MaineCourse

Evansville

My marriage is a cooperative blend of individual talents. Or survival instincts. I cut the grass; Diane makes sure Matt does his homework. I clean the basement; Diane pays the bills. Once a month or so, I wash Diane’s car, every night she makes dinner. I sleep late, Diane executes every last detail of all our trips, whether it’s to France, Gilsum NH, or to that town on the Ohio River in southern Indiana.

Every January, early, Diane will ask me to call Brian and tell him to get ready for our trip to Evansville. His response is always the same. “Steak, medium rare, potatoes with butter and gravy, iced tea, no vegetable, no dessert.” That is what I hear because whatever his response is, however it is framed, it always sounds like a death row prisoner requesting his last meal.

Brian hates to leave his space, but does so once a year with us, this pilgrimage to visit our parents and Matt’s grandparents. Matthew, Diane and I love it, probably in that order, but Brian has a most comfortable home, not to be duplicated in a far off land. However, once he agrees to go, all he has to do is stand still and wait for the Tsunami named Diane to carry him away. The naked truth is, Matt and I, clinging to our backpacks and surfboards, do the same.

When the time comes, Diane announces the time has come. She searches the net for the cheapest fares, scrambles to book the best rates at the Marriott, arranges for the rental car and continually updates Brian to ensure that he’s standing at his front door when we arrive en route to Logan. Which he always is, carrying not much more than a toothbrush. Diane claims that is when she hears his first sigh.

And, according to Diane, the sighs continue on the plane but reach a crescendo in the rental car returning to the Marriot from our first dinner on Bellemeade Ave. They don’t stop until the sun rises on our first morning’s breakfast at Denny’s. I don’t notice the sighs, but I do see the transformation. Brian, apparently, with the last of his resistance ground to fine dust, inverts the pestle, taps out what remains with his forefinger and comes alive. He starts chatting with the waitress, customers next to us, bellhops, shop owners, labyrinth guides, convicted felons, whomever, and he doesn’t stop until we drop him off on Mt Auburn St. five days later.

I, however, the guy Brian nicknamed Gabby Hayes, become morose and uncommunicative. It’s as if Brian has left his coffin and I’ve climbed in. I spend most of the visit walking in his shadow wondering who the hell this guy is, who so closely resembles, well, me.

It’s not unlike what happens in a marriage. Or so my rationale goes. Diane does the laundry; I don’t have to. She worries, freeing me to make caustic comments about her neuroses. Peter hasn’t been part of these family visits in many years but when he is, I have the best time, because he acts out all of my inner impulses. He reacts to my father’s irritability, I see the stillness of a protected mountain lake. He responds to my mother’s woo woo side, I see Mike Dukakis with a sense of humor. I lie back and enjoy.

The gallery contains fifty-four images taken by both Brian and me. I considered posting only my pictures but found most of my really good photos came from Brian’s camera. Except for the ones that Matthew took.


The Ohio River

Note the post time, Susan.

If one were truly waiting with bated breath, would not one have posted comments on the Evansville chapter within a full 13 hours of its appearance?

Posted by skeptical.

Resuscitating breath holders and amazed nonbelievers and thawing preserved members take precedence over making anonymous smarty ass remarks.

PS How's your cold, Skep?

Posted by The Fan Club.

Role reversals; Brian was once the one always out of the picture,or, okay, with finger-nails sticking out from under the frame. Now, it seems those nails are mine.

Posted by Peter.

Noted.

Posted by Susan.

That was really fun, great choices and thanks for finally letting me see your shots. Don't forget he was editing, Peter.

Give us a link back to /mt.

beware the spam harvesters on the email address unless you've already given up.

Posted by Brother B.

or a target=0 on the gallery link.

Posted by Same as above.

Out of the gallery, at Jeff's house, where's the oak?

Posted by p.

I never use my primary address but that is a caution worth noting. I wonder how many people know that email addresses on web pages are collected by spammers.

A new window, though a lazy way to do it, is not enough?

Posted by Michael.

The breadth and quality of the gallery and the writing barely got mentioned in all the safe-surfing dialogue. I hope the experience was as harmoniously bucolic and convivial as the images convey. They're honest enough to include the mortally bored youth but they fondly capture minutiae to vista, and full of people. I particularly like the one of Diane "drifting away", sitting on the riverbank terraces -- most artfully composed. The first of Brian's orange-ball-and-riverboat is splendid, as well. Thanks for letting those not even on the sidelines tag along.

Posted by meanwhile.

Not wanting to sound uncharitable, or un-brotherly, but Brian's photographic ability is beginning to piss me off.

Posted by Disgruntled.

Posted by Michael at July 19, 2003 09:09 PM