for me, this is always a trip down memory lane. for them, it's torture worse than death. i bribe them with pralines as i point out my old high school, my old house, all my friends houses, the synagogue where we were married, the bench where i had my first kiss, my favorite chinese restaurant (now a dry cleaner), favorite deli which served my favorite grilled cheese sandwich, the curb i tripped over and broke my toe, the hospital where my dad died, the mall, my favorite taco bell, favorite gyro wrap (now called great wraps - not sure why?), my grandparents old house, the gas station that sold me beer when i was 15 (i leave that part out of my narration), the parking meter i always parked by because it was always broken, the seafood restaurant with the really, really good hushpuppies, .....and the list goes on and on....
we always make a trip to bonaventure cemetery where my dad is buried. it is one of my favorite places in the world. huge oak trees hanging heavy with spanish moss and old, old grave stones overlooking the marsh. we usually spend the first 10 minutes searching for the grave site (i swear they move it around to mess with my head). by this point we're dying from dehydration and heat stroke. when i return from the car with the water, i find that someone has been kicking dirt on someone. then find out that the dirt is really a fire ant mound. screaming ensues. followed by crying. so, we leave. good times. always glad to spend quality time in what should be such a peaceful place.
on the way back to the beach i always wonder why i bother. but then i remember. i bother because it's my history. hopefully one day they will bring their own families on tours of their childhoods and their kids won't give a crap either. that's love, right?
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