Published Wednesday, July 01, 2009 8:19 AM
Updated Wednesday, July 01, 2009 8:19 AM
But even I sensed something was not quite right when we passed the Cherry Grove pier headed toward North Carolina.
My Beloved and I were on the way to a first annual family gathering at the Grand Dunes resort, North Myrtle Beach. To celebrate Father’s Day weekend, her dad had kindly rented a huge front beach condo and invited all his kids, grandkids, in-laws, and outlaws to come in and enjoy the weekend.
We had two minor problems, however. One, we were operating under the assumption that we were going to North Myrtle Beach. Two, we were operating under the assumption that the place was actually called “Grand Dunes.”
As it turns out, these were both rather significant misunderstandings. What my Beloved’s beloved mother actually meant was that the place was in north Myrtle Beach, a side of town, not North Myrtle Beach, an entirely different town about twenty more miles up the coast. And the Dunes Resort, the place we were staying, has several building complexes stretching for a city block or so, none of which is called “Grand Dunes.”
No matter, the clan gathered and we had a noisy, chaotic, high-energy and fun-filled good time. It was great to see everybody, to be sure. And even though we took longer than we wanted to get there, we at least got there when everyone else did, so little time was lost seeing folks we hadn’t seen in awhile.
Irked as I was, I had no one to blame but myself. I suppose I should know better than to not look up my own directions to my distinct, particular understanding. Most of the time, even with the best of directions and the most serious of intentions, I can still manage to get lost in the most ridiculous places. Once I’ve been there the first time, I have no problems ever after, sort of like a homing pigeon. But getting there can be a doozy. It’s not uncommon for me to go to the bread aisle in a strange grocery store and find myself several hours later wandering helplessly around the frozen pizzas with no idea how I got there and even less of how to find my way back. Follow the breadcrumbs, perhaps …
If we stay there next year, I’ll have no problem. I’ll be able to get there sleepwalking, My understanding is that we will at least be in the general vicinity, so I should be able to get us there with little muss, fuss, or creative anatomical and religious references along the way.
I did find this weekend to be refreshing in a different way – for once in my life at a family gathering I was not the youngest child. That should sound like a supreme statement of the obvious, I know, but allow me to explain.
You see, in my family, the dynamic works a certain way. People do certain things almost by predestination.
In my case, as the youngest child, I take out the garbage and I go to the store. That’s the way it’s always been; that’s the way it always will be. If I were in an iron lung, at age 95, in the middle of the Gobi Desert and someone needed, say, a half pint of whipping cream, I would be expected, directed, even indignantly ordered to reel in my air hoses, hop on my Rascal and make the 1,000 mile trek to the nearest Food Lion, or whatever passes for a grocery store on the other side of the Gobi desert.
It is in this role, however, that I have learned some valuable lessons. The most valuable one, of course, is the lesson that if you don’t want to be bothered with a particular task ever again, make sure you do a really lousy job the first time and they won’t ever ask you to do it again. The time I fixed the downstairs toilet is a classic in first time/only time repairs. No need to go into detail, although this one involved the use of duct tape and a wire coat hanger – but I digress.
Still, with a thought like that hanging around, it’s unlikely anyone anywhere will ever ask me to handle routine maintenance chores anytime soon.