sun of a beach

Given my affinity for the beach and 70s soul rock, I should probably be well-equipped to recognize and deal with the classical elements. This week's trip to the Redneck Riviera revealed that I still have a ways to go.

fire
On day one, Lori and I split the responsibilities of applying sunblock to the kids. My victims were Brennan and our nephew *Carter (who is as fair-skinned as he is wise and kind). That evening the girls (Lori, Zoe, and Ava) were the Pocahontas to our Sebastian. I wish that I could report that day one taught me a lesson and I was more thorough thereafter - but Carter's legs suggest otherwise. For the record, Ava's left nostril got really red on Tuesday. Lori, you disappoint me.

water & wind
On the last day I wanted to end the trip well - you know, something memorable that would let the kids conclude their completely enjoyable vacation on a high note. The wind was fierce and I thought it would be a good idea to purchase one of those sturdy two-person rafts to show the kids a raucous fun time. They loved the idea, and down we went to the beach walking right past the red flag hoisted on the pole. Red stands for DANGER! STAY OUT OF THE WATER! I thought it was the Alabama state flag. Roll Tide. Literally.

I dragged Brennan and Carter about 10 feet out. Anything deeper would have been irresponsible. What I failed to recognize is that a foot of water quickly becomes a 7 foot wave, and then a foot again real fast. So, on the first wave the boys were lifted seven feet in the air, flung out of the raft, and then whipped down into little more than a puddle. It was basically like jumping off a garage into a baby pool. Carter limped out of the water woozily rubbing his face and Brennan sauntered away clutching his shoulder.

In an effort to validate the rafting experience, I persuaded Zoe to give it a go. She reluctantly said yes. It went perfectly. She laughed, gliding smoothly across the waves, smoothly stopping at the edge of the tide on the wet sand. I got a bit too comfortable with the ease of the experience and let her get in the way of a real wave. It flipped the raft upside down sending her into the foamy madness. I desperately grabbed onto her leg for fear of losing her beneath the bubbles. When I pulled her out of the water (by the leg) she was, umm, freaking out. People began fleeing the beach. Not because my public decisions were causing them discomfort (right?), but because Zoe's crying sounded like a hurricane siren. It lasted five minutes until Lori gave her the all clear signal.

So, there they all sat: Lori shaking her head, Brennan rubbing his shoulder, Carter with a bruised cheek, Zoe not looking at me, and Ava averting my gaze because the answer was clearly 'no.' I was left with nothing else to do but give them a good show. Not so they could see 'how it's done,' but rather to punish myself for having put them in harm's way. I went out a good twenty feet, put my back to the torrent, and got flung. I almost rebroke my wrist and was still sneezing out water 4 hours later. Last day at the beach: a success. More or less.

earth
On this trip through the southern United States I became acquainted with, and amused by (mostly in Alabama and Mississippi), the three Bs of Southern subtlety. Bigotry, as evidenced by the proud public display of the confederate flag. Yeah, yeah...southern heritage, blah blah blah. It's racist and divisive and I think you probably know it. Belief, as revealed by the humongous billboard outside of Tupelo, MS that said (in red, all caps) "If you don't go to Church, the Devil will getcha!" It was so frightening that I almost told the kids to look in the opposite direction. Had they looked however, they may have seen evidence of the third B: Breasts. That's right, "Big Jim's Boobie Bungalow" of Elkton, TN. I wanted to applaud Big Jim for his alliteration, until we went in for lunch and saw the cost of a soda ("Mommy, why doesn't this restaurant have any windows?"). Just kidding.

My favorite bit of subtlety doesn't get a letter, because it was too awesome. And it wasn't really southern (and let's be honest, besides the confederate flag, the other two Bs could be found in other places as well). In northern Alabama the gas was only $3.59/gallon and the station was advertising a "2 for $1.79" candy special. Perfect. Our gaggle of 6 walked into the station, with each of the kids receiving directions that they could choose one package of candy ($1.79+$1.79 = 4 packages for the 4 children). The attendant was on the phone as we perused the candy section. I watched her, convinced that she was going to a) stay on the phone when I got to the register and b) fail to grant the candy special. It was completely cynical of me. But trust me, I had my reasons.

I walked up. She kept talking on the phone. Eyes puffy from late night partying or late night crying. She did not acknowledge me. She manually typed in the price of the "food items" into the register. *blood began boiling* She gave me the first two for $1.79, then charged me $1.79 each for the next two. I stopped her, "that's two for $1.79, right?" "Yes," she replied. Then she pulled the receipt out of the register and gave it a look (still on the phone). She realized that something wasn't right. I asserted, "You charged me $1.79 for each package of skittles. You can give me $1.79 back, or I'll go get two more packs of skittles." (magnanimous flexibility, I know) She looked at me, looked at the skittles, and responded, "You mean I owe you one more pack of skittles. Can I call you right back? " *face getting hot* "No, two." She put the phone down. She looked at the skittles, then up at me, then at the receipt. She continued doing this for 45 seconds, and then right before I launched into full fledged patronization (I had my eye on a pen and scrap of paper where I could to the math, along with using skittles for a visual if necessary. I would have hated myself for doing this of course, but I was ready to do it) she relented, "go ahead and get two more packages of candy." Vindication. I grabbed the candy, and out we walked. However, before crossing the threshold to the parking lot, the attendant looked at our crew, looked at Lori's adorable belly, and with a smirk asked, "When's that one due?" Touché. Message received, you win: "I might not be able to add, but at least I know what a condom is." I was still laughing as we crossed into Tennessee. The earth got me too. Or at least this little southern patch of it anyway.

* it took my sister Kari, due to a series of unfortunate travel events, approximately 16 hours (cumulative) to get Carter to our house in Champaign from her home in the Chicago suburbs (pre-trip) and back (post-trip). I told Kari that 16 hours is ~8 hours less than the cumulative time it took us to drive to the Gulf of Mexico and back, while passing through 6 states. Carter more poignantly told Kari on their way home (he was only mildly lucid, I'm sure) that it had "taken half the time to get home as it took to get to paradise." As a result, Kari knows some nice guys in Morris, IL who let her use their phone and probably has a mild addiction to the drug Exadreen (Excedrin).