(use the Moon River tune)
Sunriver, wider than a mile,
We've sneaked away awhile
Twenty-five years ago - about a month before our wedding. I'm not exactly sure what wild hair overtook us, but my whole family, my almost-husband, and another whole family all took a vacation together twenty-five years ago in Sunriver, Oregon.
We rented a house in the pine trees and scanty vegetation, and I think my man and I took a ride on a tandem bike at some point ... but unlike a lot of other vacations, I can barely remember anything at all from this one. There were other people there. I remember that. I was getting unbelievably tired of other people. I remember that too.
And I remember the fishing. More accurately, I remember them fishing. Their fishing. The other people. Family and friends and a boat I didn't get into. We didn't get into. In order to keep an eye out for other people, we stayed where we could see them, but we headed into the woods, up the slope, and well-camouflaged in the underbrush. And we didn't invite any other people to come with us.
It's funny how, after all this time, just remembering it brings back all the tension and the seemingly permanent sensation of pressing into the moments to try to make them speed up. Go on. Go on. One more month. One more. Can't we fast-forward the tape? Can't we find some way to make this last month - the very last one in the whole long span of all eighteen of them - can't we make it go faster? In a mood like that, it's a relief to find something to do. A thousand wedding details at least seem like doing something. But we weren't even where we could do that - and it's not like we could pay proper attention to much. Except each other. And the continuing problem of all those other people.