Before I have anything trenchant to report about last week's junket to Disney World, I need to debrief a tad from the watershed weekend I'm in the midst of.
Yesterday morning Gabe snoozed as I piloted the Soobie. 3 hours up the road in Moorestown, NJ, we stopped for lunch at a Panera and he inquired as to whether I knew the whereabouts of his wallet and book. Nope. A quick phone call later, and Becca was on her way to overnighting them from the home Post Office. If that was the worst of our organizational lapses, I'm feeling good.
I have a couple of brief comments to make about Moorestown, NJ. 1) It's in New Jersey. State motto: We don't make left turns and can think of no reason to allow you to do so either. Goofed? Turn right, then right, then right, then zigzag through a few residential areas...we'll get you where you're going. 2) I am curious, in a cautiously tentative way, about any town in which the first businesses you encounter post-exit ramp are The Truck and Turf Hotel (turquoise, 50s-style neon lettering,) and Jay's Elbow Room lounge. Oh, and here's another favorite NJ style trick: Erase all lane markings 100 yards before any toll plaza. That way you're sure to find yourself as far as you can be from the human-who-can-make-change lane, deciding between blowing the barricade in an "Easy Pass" lane, or scrounging for enough coins to make exactly a dollar in the "exact change" lane. We picked option two. Perhaps one of our pennies got trapped in a seam on its way into the big bucket, so I followed these actually-posted instructions--"If machine doesn't work, blow your horn and keep going." Not that my toot stood out from everyone else's. This is New Jersey, mind, where horn-blowing every fraction of a mile is pretty much de rigeur.
Jeff was placidly rocking on Helen's tranquil upstate New York front porch, plugged into an ipod she'd set to Jeff-pacification music. He seemed pleased but perplexed to see us, but caught on that we'd come to get him. He grasped the gist of our trip in a loose sense, in that he asked Gabe several times last night--"So which college do you like?" I slipped Gabe a quick verbal reminder to limit the bigness of the deal of this slight anachronism, and he replied, each time, "I've already picked a school. This is the trip where I move in."
From yesterday morning to move-in today, I've perceived Gabe's mood progressing from reluctance to leave his home and favorite cat, to tuning out, to an acceptance of this transition to independence. I can't quite call it enthusiasm, but as we got there I felt a hint of ownership of the experience emerging in his vibe.
I'll tell you one thing about the typical Thames Academy parent. They hover. I left Jeff on the front lawn of Gabe's big old Victorian home-for-the-year, as I helped him get his stuff in and sorted. Last in, first out I was. I don't think Gabe would have swapped for the parental pair organizing Michael's things to a fair-thee-well, or the other set who were hanging around to fetch more supplies and even take their son William out to dinner tomorrow night, after he'd gotten a taste of classes. Gabe's bed was made, his stuff was in drawers, he was ready for us to go. So we did. And as for the tissue which I'd wadded into my pocket this morning--I needed it as we walked away. But only a little.
Now Jeff and I are ensconced in a small inn down the road in the Connecticut woods, to veg, eat, recoup from driving, and tomorrow--visit Mark Twain's house in Hartford. Jeff likes that idea, but I have no doubt I'll be escorting him to and from the bathroom at least three times in the middle of tonight. As I did last night at Helen's. Which is half the reason why a bit of time to sit in a garden and post a blog update is a good move before I tackle another solo drive.
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