A summer sunset at the cabin, taken from our dock.
“Fuck that,” I say. “I’m not going
to church.”
“Is she serious,” asks Mark. “She’s actually making us go to church?” He, Chris and Dan are all shocked that my mother stood
outside our tent in her Sunday’s best at 9:20 in the morning to not-so-gently
wake us up through the nylon fabric. Her and dad had just gotten back from the
early service where she was instructed to deliver a message from God: the big man wanted
to see us in his local office immediately.
“I don’t fucking care,” I say while we're getting dressed. “We’ll drive somewhere and park and sleep or something.”
And that’s exactly what we do. It’s
only fitting that I stop my 91’ Honda Prelude—also known as “Goldie Honda”—in
the parking lot of a bar, considering we’re nursing the worst hangovers known
to high schoolers. The air is humid and shade is scarce, and if not for the
cool breeze dancing through the windows, we surely would have died. But sleep
isn’t coming easy and I regret not grabbing a pillow before we barreled out of
the driveway.
“What do we say if she quizzes us
on the sermon,” asks Dan.
We try to push the pounding aches
in our skulls aside so we can think.
“Maybe we should go get a program
to prove we went,” I say cringing at the slight movement of my head. “Or for
clues.”
In actuality, we should know exactly
what will be said in church. We met in a Catholic K-8, a devout
place of learning and worship, a place where Religion class sat firmly between
Math and Science, and where weekly mass was mandatory on top of whatever our
parents decided to put us through on the “Lord’s Day.” Some of us were allowed
to sleep in on Sundays. Some of us wore the “Christmas and Easter Catholics”
label with pride. Not me. My mom saw missing a blink of the Sunday word as a
crack in the world’s foundation, an erosion of everything sacred and holy and
good. To miss church was a stain on the soul and would not be tolerated. She
seemed saintly on the outside, what with her delicious home-cooked meals and
tidy home, but waking us up that morning was pure evil.
The clock reads 9:50. Church starts
in ten minutes. Plenty of time to go snag a program and slip out without
any remnants of Jesus—words, flesh, or blood—clinging to us. But that would
involve moving.
“We’ll just say Jesus got nailed to
the cross again,” Chris breathes out his cracked mouth. “They realized they
didn’t do it right the first time.”
We want to laugh, we do, it’s funny, but
the fear of pain reduces our joy to sleepy smiles.
“He just keeps coming back from the
dead,” I mutter with my eyes shut. “It’s been 2,000 years and no matter what we
do, Jesus just keeps coming back.”
So we sit. And wait. Time moves,
but barely. Our hangovers are terrible, but life isn’t. We’re alive, relaxing
and waiting for our heads to clear and while we do a few stories sneak in. Some
are legends at this point, and others have yet to be written. Thinking about
both, I can’t help but smile big.
...
Fourth of July over our lake.
The cabin, which rested on the edge
of a good-sized lake in northern Minnesota, was exactly what a cabin should be:
small. It was hugged by split logs of knotty pine stained a reddish-orange that
glowed through the trees with the sunrise. There was a medium slope to its
a-frame and greenish black shingles lay neatly on top, protecting the panels and
beams of more knotty pine inside, which was planed smooth before it all was assembled in ’64. The
entrance split an open room in two, the kitchen’s vinyl flooring on the right
and the living room’s green and blue carpet to the left. Straight ahead was the
sole bathroom, which divided the only two bedrooms. The one facing the lake was
my parent’s and the other, which faced the driveway and road, was my sister’s.
Above the bath and bedrooms was a loft. Its four mattresses slept my brothers,
myself, and any guests we had up for the weekend. The reasons for why we stopped
sleeping there on these summer trips could be summed up in one word: volume. We
could be louder if we slept in a tent and—a point that became more important in
later trips—we could get away with consuming more alcohol.
A fridge in the shed was where my
father and his of-age guests sheltered the weekend’s stash. It was common in
size, the kind of fridge you’d find in every kitchen in America, but this one
stood stocked from top to bottom with booze. Vodka and other hard liquors sat
in the freezer. Below, mixers topped the shelves while rows and rows of beer
provided a sturdy foundation. It was these rows that yielded a perfect visual
effect for the hourly heists.
Beer
operations began during the summer before our Sophomore year in high school.
The key, as is the key to any secret mission, was to leave no trace, to
maintain an appearance that not a single can had been touched. We would
memorize the front row, steal from the back, place the spoils in a bag, restore
the front row, and casually stroll out of the shed all in under a minute. Three
sets of eyes: one to stand watch and two for the take. Every operation was
executed with militarist efficiency and speed and the rush was addicting.
...
"H2Oak", Collegeville, MN.
The
190 proof Everclear was Dan’s contribution. He stole it from his father’s
liquor cabinet and smuggled it north in a plastic water bottle. After we downed
a shot in the twin-room tent, we headed to the fire.
Limp Bizkit's...
Limp Bizkit's...
