LIFE IN LIMBO

Living in Spokane over the summer taught me a skill or two, among them how to properly plant new maple trees into virgin soil while the thermometer read 94 degrees (a skill I hope to never exercise again) and how to do a 180 on a knee board (though I'm obviously not one of those boys, the video gives you an idea of what this looks like), but namely, how to live independently from lifelong companions.

My kitchen clock read 10:42 a.m. this particularly sweltering July morning when I woke up to an empty house, a half full pot of coffee and a serving of Kashi cereal calling my name. After breakfast and an hour or so of mindless morning TV, I decided to do something productive.

I have a slightly pretentious aversion to reading anything other than classics. There are a few I've had my heart set on reading, such as The Invisible Man, The Count of Monte Cristo, Don Quixote, etc. but alas, the only classic my parents own that I haven't read is Les Miserables. This is all well and good but the novel is easily the size of a few light summer reads put together, but since it was all we had, I decided to settle for it.

After reading a whopping five pages, my cellphone started ringing with a "Restricted" number on the other end. My initial reaction to the call was to ignore it, restricted calls are never good; with my luck I'd answer and the last person I would want to speak to would greet me from the other end.

Courageously, I answered. Much to my delight it was one of my closest friends, Shannon, calling from halfway across the world in northern France.

I have missed my girlfriends dearly since the move, and knowing they were enjoying fresh baguettes with salami and Gruyere cheese on the Seine without me was nearly unbearable. They reported the food was divine, the shopping was far too expensive, and the French aren't as cold as Americans like to paint them.

After my chat with Shannon I emptied the trunk of my car, which had been stuffed full of various household knickknacks that somehow made their way into my possession. I decided I deserved a break once the last item was put away just as my parents pulled up with a truckload of plants and a new tree for the backyard.

The next three hours would consist of my mom and I digging holes and planting two dozen little bushes (mind you it was no short of 90 degrees outside) while Leo enjoyed the golf on TV.

In the evening, the three of us cozied up on the sofa as my mom and I watched the tail end of "Becoming Jane," while my dad made fake snoring noises and a racket in the kitchen rinsing out the sink, loading the dishwasher and crumpling bags after tiring of the sappy film.

This was a testament to my longstanding belief that when it comes to television etiquette, boys are hypocrites. Women across the world have been hushed as the "game of the century" unfolded on the television, but once ladies try to enjoy a decent romantic flick all rules of courteousness are forgotten.

I realized in those annoying moments how appreciative I am of my parents, foibles and all. Though my dad knew just the buttons to push to send my Mom and I over the edge, it was all in good fun. As we pressed the rewind button time and again to catch sweet nothings missed under the hum of my fathers kitchen-clamor, deep down we were glad my Dad knows how to joke with us. We're glad he has a silly side and a good sense of humor.

When best friends are placed miles apart, one learns how to appreciate those who have been around all along. While in the past I may have called my girlfriends immediately after I secured my first job, watched concert of a lifetime, or met someone new and interesting, instead I find myself dialing my sister or my Mom's phone numbers.

It is not that friends are any less important than they were before, distance simply puts a magnifying glass on what relationships have secured the deepest roots.

Though I've never liked change much, I think this realization has made my change of scenery a bit easier to cope with.


Video courtesy of youtube.