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 Dianeís car, every night she makes dinner. I sleep late, Diane executes every last detail of all our trips, whether itís 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. ìSteak, medium rare, potatoes with butter and gravy, iced tea, no vegetable, no dessert.î 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 Mattís 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 heís 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 donít stop until the sun rises on our first morningís breakfast at Dennyís. I donít 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 doesnít 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. Itís as if Brian has left his coffin and Iíve 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.

Itís not unlike what happens in a marriage. Or so my rationale goes. Diane does the laundry; I donít have to. She worries, freeing me to make caustic comments about her neuroses. Peter hasnít 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 fatherís irritability, I see the stillness of a protected mountain lake. He responds to my motherís 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 Brianís camera. Except for the ones that Matthew took.

The Ohio River

Note the post time, Susan.