hatchling turtles making their way to the sea - seemingly by instinct.
Not that I would wager any serious money since the route has recently diverted through Boston for the collection of my firstborn.
But generally, we know all there is to know about the extended family vacation to the point that we have created a game of BINGO from the possibilities:
How far past the expiration date is this cottage cheese?
DOH! The dog got skunked!
Has anyone seen Uncle Erik?
Will Dad wake himself with his snoring?
Most grocery store trips in one day!
DOH! Someone goes to the ER!
Who hid the loudest YATZEE cup?
Who’s turn to wash dishes?
Who’ll be the first to storm off?
Does anyone want to split a beer?
She’s probably clutching her hastily printed card as she waits on the stoop of her dorm for our arrival. She’s looking in the opposite direction as we pull up. She still doesn't see us as I ease the car into a prime space while traffic jockeys around us.
Her face lights up when she sees us and realizes she won’t have to schlepp her bags and an oversized pillow through the bus lane into the street and try to toss them and herself into the car as it's still moving.
I bet she didn’t have this on her BINGO card.
“There’s an old myth that claims Boston streets were designed by the paths taken by cows and wild game,” the girl said as she hugged me at the curb. “Might have been a toddler flinging spaghetti at the walls as their mother made train sounds with the fork. … But good on you for finding a parking space. Mind if I drive?”
That was on my BINGO card.
She needed the practice. When she returns in two weeks, she will drive herself and keep the car for the commute to an internship inconveniently located at the tail end of one of the pasta strands outside of public transit range.
Traffic had stopped on Storrow Drive and my daughter was delighted. “I know if Dad were here he’d be climbing the walls, but inching along like snails will only help my city-driving confidence. I feel like I won’t be so white-knuckly (and neither will you) if everyone has to drive slow on the Toobin Bridge.”
She wasn’t wrong … I hadn’t hit the imaginary brake on the passenger side once since she eased out from the curb (where we would later come to believe her brother’s wallet must have landed having slipped from his pocket as he obliged his sister’s request to move to the backseat and let me ride “shotgun.”
He didn't have that on his BINGO card, and neither did I, even though his losing of wallets wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence. I had made sure all of his shorts had zippered pockets in hopes of breaking the pattern.
Which, I suppose happens naturally once you make the BINGO game official.
Because as much as we can guess the familiar quirks of our families, Maine itself seems to toss in the wildcards:
Someone mistakes Mom for “Mrs. Bush”
You will never guess which famous Scottish comedian moved in next door.
Hey? Is this car door handle yours?
And finally:
“Sure, I’d love to split a beer!”
Maine wins again!
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