I am nine
years old, sitting in the backseat of dad’s Studebaker
Station wagon. We are on
our way from Elizabeth, New Jersey to Nana and Pop-Pop’s house in Norwich,
Connecticut. The drive seams endless (interstate highways are not yet complete).
After half a day on the road we pay a 10 cent toll over the Connecticut River, and
the anticipation of being nearer Nana’s, far outweighs the hackneyed “are we
there yet” my mom and dad became deaf to 15 minutes after we left.
Being
almost there has my brother and me sitting straight, not slumped in our respective
corners. Being almost there has him hanging over the back seat blabbering into
my father’s ear, and me drumming my hands on my thighs until my mother says playing
percussion is not for girls. The anticipation
of visiting my grandparents, my aunts and uncles and cousins begins to effervesce
like a green bottle of all-shook-up ginger ale on a summer day. Almost there
and the cap is ready to blow, almost there and I can taste the Saturday night
beans and hot dogs. Sitting on the front porch after dinner with the family, (there are
dozens of us), waiting for the Good Humor
truck to stop, is the exclamation point to a perfect day.
I am not nine years old anymore but that bubbly feeling of being almost there feeds my (on a keyboard) drumming hands. Today, years of thought and planning and writing and months of self-editing - done. I will complete a last read-through and later today my novel is off to a first reader (many states away) that is tough, kind and beyond brilliant when it comes to books people want to read, can’t wait to read, and spend money to read.
She wants a
hard copy so on my way home from the post office I will buy ginger ale in a
green bottle.
