Summer Vacation, 1985

Summer Vacation, 1985

Remember that summer vacation

we took with Dad to Oak Island Inn?

It was summer, 1985. We giddily packed

our bags with or Duran Duran tees, shorts,

pajamas, pink toothbrushes and waited

anxiously for the car to roll up and wind

down the South Shore. Remember we

stopped at Lawtons on the way to check

and see if there were any new magazines

out and we hit the mother-load? A new

Star Hits and 16 Magazine full of centerfolds

and glimpses of Simon LeBon and John Taylor,

our favorite guys. Oh, and Michael Hutchinson.

We couldn’t wait to arrive at our destination

to pour over every detail and then all over again.

Remember the weather was hot and sunny? We

checked into our room that was next door to

Dad’s, our patios connected with a dull view

of the resort’s dining-room. Remember we

unpacked our treasures, plugged in our silver

ghetto blaster, popped in our new Kool and the

Gang cassette and dismantled our magazines

to decorate the desk with their glossy pages?

Remember we went swimming and exploring?

We met that creepy guy on the boardwalk. We

were positive he had a hook for a hand. When

he dared share his Oak Island theory he kept

the hand in question tucked up deep inside his

heavy sleeve. Remember we were sweating

in the summer heat and thought it strange he

was wearing a sweater? I’ll never forget the

sinister gleam in his eye each time he swept

his greasy bang away from his brow. I can’t

remember exactly what story he told to us.

Whatever it was had us running clean for the

hills and caused you to have daunting dreams

about floating heads and other body parts.

Remember the next day after hours of more

swimming and malingering Dad called you from

his patio? He was sitting in the sun reading

the newspaper. You went toward his voice

to ask what he wanted and remember you

thought the screen was open but it wasn’t

and your head bounced hard into the net and

knocked the whole panel clean from its tracks

and it toppled over the side of the balcony?

Remember how hard we laughed? Remember

how red in the face Dad was when he realized

everyone enjoying lunch in the dining-room

witnessed your clumsy gaffe? He was a little

beside himself enough to let us go to dinner

alone and order whatever we wanted. “Just

charge it to your room, have whatever you want,”

he said. And boy did we. Remember we ordered

strip loin steaks with baked potatoes, mushrooms,

and garlic bread? It was perfect meal for us two.

I felt so grown up dining alone without Dad nearby.

It felt exciting, extraordinary. I was a happy kid,

proud to sit so fancily with a crisp cloth napkin in

my plump lap across from you, my Big Sister.

Remember when we checked out and Dad saw

our dinner tab? He cursed under his breath at

the front desk but paid the kind folk without

complaint. Remember we bought captain hats

and posed for pictures together? Remember

when we got back to Halifax? Dad took us for

a walk along the waterfront. I bopped along side

you both in my humble attire without a care in the

world because I felt like the luckiest girl on the

planet. And, remember for years later we’d look

at ourselves in those pictures and reminisce? How

we’d laugh at the way Dad near dropped his paper

when you busted through the patio door and how

the only reason we even bothered to buy a

captain’s hat at all is because Simon LeBon owned  

a boat called ‘Drum’ to sail in the Whitbread race

and they capsized. Remember how scary those

news headlines were? We were so worried for him.

I remember it was one of the best summer vacation

trips I ever had. One for this history books for sure.

Remember all those Sunday dinner’s at Dad’s in

Portland Estates when we’d recall that time away

together while Dad dished up shrimp in garlic

butter just for he and I because you hated seafood?

Remember? I remember everything as if it happened

yesterday. Memory, it becomes a vivid thing when

it is all you have left.

***

One of my favorite summer memories in poem form. Keeping them all alive, forever and ever by remembering.

In propinquity,

Nic