There's Something About

The East Coast

            by Ariel Krizack

 

            The sun glistened upon my face, and the sweet summer air filled my lungs as I stepped onto the porch to enjoy my morning bagel with cream cheese, and tall glass of orange juice. The grass was a lush green and the garden was filled with flowers for every color of the rainbow. Orchids, petunias, tulips, they were all there. The reds were rich, the oranges opalescent, the yellows youthful, the blues brilliant, and the purples passionate. The calm wind and the 80-degree weather put my mind at ease.

            Every summer for as long as I can remember, my mom, my dad, and I have traveled to Williamstown, Massachusetts, where my dad and his four sisters grew up. My grandma still lives there, only now her two-story house has changed to a one-bedroom apartment and there are no longer five kids and a husband for her to feed every night. Williamstown is small. Spring Street, the main street, is about two blocks long and besides the retired seniors, the town consists of the 1200 students that attend Williams College. My Aunt Carol and Uncle Eddie live in Williamstown every summer, during which their house becomes a bed and breakfast for many traveling family members. My parents and I don’t get many chances to visit relatives, but when we do, they all come down to see us in the small town we have grown to love. Cousin Sara comes down with her husband Gary, her son Ethan, and now her newborn Lily. Aunt Joanie and Uncle Andre always make the three-hour drive from Boston, even if they can only stay for one night because of a Red Sox game the next day. Aunt Barbara flies over from Chicago, sometimes accompanied by her husband, the doctor, and her daughter Andrea, the Vassar student. My cousin Rebekkah and her husband Derek also make the drive from Boston to relax and ruminate with loving relatives.

            Now, I enjoy these week-long vacations to the East Coast. But when I was younger, they were never something to look forward to. Yeah, I liked seeing my grandma and the others, but I spent most days in my room watching television, wishing and hoping for something remotely exciting to happen. It never did. A bookstore, a pharmacy, a sandwich shop, a one-room movie theater, and an ice cream parlor made up Spring Street. My most adventurous days were the ones where I bought a sandwich named after some celebrity that either grew up in or had some connection with Williamstown.

Some days were so lonely and uneventful that I could feel the boredom dripping down my body, like the sweat drops upon my brow on a hot day. The chirping of crickets at night became a frustration that ignited my desire to return home. I never heard crickets from my bedroom window in Berkeley. The sound of trains and fast cars put me to sleep at night. I know that the crickets must sound more soothing, but the sounds of Berkeley were what I was used to, and I liked it that way.

            My family could tell that I was restless and in need of entertainment.

            “So Ariel, what do you want to do today?” Aunt Carol would ask.

            “I don’t know, what’s there to do?”

            “Well, we could go to the Clark or drive to the Bennington monument.”

Great. Either a museum or a monument in Vermont.

            “Uh, whatever.”

Whatever. My response to many questions. And possibly the best word to describe my blah feeling. Although my family never had a cure for my boredom, I appreciated their attempts to put a smile on my face.

            When you’re a youngster surrounded by a bunch of grown-ups chatting about the latest political scandal, you either become an attention craving annoyance or you stick through it and entertain yourself. I made many summer voyages into the tall grasses of the backyard. With my imagination and my trusty companion, Lizzy the cat, there was no monster we couldn’t defeat. Lizzy meowed and hissed while I used my cartwheels and kicks to slay the fictitious creatures. During the impatient wait for our evening meal, I would practice card game strategies so I could finally beat my grandma, known by her family as Nanny, the tennis playing card shark.

            “You want to let them know what you don’t have in your hand, not what you have,” my grandma would say during our daily game of Hearts. Good advice.

            “If you get dealt the queen of spades, keep her until you can force all the clubs or diamonds out, then slam it on someone (preferably your dad) when they least expect it.”

            I am now a Hearts champion, and always the first one to bust out a deck of cards before and after dinner.

            Although she was much older than me, I believed my grandmother was extremely cool and very hip. I never really knew what her rank was, but I knew that she was an avid tennis player and particularly good at it. I also knew that for an eighty year old woman, she was in good shape. Running back and forth from one side of the court to the other is exhausting, but Nanny loved tennis and it showed. Her handbags were printed with patterns of tennis balls and rackets. Her memo cards read I Love Tennis at the top. And the tennis bumper stickers on her two door Honda Accord gave it a sporty vibe.

            Nanny also collected nifty little do-dads to put in her dollhouses. Picture frames and chandeliers were made from necklace charms. Clothing was made from free scraps of material from the fabric store. Sometimes, Nanny would take me with her to pick out new fabrics from the free bin. She taught me how to tie any piece of cloth into a headscarf, and how to make a very stylish toga, not only for beer drinking frat boys.

            The summer after sixth grade consisted of, yet again, another trip to Williamstown. I thought of my friends while I was flying across the country, and everything I would be missing during this particularly long trip. Instead of arriving in Boston like we usually did, we flew into the Albany airport in New York. The tickets were cheaper and the drive from Albany to Williamstown was only one hour. New York. I had never been to New York before. I was very interested; disappointed that we weren’t flying into glamorous New York City, but excited to see what all the hoopla was about.

            My parents and I arrived around 11 p.m., eager to get on the road. After about fifteen minutes of driving we realized that the stingy airplane meal of chicken and carrots was not enough fuel to keep us going for another hour. We stopped to reload in the ghetto town of Troy, NY, supposedly the home of Uncle Sam. The pizza parlors were open until 2 a.m. and there were at least five of them within a two block radius. Maybe it was the long plane ride talking, but that slice of cheese hit the spot like no other. My dad chatted with the man behind the register for a few minutes then bought us large drinks to wash down the tomatoey paste. We savored the taste of the greasy cheese in our mouths as we all complained about what a long and exhausting trip we had just persevered through. It’s interesting how a simple stop for a couple slices of two dollar pizza at twelve in the morning can bring a family closer together.

            The rest of the car ride to Aunt Carol’s house was pleasant. I fell asleep to the sound of my dad singing along to Creedance Clearwater Revival, and woke up as we were driving over Aunt Carol’s bumpy, gravel driveway.

            I awoke the next morning to the rays of sunlight creeping through the crevices of my window. I rubbed the sleep from the corners of my eyes to get a clearer view of the hour. 10:30. Later than I usually wake up at home, and knowing my family of early birds, I was the last one up.

            “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Aunt Joanie chimed as I approached the kitchen.

            “Good morning.”

            “How did you sleep?”

            “Actually… very well,” I replied.

            The down pillows and comforter had kept my body warm and cozy all night, and the soft yet sturdy mattress mended my spinal pains from the uncomfortable airplane seat.

            That afternoon my dad, Aunt Carol, Cousin Sara, and I drove to the local corn stand to pick up about a dozen ears for dinner. Chenaille’s was the best corn around and always a treat when visiting Williamstown. Sara entertained us with stories of her new home in Scarsdale as we rummaged for a fresh batch.

            Waiting for dinner to be ready that night was a difficult task. The sweet smell of Chenaille’s filled the house and my mouth began to salivate. Supper was served early at Carol’s house, usually around 6:00 or 6:30. It’s a good thing too, because by that time everyone had awakened from their afternoon nap or returned from their golf games, and were ready to fill their bellies with a scrumptious, home-cooked meal. The pasta was rich, the salad was made with fresh greens from Carol’s garden, and the corn… oh the corn. It was sweet like candy and melted in my mouth like butter. It was heavenly.

            “Is there any dessert?” I asked anxiously.

            “I made blackberry pie and there’s some vanilla ice cream you can have with it.”

            This day just keeps getting better and better, I thought.

                        I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and allowed a look of absolute content to form on my face.

            “Carol, that was delicious. Delicious!”, Nanny exclaimed.

            “She ain’t lyin’!” Aunt Barbara said comically.

            At 10:00, when the rest of the house retired to bed, Sara, Gary, my dad, and I stayed up late watching Scarface, imitating the Tony Montana voice, and laughing at the many times TBS had to bleep out his dialogue.

            When I went to bed that night I no longer felt the need to block the still air and chirping crickets with loud television. I simply drifted off into a state of blithe and embraced the peaceful environment I was surrounded by.

            I never felt very close to any of my cousins until I grew older and Sara became a bigger part of my life. I knew Sara as the prima ballerina with a slim figure and porcelain skin. She was the essence of beauty and grace. I always wished we were closer in age so that we could talk about girl stuff together, but when she was a teenager I was a baby, and by the time I reached my teen years, she was married to a tall British man.

            As I sat alone in my room contemplating where I would drag my family shopping the next day, Sara peeped in with a warm smile on her face.

            “Hey A, whatcha doin’?”

            “Nothing,” I replied.

            Sara sat next to me on the floor and bent her legs as if she were warming up for a dance rehearsal. Her long lean body glowed from her shimmery lotion, but her hair took on the characteristics of a lion’s mane; frizzy and untamed with bobby pins keeping it away from her blue eyes. 

            “How’s school? Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

            “School is alright. Sixth grade was pretty good. I made a lot of new friends and I really like Willard.”

            “That’s awesome. I hated middle school. My brother bothered me the whole time and made me miserable. But you, Andrea, and Rebekkah never had to deal with that. Lucky. Of course I love Robert, but when he was younger he was brat.”

            “All my friends have siblings though and I wish I had someone else to talk to sometimes. Being an only child can get really lonely,” I complained.

            “When you have siblings you don’t want them and when you don’t have siblings you want them. I don’t think anyone can ever be completely satisfied.” Sara combed her fingers through her hair as we continued to converse .

            My relatives never asked me many questions about myself. It was nice to be able to talk about my life for a change instead of hearing about everyone else’s. We sat around talking about friends, boys, and dance. Finally I could talk to a family member as a friend and not just a relative. I had a developing passion for dance and hearing stories about Sara’s love for ballet inspired me to become more serious about dancing. I could see how happy dance had made her and what an important role it had played in her life. Sara motivated me to continue training in hip-hop dance and to expand my knowledge of other dance styles as well.

            The next day consisted of a shopping trip with the ladies, lunch at Le Jardin, and an exhibit at the Clark museum with the rest of the family. I was not much of a museum type of gal. The stuffy rooms and Do Not Touch signs felt restricting and reminded me of an old folk’s home. But I was polite. Shopping was my activity and the Clark was their’s, so I tagged along just as they had done for me. The Clark is a very unique museum. They display exhibits of every art form and collect some very impressive historical pieces from all over the world. My mom and dad had been eagerly awaiting the Winslow Homer exhibit at the Clark. Homer’s simple paintings of lakes and fishermen reminded me of my dad, a man who loved to fish. I found that artwork is more interesting when you relate it to some aspect of your life. The painting of a man casting a fishing line hangs in our living room. It reminds me of not only my father, but the appreciation I gained for art. And I can still envision the look of excitement on my mother’s face when she decided to purchase the painting.

            This past summer my friends and I spent our long days lounging by the pool, and sipping on cold lemonade. Everyone was mellow and carefree. No teachers. No homework. Nothing. The possibilities were unlimited and everyday meant a new adventure. Hot days and cool nights were the norm, but there was one unbearably hot day followed by a very warm and pleasant evening. Around 6:00 p.m. I got a call from Sophie.

            “Hey Ariel, what are you up to tonight?”

            “Well I’m about to get dinner with my parents, but I want to hang out with you afterwards.”

            “Yeah for sure girl. I heard about a couple parties tonight. Do you want to check them out?”

            “Definitely! I’ll give you a call you when I’m done with dinner.”

            I quickly grabbed a sweater, slipped on a pair of flip-flops, and shoved my parents out of the house. I was eager to finish dinner as quickly as possible.

            We walked to a pizza parlor nearby. The sun was beginning to set and the pink and orange sky cast a beautiful light upon all of Berkeley. The trees on our block were shades of bright green and the smell of freshly cut grass lingered in the air.

            We sat down in a large booth and immediately ordered a medium pizza with chicken and fresh tomatoes. North Beach Pizza had a family oriented environment (without the whining kids and the crying babies). Our table was silent while we waited for the pizza, too mesmerized by the colorful sunset to speak.

            “Here you go. It’s very hot though so be careful,” the waitress warned.

            We each served ourselves a piece and then took an enormous bite. We chatted about my mom’s job, my dad’s latest business trip, and my excursions in Europe earlier that summer. We stuffed our stomachs full of pizza and washed it all down with a couple sodas. Family dinners always turn out well. I looked across the table at my mom and dad. I noticed the look of absolute content on their faces. The thought of partying with Sophie and my other friends drifted out of my mind, and was replaced with the thought of warm nights, chirping crickets, sweet corn, and loving relatives gathered around a dinner table full of laughter.

            “I‘ll ask for the check,” my mom said.

            “So when are we going to Williamstown?” I asked with no hesitation whatsoever.

            “Right before my birthday,” my dad responded.

            I let out a sigh of relief and closed my eyes as I leaned back in my seat.

            “Good.”