Better Cantina

            Somewhere around the time we threw Cheeseman’s leg at the judging table, only to have it promptly jettisoned back at us, I knew we were going to win.

            Not that there wasn’t competition.  A Noah’s Ark nursery school had a slew of adorable children on their float.  There was another group of kids dressed as various candies (including a precious little yellow M&M), and the Jefferson Teen Queens (I think of Dairy, but I’m not 100% sure) rode with their sashes and dresses atop a pick up truck, waving to their adoring crowd. 

            The biggest competition, though, came from our buddy Scott, who had decided to put a half a house on a float to promote his construction company (it was LITERALLY the front of a house- and Doc, the Farm’s white haired neighbor, was pounding nails into the roof, while the rest of the crew “worked” the front lawn and edges).  But with two years of winning “Best Float” in the annual Redwood Field Days Parade under their belt, the folks at Better Farm were not quite ready to give up their hold on the top prize (a check for $100- and a whole lot of street cred in Redwood).

            It’s not every day you find yourself standing atop a flatbed in the middle of downtown Redwood, population 567 (580-something with our outsourced Better Farm crew).  Redwood is a small patch of rural America, the kind that, if you drive down the main drag, consists of a post office, two taverns, a couple of churches, and a general store attached to a gas station.  There are also acres of farmland, some of it beautiful, some of it dilapidated.  It is faster to drive from Redwood to a drive-in movie theatre and taxidermist (these are separate businesses) than it is to a supermarket.

            In its heyday, back in the late 1800’s, early 1900’s, the train to the riverside town of Alexandria Bay stopped here from distant places like New York City and Syracuse.  Ladies would gently climb down, parasols in hand, skirts brushing the tops of their shined shoes, and explore a bit with their top hat wearing counterparts, before climbing into horse drawn carriages, and heading to their private islands, St. Lawrence River-side homes, and the array of resorts.  When the train stopped coming, much of the town dried up, hence the multitude of abandoned Victorian-era homes and collapsing barns.  But there were hardy folk who dug in their heels, and in 2016, their descendants line the streets in front of the ice cream shop and bars.  Small children stand with bags, ready to sweep up candy thrown from the obliging parade participants.

            And that’s what we are.  Our theme for the year is the Cantina scene from Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope.  Though, after some discussion, all of the Star Wars movies were deemed fair game, and an X-Wing Fighter was built, along with costumes ranging from Luke to Vader to Kylo Ren to R2 D2 to Oola to Leia. 

            My husband Jeff and I had left the kids with our parents for the weekend, and made the five-hour drive north as an escape from the day-to-day monotony of North Jersey suburbia.  Spending a few days on my sister’s Better Farm, herding rogue farm animals, lake hopping, plus participating in the classic American past time of town-wide Field Days, was just what we needed.

            The day before, the X-Wing Fighter was a shell, pieces of wood drilled together hastily by Better Farm interns, and covered with large sheets of white plastic. In the morning, when we decided it was “time to get serious,” stock of the situation was taken, amidst the consumption of copious amounts of Pabst Blue Ribbon (when in the country…), and tasks were assigned.  The red details were pieced together using red duct tape.   Kip then hit the wings with black spray paint to create “space dust.”  Aethena and I dragged a U-shaped box made out of wood panels to the float, and proceeded to hoist it onto the structure, declaring (with much delight) that it made a perfect bar, and thus saved us about an hour of work.  When it was covered with a white sheet, and the “Better Cantina” sign hung behind it, it certainly sufficed. 

            The costumes range from thrown together to genius.  Aethena went all in, with a C-3PO polyester gold number that looks like it was painted on.  Nicole followed suit with Oola’s her headdress of thick green tentacles, a fabulously crafted combinations of green pantyhose and pillow stuffing.  One of the interns had crafted an R2-D2 cap out of paper mache, and a full body suit of cardboard.  I had channeled Leia’s Jabba the Hut scene, with gold bikini and long hair.  Unfortunately, the bikini didn’t arrive in time, so I’d spent much of the day before searching K-Mart, Wal-Mart, and Party City in the nearest town for something that would be a proper substitute.  I settled on gold foil wrapping paper that I attached with duct tape to a bikini top.  With the long skirt, and some well-placed hair extensions, it was close enough.

            We hooted and hollered as the pickup truck that towed us turned precariously out of the gas-station-ice-cream-shop and onto Rt. 37.  Darth Vader (a shirtless intern) battled with Luke (my husband commanding a rocking 80’s wig and white nurse’s garb that looked remarkably accurate). as $6 light sabers from K-Mart slashed the air. Dancing to the Cantina theme, we ducked and dodged the X-Wing as we moved around the float.  Candy was thrown, lightsabers were broken, and as we slowed to a halt in front of the judges, there was a brief tussle, and a light saber slammed down between Cheeseman’s hip and the fake leg we’d dressed to match his real one, effectively dismembering him.  With a scream, he picked up the imposter and thrust it at the judges.  One jumped back, and the others, with shrieks of delight, picked it up, and hurled it back over the surprised audience onto the float.  We cheered, and continued on our route, waving the leg high above our heads like a victory flag.

            Hours later, the adrenaline worn off and our make up streaked, we busied ourselves in front of The Bad Husbands Club, a band playing the post-parade Redwood Field Days Carnival. Athena and Nicole were still in their Star Wars garb, not wanting to let go of the winner’s high they’d been experiencing since the Better Farm Three-Peat had been confirmed.  The rest of us had changed back into more appropriate, mosquito-resistant clothes, and danced on the blacktop next to the firehouse, strains of “Touch of Grey” by the Grateful Dead emanating from the band’s speakers.

            I closed my eyes, bouncing to the music, holding hands with my sister while her stuffed green stockings bounced up and down on her head.  The Paratrooper ride’s colors swirled in the background, and as I looked a Nicole and the alien appendages bouncing on her head, it reminded me briefly of when our mother dressed us up as Cabbage Patch Dolls one Halloween, and stuffed normal pantyhose with batting to make our skinny little girl legs seem more doll-like.  Acting like kids once again, we giggled and swayed, while the smells of the carnival- fried dough, bug spray, and a cheap beer- wafted around us, mingling with the cigarette smoke that made me cough.  We belted out the lyrics, “Light a candle, curse the glare/Draw the curtains, I don't care 'cause… It's all right/I will get by.”  I watched Aethena make her way towards the stage, a streak of gold reflecting the stage lights. 
The band seamlessly transitioned into “Not Fade Away” and she shuffled up the steps and grabbed a rogue cowbell, banging away in time, and dancing with the lead singer. 

        
The cool night air was a welcome respite after the 90+ degree temperatures, and the grass next to the stage felt slick when I stepped onto it.  Collapsing onto a wooden bench, I took in the scene around me.  Fluorescent lights blurred as a variety of rides whirled and whizzed around, throwing their occupants this way and that with all the centrifugal force they could muster.  Giddy children and teens ran around, while their parents pontificated and gestured, spewing ash from their cigarettes and beer from their plastic cups. It was loud, rowdy, a far cry from the suburban scenes I’m used to, where if you wander around the downtown on a Saturday, you see hushed conversations at sidewalk tables and couples closing themselves off from the world.  Here, there was a welcome inclusion, with bear hugs and jostling, a way of life that only can exist in the rural outskirts of upstate New York, in a little town that continues to get by on its own terms, in its own way.  It’s a pretty good way to spend a Saturday.     

Better Girlfriends

            Sometimes, Better Farm memories come in waves, other times, they are flashes, scrolling by like something you’d watch on an old kinescope.   There was a “girls only” weekend, one where my friend Jessie and I escaped the rigors of running businesses in favor of island jumping, pick up truck driving, and World Cup watching before heading northeast to Montreal for Jazzfest.
            Jess had arrived at my house in late June, a bundle of cowgirl hat, sunglasses, and ringlets of hair.  It was the day after school let out— my first day of summer vacation.
            “Sorry I’m late. I had to walk the dogs, Holly saw a squirrel, one of the cats puked something nasty on the carpet, and God help Joe doing his own laundry this weekend.  I just left it.”  She smiled.
            I gave her a bear hug, and yelled up the stairs. The car was pre-loaded and all that was left was hugs for my daughters.
            “Riley!  Ella!  Mommy’s leaving!”  They galloped down the stairs, tiny prancing ponies in ripped taffeta and tulle princess dresses.
            “Mommy!”  Ella flopped into my arms wrapping her chubby self around my neck.  She smelled of bananas and yogurt, pieces of breakfast that had lodged in her hair and never made it to her mouth.  I gave her a squeeze and faced my three year old, Riley.
            “I don’t want you to go.”  Her lips quivered, and her eyes squinted.  I knew that look.  I’d given it a thousand times to my own mother when I was her age.
            “Love you sweetie.  And I’ll be back in a couple of days.”  I bent to her level.  “You know who you’re going to see soon, though?  Grammy’s coming over.”
            Her eyes immediately widened and the sun shone through.  Somewhere a chorus of “Alleluias” was played.  “Grammy?!”  She smiled.  “Okay, Mommy.  I love you.”  She gave me a quick kiss and ran off to chase Ella.
            I stood up and Jeff leaned down to give me a hug.  “Have fun.  Enjoy yourself.”  He smiled weakly.  “I can handle this.”  
            I glanced over his shoulder to see Ella was trying to ride the dog bareback, while Riley braced to jump from the bay window onto the couch cushions she’d pulled to the floor.  My pulse quickened and I fought the urge to step back in the house, quietly close the door, and put the couch back together.  Instead, I kissed him, grabbed the keys, and ran out the door, calling, “I love you.  Good luck!”
            “Quick Thelma and Louise shot,” I said to Jess, pulling my scarf around my head and adjusting my sunglasses.  We mugged for the camera phone and were off.
                                                                     *          *          *
            The trip took five and a half hours, during which we laughed, sang loudly, and told stories of high school, college, and of course, boys and men we’d loved and lost (and married).  We lamented the difficulties of mid-thirties life, the stresses of marriage, jobs, pets, and kids.  It was a similar thread to what had caused her, several months prior, to offer a temporary escape plan on the phone, when she had said, "So I was thinking…"
            I responded simply.  "Yes."
            At the time, I was overwhelmed by motherhood, wifedom, career.  Jeff had been through two major shoulder surgeries in three months, I was buried under paperwork for the classes I taught, and taking online courses to complete my Master’s in English.  And that was in addition to the normal “wife” and “mother” duties I gladly accepted as part of the package.  There was a time back in my twenties when the world revolved around me, when I knew who I was beneath the expectations and needs of others, before panic attacks consistently took hold through my inability to do everything.  A line from a book I’d read recently by Deborah Spar pirouetted through my head while I held the hot phone to my ear: “We are the daughters of the feminists who said, ‘You can be anything’, and we heard, ‘You have to be everything’.”
            "You didn't even hear what I want to do yet!"  Jess had stuttered into the phone.
            I had looked at the pile of clothes on my bedroom floor, sniffed the faint but distinctly smoky smell of burning toaster, and watched as my half-naked two-year-old ran across the hallway, a trail of toilet paper unraveling behind her.  I leaned back into a pile of pillows and felt a plastic toy lodge itself squarely in my lower back.
            "I don't care.  I need a break.  Yes."
                                                                     *          *          *
            I reminded Jess of this as I stood pumping gas at a rest stop upstate, while she stood a few feet away, holding her cigarette and blowing smoke out of her nose like a tattooed, curly haired dragon.  The sky behind her was the color of a Crayola crayon, the grass the bright green that happens at the first blush of summer, and an indigo river running towards the distant hills and under the highway overpass.  It would have been a picturesque rural scene were it not for the overpass, and the rusted out gas station we were using to refuel.
             “Oh god- you just sounded broken.  And I was cracking, so I figured this would be a good idea.”
            My phone began to dance across the middle console of the car.  I placed the gas nozzle back on the pump, grabbed the receipt, and glanced down while I took a large gulp of water from my bottle.  My eyes followed the screen as the texts came in, and I doubled over laughing, water spewing from my nose.  Jess stared at me while I tried to calm myself, sliding into the passenger seat.  “What the hell- what are you looking at?”
            I turned red, and shook my head, the tears starting to form at the corners of my eyes.  “Look,” I stammered, gesturing to the phone.  I buckled my seat belt and started to pull out towards the road. 
            Jess picked up the phone, and began to read out loud:
            “Riley just came down the stairs
            carrying poop and told us
            (wait for it) 
            that ‘Ella pooped’”
 
            At that point, composure left her, and we dissolved into fits of giggles.  “Oh god.  I can’t.  I just can’t.  Poor Jeff--“ she managed.
            I responded that I was optimistic that he could rise above and handle the situation, and grateful that I was here, many miles away, not dealing with curious children and defecation.
            “Forget a good idea.  This was the best idea” I assured her, looking up as we sped by a giant green sign that said Watertown- 20 miles. I felt the talons of everyday life slowly disengaging and opened the window a bit to let in some fresh, country air.  “We’re almost there.”
                                                                *          *          *
            An hour later the wind was whipping my hair back while our motor boat leapt and flew over Butterfield Lake.  Behind me, the rest of our crew laughed and held onto hats and head scarves.  There were six of us- Jess, me, Nicole, Katie Mollica, the farm’s head intern, Imogene, an Air B&B guest up for a weekend away, and Tanvi, an artist in residence.  It felt like we were riding a jumping fish, barreling our way towards Coley’s Cove, my sister’s expansion of Better Farm, and the site of her new island home, which was in the latter stages of construction.  The island, which looked more like a large boulder in the middle of the lake, had once housed a 19th century hunting lodge that a friend of Nicole’s owned.  He used to have folks over for ice fishing in the winter, and swimming, boozing, and sunning in the summer.  When he died the year before, Nic bought the land from his estate, but the structure was in such disrepair she had to tear it all down except for the proud stone fireplace that jutted out of the rock.  She had an architect design around the chimney, and from her sketches, the designer crafted what looked, from the pictures she sent me, like a small country church.  It reminded me of one of Rodin’s sculptures, a rough unfinished pedestal giving way to brilliance. 
            Nicole was going down the itinerary for the day, her right hand maneuvering the speedboat controls.  “So after the island, we’ll do a quick dinner, and head over to watch the game in Porky’s garage.  She DVR’d it, and since I don’t even have a TV here, I have no idea what happened.”
            I nodded, my body erect at the front of the boat like a masthead to make sure I got the majority of the wind directly in my face.  Along with keeping my eyes steady on the horizon, it was a technique I had perfected over the years to avoid motion sickness.
            Rounding the bend the “steeple” of the house caught my eye and I yelled over the motor, “It looks awesome!”
            She giggled, “RIGHT?!  They all thought I was nuts up here, and called it blasphemous!  Right up until they saw it, and now everyone’s clamoring for my architect!”
            We cruised into the channel between her island dock and the mainland, and Nic jumped off to tie the boat to the dock.  I was right behind her a half second later, knowing that the swaying of the boat didn’t jive well with my inner ear imbalance.  I was loaded down with my camera, towel, and a bag of sandwiches I’d made back at the farm.
            Our feet grabbed onto the rocks as we climbed the side of the hill and brought to mind some left behind evolutionary skill from our days as apes, when our toes had to curve to hold the ground, before rubber and leather soles protected our arches. 
            I lagged behind when Nicole gave me a look that only a sister would recognize.
            “You guys go ahead- I’m going to help Nicole secure the boat,” I said as the ladies made a beeline for the house to explore the steeple and see the views. 
             Nicole waited until they were out of earshot.
             “I think Mollica is gonna to kill Imogene.”
             “I thought Imogene just got here this morning? What could she possibly have done in that amount of time?”
            I looked at Mollica, who was cheerfully carrying several Pabst Blue Ribbons and homemade cupcakes into the house. Her given name was Katie, but she went by Mollica in most circles, something that we deemed apt for a budding baker when we realized it meant the soft part of bread.  Mollica was the baby in a family of seven, but she was pure muscle, and built like a brick house.  I had met her years before, when I was her soccer coach.  She had been a discus thrower in high school, but I remembered her from the gritty way she played keeper on our team, throwing herself into the dirt with abandon, reveling in scrapes, and showing off deep yellow and purple bruises with pride.  She was a fighter who overcame a learning disability and became a damn good pastry chef, and my sister’s right hand helper at the farm.  Nicole and I were both fiercely protective of her, even though I’m pretty sure she could wrestle a bear and win.  I eyed Imogene warily, watching as she placed her bag down by the picnic table, and struggled to tie a cover up around her bathing suit.
            “Imogene’s actually been here for two days already, and is staying until Wednesday.  But she just goes on and on about her political views, and it’s driving Mollica nuts.”  Nicole paused.  “Imogene also seems to have issues with personal space.  This morning, Mollica was making bacon, and Imogene just stood next to her, like breathing on her, and didn’t say anything, just stared at the bacon.  She eventually asked Imogene if she wanted any, and Imogene just said “No, thanks.” and kept standing there.  By the time I got to the kitchen, she’d had moved from staring to soap boxing, and had given Mollica a lengthy lecture about how any man practicing a religion that doesn’t want its women using birth control should be castrated.”
            “Oh jeez.” I shook my head.  “I mean, I can’t fully argue with the logic—“
            “I know, but you know Mollica.  She’s all about everyone having their own opinion.  When Imogene went into the library to answer emails, Mollica turned to me and said ‘I just want to slap the bitch.  I’m going to the shed to avoid hurling sharp objects at her.’”
            “I’ll make sure I don’t ask her what she thinks of the GOP attacking Planned Parenthood.”
            “She was probably on their defense team- or so she’ll make it seem.  It’s remarkable how much work she’s done to defend our sex against oppression.  Do you know she is single handedly the reason I’m not handcuffed to a stove popping out babies?” Nicole feigned awe.  “She’s our very own Atticus.  Or at least, that’s what she said last night at dinner.”
            “Sounds lovely.  I’ll let Jess know to steer clear of politics.”
            “Or just steer clear of Imogene,” Nic said, walking towards house.
            “Can I get the tour when they all exit?  I kind of need to lie down for a bit.”
            Nicole nodded and stepped inside, while I dropped my towel and collapsed onto it, the flatness of the wood deck a welcome respite for my back, which was aching from months of leaning over a computer for work, and from the last several hours of hunching over the Suburu’s steering wheel. 
            The knots began to dissolve and my muscles unlocked.  The sun was beating down, and I could hear my breathing in the stillness.  Meditation never came easy to me.  My Type A personality was more akin to constantly running from place to place to get more and more done, my left brain doing laps while my right did wind sprints. Lying on the warm flat planks, I tried to make a point to just be.  Small puffy clouds floated across the blue sky, the kind that you assign random objects to as a child.  I did this then in my head- this one looks like a baby elephant, that one looks like a lion.
            I heard a splash off to the left, and turned to see Jess emerging from the lake in a ring of bubbles.  The others had exited the house and were assembling on the deck that hung out over the water.  As she crawled up the rock face, I tried to remember the last time I was surrounded by all adult women.  It was difficult to place.  As we age we are most often surrounded by groups of people at work, or if we are with other adults it’s a mingling of couples or groups of coed friends.  There is something feminine that is lost there, as we inevitably play to the roles we feel society thrusts on us. This became a topic of conversation as the ladies laid out on their towels around me.  “I can’t believe we’re here,” I said to Jess.  “I’m pretty sure I was picking scrambled eggs out of Ella’s hair a few hours ago.”
            “You were honey, but now we’re in North Country.  Land of the free- or at least land to be free from your kids for a few days.”
            “Don’t get me wrong- I adore them.  Those little girls are my life.  But it’s just that normally, when I’m hanging out with people, Riley and Ella are there too, and I’m in full on mommy-mode, chasing them around instead of having tete a tetes with other adults.”
            “It’s no different when I’m the hostess,” Jess said, “cooking hors oeuvres in the oven, checking on drinks and making sure that nothing is spilled or left out for the dogs or cats to eat.  If I left Joe in charge of that stuff, Holly and Wilbur would be 800 pounds each.”
            “Well, forget work,” Imogene said.  “I’m an attorney for women’s rights, for god’s sake.  At the office, I have to be diligent and demanding, but also worry about my outfit, my hair, whether I “look” the part of high level lawyer.  If I don’t, the men in the room would lose all respect for me.” She paused, and ran a hand over her frizzing hair.  “Not that most of them have any respect for women in the first place.  Animals, all of them. ” 
            I could see what Nicole meant as I watched Mollica glare and tighten her hands into white fists.  I would ask her about Imogene a year later, and she would say Let’s put it this way- I still have a friend request from her on Facebook that I haven’t accepted.  Imogene had a manner of speaking that reminded me not everyone has social graces.  She was smart, but her condescending tone was hard to ignore.
            Jess turned to me, ignoring Imogene’s last comment.  “So I told the shelter I wouldn’t have reception until Sunday.”
            “How are they dealing?” 
            “Well, thus far I’ve seen three voicemails and seven texts come in.  I’m ignoring them.”
            “As well you should.  I told my business partners this was my one vacation this year, and we actually closed the studio down so that I could take a real break.”     
            “Good for you!  I don’t think I can shut down the only shelter in Hudson County.”
            “Powerful women- we make the world go round,” Nicole chimed in.
            “Jess, what do you do at the shelter?” Tanvi asked, standing up and striking a yoga pose. 
            “She runs everything,” I responded.
            Jess nodded.  “Well, not everything, but most of the things.  I organize all the fundraisers, make sure everything is running according to schedule, come up with ideas to help keep the animals getting adopted, that type of stuff.”
            “A few months ago, she had a “Pi Day” celebration because it was March 14th. She made these pumpkin and peanut butter pies, and I went down and took photos of the dogs eating them.”
            “That sounds messy,” Imogene interjected.
            “Oh, it was.  But it was fantastic- big pink tongues and pumpkin everywhere,” I said. 
            “On the plus side, I never have to get dressed up for work.  It’s more often I need to find muck boots and clothes to that can get soaked in dog pee.”
            “Believe me, there are times I would be happy to trade in my pantsuits and heels,” I responded.
            “I pretty much did,” Jess said, smiling. 
            Leaning back on the dock, I was relieved I didn’t currently have to worry about any mold I had to fit.  If the sun tanned my limbs, so be it. If my bikini top didn’t fit right, who cared?  If my hair was sticking out at all angles, no one was going to take what I said to be less important.  
            As it got warm we jumped into the water below, climbing out of our own volition up the slippery rock, using our monkey toes to find foot and hand holds as we went.   Slips of silence stood out in the conversation, lulls when we could hear the hum of boats across the lake and the occasional calls of birds.  The quiet was affecting me, and the thoughts racing like locomotives through my brain were drifting off instead like soap bubbles, floating off into the stratosphere, reaching higher and higher, until they popped into rainbow sprinkles.
 
                                                                *          *          *
 
            When we arrived back at the house, we were ravenous.  There was racing around as we changed, and then reconvened outside, spreading our wet clothes like Japanese fans on the deck railings, covering the reddish wood with multicolored spandex.   Dividing into teams, Nicole and Mollica went inside to prep the kitchen while Jess, Tanvi and I ransacked the garden for our meal, like a band of Epicurean pirates.  A group of women is a remarkably organized mass to deal with, and as Jess said while she stuck a cherry tomato in her mouth, “we get shit done.”
            While food popped and splattered on the stove, we gathered up the dishes, and formed a jostling assembly line to pile them high with bean salad, something involving quinoa, and veggie burgers, a farm specialty consisting of carrots, zucchini, breadcrumbs, and any root vegetables Nicole could shred and form into patties.
            “This is delicious,” Jess said, letting out a low moan as she sampled the bean salad.
            “Thanks.  It’s my mother’s recipe from India.  The key is to sauté the beans last, so that they don’t dry out,” Tanvi replied.  She was from Kolkatta, and currently resided in Brooklyn.  She was at the farm creating art that “investigates notions of time, place, communication, and dialogue,” she explained, dipping her fork into the quinoa. 
            “What’s your main medium?” I asked, digging into a patty.  I almost swooned over the crunchy exterior.   
            “I tend to work in paper, water colors, and India and colored inks.  But I also do spoken word, and use audio pieces that can be heard alongside drawings or 3-dimensional work," she said.  
            I nodded, remembering I’d seen sketches in the barn and some watercolors when we arrived earlier.  “Love it.  Multi-media is my favorite.  I was hoping to play with some photos and acrylics, but I’m not sure I have time since Jess and I are headed to Jazzfest in Montreal tomorrow.  I’m thinking maybe when I have more time at Summerfest in August.”  I picked up a mug that said Go jump in a lake and took a sip of water.  “How long are you here?”
            “Only a month- then I’m doing another residency in Sweden.  I was excited to get out of the city for a bit, relax and reconnect to nature.”         
            “That’s the best reason to come here.  Get away from everything,” Nicole responded.  We all murmured in agreement as we continued stuffing our faces.
            “Jess, how did you and Kristen meet?” Tanvi asked.
            “Jess’s husband was one of my best friends in high school.  I was kind of like his taller little sister.”        
            “I was so nervous when I met her- I wanted her to like me.  You know how you meet some of your boyfriend’s female friends, and they just don’t like anyone?”
            “And I was terrified she was going to be a nut job like some of Joe’s college girlfriends.  I hadn’t seen Joe in years, and when Jeff and I moved back to Jersey from California, I called him up and headed over.  She was at work.  New York Public Library, right?” Jess nodded.  “But she walked into the house, and just gave me the biggest bear hug. I remember thinking, thank god she’s normal.  And awesome.”
            “Well, normal is relative.”
            “Fair enough.  You got along with Jeff right away too.”  I turned to the rest of the girls.  “When we talk about our friends and how they’ve paired off, we agree that Joe won.  He found the best spouse,” I explained.  “She can not only cook and bring home the figurative and literal bacon, but she also helps him put Star Wars ornaments on their Christmas tree, and okayed me buying him a Yoda tree topper with a light saber that glows for his birthday.”           
            “Can’t argue with that,” Jess smiled.
            “How’s he dealing at the house without you?”
            “I’m not sure- he’s probably one of the” she glanced at her phone “nine messages or 23 texts I have on here.  I’ve decided I’ll call him when we get back from the game- until then, no phone.”  She put it back in her pocket.  “Not gonna lie- it’s kind of liberating”
            “I agree- I haven’t touched mine in hours, and it really is freeing,” Tanvi agreed.
            “I haven’t looked at mine, but that’s a combination of lack of reception, and fear of finding out the score for the soccer game,” I replied
            “We just have to load in the keg.  I promised Porky we’d supply the beer for the viewing.  Then we can head over,” my sister said.
                                                                ​*          *          *
            An hour later, we were locked and loaded, though it was a battle to get that keg in the back of Nic’s pick up truck.  It had been left in a large black barrel on the side of the house, and no fewer than three men had been assigned to moving it for the party the day before we arrived.  Jess and Mollica scoffed at this, and called on brute strength to hoist it, stating quite matter of factly that they didn’t need any damn help. 
            The two of them made quite the pair, Mollica in her bright red Universita Firenze tee-shirt and Jess, one of her many tattoos peeking out from under a grey tank top and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, shuffling across the porch towards the flatbed.  They garnered momentum near the end, and had swung it up with a clang, hopping in after. Jess breathlessly, proudly, stated “See?” while the blue sagged under the weight of the keg and the ladies in the back.
            Ever the designated driver, I pulled out slowly, careful to keep an eye on the road and the other on the women in the back.  The vinyl driver’s seat stuck to my leg, and I could feel every tear in it sharp against my skin.  After a quick stop to grab Doc, Nicole’s septuagenarian neighbor, and a brief secondary pause to stand up the propane tank that I’d knocked over backing out of his driveway, we continued down the road.            
            Doc was accompanying us to cheer on the US Men’s National team in their match with Germany.  He’d been a referee in his younger years, and Nicole was currently sporting one of his yellow and black work shirts, and a whistle she’d dug out of her jewelry collection.
            The pick up lost a bit of traction on the dirt road when we turned off the main street, skidding while the women in the truck bed held tight to the sides and the precious half-keg.  Laughing, I grabbed the door that had flung itself open on the bump from asphalt to rocks and dirt, calling back to make sure I hadn’t lost anyone while I gripped the handle.
            A resounding “Woo hoo!” from the rear ensured me that we hadn’t, and I hightailed it around another curve on the way to the viewing party.
             “They’re fine,” I said, waving my hand at Doc, and rocking the car through yet another giant ditch.
            “Don’t they know how to fill in pot holes up here?” I asked Doc.  “It’s worse than New York City.”
            He shook his head and smiled, his slack skin tightening as he explained, “There are slews pipes under the road and every winter, the frost heave pushes them down, creating these giant holes.  The roads caves in and then they pour dirt over the holes.  It self-corrects in the spring most of the time, but it’s taking it sweet time this year.”
            I felt the car rumble jump through another one and the springs and metal in the seat reminded my ass why I don’t live in the country. 
             TWEET. “Caldwell, stay on your side of the road!” Nic yelled as I swerved.  She blew her whistle again.  TWEET!
            “I’m trying!” I called back.
            “Well, watch where you’re going.  We have some precious cargo back here!” Nicole pointed to the giant black-encrusted silver sphere.
            The girls laughed while I turned on the radio, and pumped some 80’s rock ballad through the one working speaker.  A hair band guitarist was shredding a solo, and the girls in the back played air guitar.  The window stayed open, and in the rearview mirror, I caught my grin in the moonlight, my eyes twinkling and my hair wild.  It was a good look, I decided, spinning the dial up and remembering a favorite line from one of the books on Better Farm’s shelves, a piece of advice I took to heart in the humid June night.  There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.

 
​