On "Slow Foreplay on a Fast Bus"

The other day I had a chance to read a wonderful short story by my friend Will Bevis, entitled Slow Foreplay on a Fast Bus, and because of that I'm using today's blog as an 'open letter' to him. Once you've had a chance to read this post, check it out-- or heck, take a moment now, and download the story from Amazon.com. It's only 0.99 and well worth it.

Especially if you're a parent, or have ever been a teenager.



Dear Will,

It isn't often I read a story that resounds with me on so many different levels. Within the first few words I was hooked--sitting right there beside you on that uncomfortable bus seat. By the time the kids pulled out the blankets I'd remembered a similar bus ride during the late 90's.

My father should have written down what he'd learned that trip.

I was a sophomore in high school that year, and an active member of my school's NJROTC. A "Navy Brat" by birth it was a logical activity for me to be drawn to.

At the time, my father was my hero, and I wanted nothing more than for him to come with us on that twelve hour round trip from my hometown to Roseburg, Oregon.

He too sat in the back of the bus, away from all the other parents who congregated in the front chattering and gossiping like their children.

I chose to sit with him, as did several of the guys.

Looking back on it now, I can only imagine what he must have been thinking.

Everyone on that bus knew they knew everything they'd need for life. They were all 'adults' in their minds. "Grown up" with no need to learn anything more or listen to the advice of people like my father.

I was one of them.

Less than an hour into the ride, blankets were out, and the co-ed seating arrangements were obviously very...cozy.

Making out wasn't as obvious as it was on your trip, because we had two very intimidating Retired Navy Officers on board with us-- and they had eyes like hawks.

They were our instructors, and by the end of my Senior year were more like family to me than my actual family.

I still have nothing but respect for them.

Over a decade later, and I shudder to imagine what my father saw and thought that cold, wet winter day.It also makes me worry about what I'm going to see in nine years when my daughter is a pre-teen. I can guarantee I will be on all her trips, near enough to keep a hawk eye on her.

Not because I don't trust her, but because I do.

I trust her to be curious.

I trust her to push her boundaries and to want to experience all life has to offer.

I also trust her to be young, and naive, because that is how kids are supposed to be. They're not supposed to be adults in pre-pubescent bodies.

Unfortunately, I also trust her to  be too much like her momma was at that age.

As her parent, it is my responsibility to make sure my daughter isn't under a blanket with some hormone crazy boy and his roaming hands-- and that responsibility won't fall to some inattentive parent sitting at the front of the bus.

Thank you so very much, Will, for not only reminding me of a time when my father was the greatest person in my life. For reminding me of a memory I don't pull out and dust off enough, and for reminding me that my job is far from over. My daughter might not yet be four, but it's only a matter of time before she's on a long distance bus ride with her classmates...

And I intend to be on it.


R.S.


Seriously, fellow blog readers. Check this guy out. He tells it like it is, and if you're anything like me, you'll be laughing while at the same time scared to death about what he'll reveal next.

Check him out on Twitter too. @willbevis

On Sensory Memory

Our senses are our strongest weapons.

Sight allows us to avoid running into things, or stepping into a trap waiting to snap around our ankle.

Smell tells us when the chicken has spoiled and will insure us a lengthy ER visit if we eat it.

Taste backs smell up. It sends up the red flag to spit out whatever we're ingesting before we end up sitting in hard plastic chairs waiting to be seen at the ER.

Sound alerts us to horns blaring, sirens shrieking, or the urgent voice of someone yelling, "Fire!".

Touch can warn us when there is heat radiating from an object, or if something is rough and might cut, tear, or poke us.

Our senses are amazing.

And can also be a pain in the ass.

Or our best friend.

As I've said, a time or two in previous posts, my husband is a U.S. Marine. He deploys for seven months at a stretch, and my daughter and I don't see him or hear from him during the majority of that time.

While he is gone there are days I can go about my routine (because routines are incredibly important to a toddler, and even to a wife, when someone they love is gone), without feeling the painful thud of my heart. Everything will be hunky dory, and then...my traitorous senses wake up.

The scent of his aftershave will assault my nose as I walk through a store, and I'll look for him. Memories of him flood my mind, and though they are all happy, my mood becomes sad. It's the same way with his voice.

It's a rare and happy occurrence when he can call, and though his voice brings me happiness, it too brings me sadness. Sometimes it's easier to deal with his absence when I don't hear his voice anywhere but in my dreams.

Touch can often be the hardest one for me.

The texture of my sheets reminds me of the empty space beside me at night. The roughness of his extra uniform pokes at our missed hours. Mixed with the other senses, it's the one most likely to render me momentarily stupid...or weepy.

Sight can be a bitch all by itself.

Going places, and seeing sites you've visited with someone you care about can be both rewarding and heartbreaking. You've made memories there, and all of them flood back as you retrace the footsteps of your past...even in your present.

Big Train Chai

The same can be said about Taste.

My best friend, an amazing and thoughtful person, lives in Washington State. Approximately 1500 miles away. While I was visiting her last winter she introduced me to Big Train Chai, and my tastebuds have never been the same. In fact, whenever I breakdown and order Starbucks Chai, they throw up the proverbial middle finger.

It's just not the same.

Out here, in the middle of nowhere, there isn't a store where I can pick up the large bags of liquid manna. Yes, I could order it online and have it delivered, and I would...but I don't have to.

She sends it to me, and it means so much more.

On the mornings I allow myself a steaming (or in many cases, ice cold) cup of liquid heaven, I think of her. No matter how long it has been since I've seen her, she's right next to me as I take those first precious sips.

Yes, our senses are our greatest weapons... but they're also our greatest link to our past.

What sights, sounds, tastes, and smells bring memories back to you? I'd love to hear them.

R.S.