Back to the real world, or so it is as I perceive it . . . .

Last Saturday, I had an experience that I have had many times nearer home, but I think that I am learning that happiness can travel away from the places that I consider inherently happy -- like Pittsburgh or the Elk River. We were visiting a few friends in Berkely Springs, and after Megan went to sleep, I lie on the futon in their living room, bored, and feeling a thousand nails driving into the back of my throat, and unable to breathe. I could hear Kenn and Jarrod out in Jarrod's new car, listening to tunes. Jarrod has always claimed that tunes sound better in the car. For that reason, no matter what the weather, Kenn and I have found ourselves sitting in Jarrod's car, sometimes with oter people there, but most often, just us and Jarrod. Knowing that when Jarrod has had enough beer, there is always a trip to an all-night diner or breakfast place, or some combination thereof, I was somewhat afraid of being left behind, but unwilling to take the misery of my tonsilitis out into the cold and snow. It was not until I heard the magical music of The Rolling Thunder Review that I summoned up my energy and ran out of the apartment and down the steps-- barefoot-- and across the parking lot to Jarrod's car. Jarrod handed me a beer, and I expressed a desire for pancakes. I was told that there is no place to find such food at such an hour in Berkely Springs. I opened the beer and sat, not drinking it, and listening to the music to which Jarrod and my husband were so reverently listening.

Knowing that if I made a big deal of not drinking the beer that Jarrod would bug me about it, and knowing that I did not want to drink it, I would occasionally pretend to take a drink. The three of us sat, Kenn with his wine, Jarrod and I with beer, as the musical selections we made were played in Jarrod's car. Kenn was sitting in the front seat, holding my hand over the top of the seat as I sat in the back. I tried desperately to keep that moment vivid in my memory, knowing that I had not wanted to be in a new and unfamiliar place, but feeling a little better as I sat in a cold car, listening to Son Volt, Wilco, John(ny) (Cougar) Mellencamp, Johnny Cash, and Bruce, as well as many others. The cold air made my throat feel better, although I was sure that my feet had frostbite, and the car was filling with smoke, making breathing even more difficult. Jarrod would occasionally start the car to heat it a bit. But the feeling is that life is good. (Or life is hard and God is good, take your pick.)

We went into their philosophical discussion of ants and hampsters, and how the majority of the populace were soulless. Ants, if you will, at best, and hampsters-- aimless and easily swayed, at worst. Soon after, at the close of a Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris duet, Kenn and I leave our host in his car, listening to his tunes as I slowly pour my beer out on the way back inside.

I love times like this. Where I cling, with Kenn and whatever friends to the fun or glory of an evening, until the dawning of the next day. We talk about ridiculous subject matter, and are happy to do so. The dreams after such an experience are always a little bit odder, but more memorable.

I forgot about last Saturday as the week wore on. I decided against watching Mr. Rogers' neighborhood on Monday in favor of some asinine early-nineties failed sitcom. I felt terrible for this on Thursday when I learned of the passing of Fred Rogers. I missed class and felt guilty. I cleaned the house an felt a sense of accomplishment.
I had a myriad of other emotions, but today I sit and think about last Saturday night and realize that such odd late nights are fewer and farther apart, and will soon cease as Kenn and I move further away, as we begin jobs and lose touch with our friends from home. Growing up, if you will. If you won't, then growing away.
Soon I will spend more time getting laundry done and actually get work completed by a deadline, and less time will be devoted to tunes. In the near future, the only person with whom I will maintain any significant telephone or e-mail contact will be my mother, as even my younger sisters will begin this process of growing away. My Saturday evenings will be for watching television and work that I brought home, and I will be too sensible to sit in a car in ridiculous weather, listening to the obscure music of my friends and my darling husband. And maybe someday, I will look back on last Saturday and ask myself what possessed me go outside barefoot and freezing with an ailment to listen to music with my husband and his friend. I may even call the police about other people listening to music in cars too loudly and too late when I am trying to sleep or prepare my Sunday school lesson. I am really glad I have not grown up yet.