Nearly one p.m., and yet I'm still in bed, and all I can keep saying for myself it's ABOUT DAMN TIME you let yourself relax. The boys are on some Georgia lake, of which I failed to inquire the name, and they left around 6:30 a.m. for a day of fishing. It wasn't 6:31 before I was again fast asleep and dreaming the dreams that I always rise too early to have. (They were disturbing dreams, but nonetheless I find it to be excellent progress that I was allowed to experience complete REM status at all.)
When I finally awoke at 11(!), I did nothing more than brew a pot of coffee and make myself a breakfast sandwich that reminded me of that little Austran inn where my parents used to take me in the Alps when I was younger. The owners always brought me out a plate of hard bread (so soft in the middle), cold cuts, cheese, and real, fresh butter. And they always made me feel like such a grown-up when they gave me my own little pot of tea with sugar and cream. There aren't too many days that pass that I don't try to force myself back into that place in time, a sixteen-year old listening to Bon Jovi's "Blaze of Glory" cassette on my walkman by the river's edge in the shadow of the snow-covered Alps. The stones were smoothed from years and years of melting spring snow rushing down the mountain into that valley, and they shifted under my weight as I got as close to the edge as I could. I lowered my hand to the water because I just wanted to feel the cold. I didn't want to leave any stone unturned, any river unfelt.
It was one of those times when you really concentrate on your surroundings in a hard, concrete way, forcing the image onto your memory because YOU JUST KNOW that this is a moment you're going to want to retrieve someday. "Take a snapshot, mind, " you order. I will you to remember this.