The Mystic Chords of Memory

The unqualified lamest thing a Yale law student can do is to spend spring break in the same country as another Yale law student (voting Republican is seen as less lame than immoral). That’s why Kirk Cheney (’09), universal paragon of all things not lame, spent his spring break in the United States, where he was sure none of his classmates would dream of being found during their week of freedom. Indeed, Kirk not only remained in the land where the proud eagle flies, he remained in Connecticut, state where the proud property taxes soar. But a vacation is not a vacation without a vacation, and the Cheneys took an in-state jaunt to the far-famed port town of Mystic, CT.

Why mention all of this when the Cheneys have an able blog of their own? Because we went to Mystic with them. So did the Hustedts. (Lest small minds ascribe a measure of lameness to Kirk for spending his spring break in the same country as me—a fellow law student—it should be recalled that, for the moment, I am a graduate student, so Kirk’s reputation rests secure.) It was an epic adventure, long in the planning, fervent in the anticipation, and glorious in the execution. For several days preceding the trip Julia’s prayers were graced with eager admonitions to the heavens that we were “excited for our vacation.” When the great day finally came, Julia’s morning prayer noted that we were “grateful for Vacation Day,” adding helpfully, “and that’s today.”

And so we were off. Julia and Eli rode up in the Hustedts’ back seat, bringing in their car seats a vaster assembly of crackers and critters than that back seat had ever known before. While the Hustedts were inundated with a steady stream of historical anecdotes and valuable information, Lia and I enjoyed the quietest drive either of us can remember—at least until Katharine awoke and remembered that she was hungry.

At length—about an hour’s length, it transpired—we arrived at our lodgings for the evening, Charley’s Seaside Inne and Cottage (“CSIAC”). Adding extra “e”’s to the names of establishments is all the rage in Mystic, endowing those establishments with a quaint, almost Elizabethan feel—like reading “The Faerie Queene” in real time.

Charley, it transpires, is dead. Our innkeeper was Claude, a lonely and nervous man who gradually warmed to the charisma of our men, the beauty of our women, and the irrepressible vivacity of our children.

More than once, the last-mentioned vivacity nearly left Eli and Julia over the pier and into the sea. But there was no cause for concern because, as Eli assured us, if she fell into the water she would not drown but would turn into a mermaid and because, as Kirk assured us, being rescued from an imminent watery grave is all part of growing up. As a child himself, for instance, Kirk had been pulled out of lakes, oceans, and streams by heroic uncles, cousins, and officers of Greenpeace International on dozens of occasions.

We arrived in Mystic around noon. After a picnic lunch before a frosty wind, we began to party in earnest. Lia, Julia, Eli, and I joined the Cheneys for a visit to the Mystic Aquarium. Katharine joined Josh and Mattie for a scenic walk round historic Mystic. The Aquarium was a hit. Usually home to three beluga whales, Mystic had seven on loan from the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago. So we got to see ten whales, each of which was, as Eli so aptly cited Hamlet, “very like a whale.” Belugas are called the “canaries of the ocean” for the dizzying array of noises they make. Julia and Eli, known in their own parts for both dizziness and noise, found in the whales kindred spirits. Kirk lured the whales close to us with the dissimulation of having food for them. We got a close-up view of some impressive animals. Kirk’s star descended, however, when a park attendant, in response to his question, informed him that blue whales, the largest of the family, are only about sixty feet long. Kirk thought the planet’s largest mammals should be much longer. Happily, Wikipedia assures us that they are: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_whales.

We also saw a sea lion show, featuring Cocoa (22), Surfer (17), and Boomerang (2 ½). Cocoa was a behemoth, dazzling spectators more by the bulk of his 800 lbs. than the agility of his maneuvers. Surfer was the showhorse and made the show worth its price of admission. Boomerang proved no more tractable than the general run of humans his age, but not for that was he less of a crowd favorite. Eli was one of his warmest admirers.

We also saw a steady parade of stingrays, penguins, dolphins, turtles, seals, and fish, fish, fish. It was everything a trip to an aquarium should be.

But Lia came to miss Katharine and it was soon time to go home. Katharine celebrated their reunion by erupting in a heroic blowout. Lia generously handed me the archaeological remnants of this eruption and bade me find an outdoor dumpster in which to dispose of them. I looked all around the premises of CSIAC and found nothing. I looked down the street in one direction and saw nothing. I looked down the street in the other direction and saw nothing. Finally, across the street I noticed that, deep into their property, the establishment of Mystic Glass & Metal, Inc. had a giant dumpster that bore the look of my salvation. The place looked for all the world as though it were closed. Cautiously, I made my way to the dumpster, heaved my charge into its nether bowels, and swiftly stole away. But in my retreat I was intercepted by four, burly-looking blokes, the leader of whom asked, or rather demanded, whether he could help me with something. No, I replied, I had already helped myself to the use of his dumpster, which I hoped was okay. The radiant visages of New England hospitality with which the men greeted this intelligence suggested that it was not. “Just don’t make a habit of it,” groused the leader. He then grumbled a half-inquiry, half-execration about whether or not Claude had given us a trash can. I indicated that he had, but that I had preferred, on this occasion, the advantage of an outdoor receptacle. The reasons for this preference were of a sensitive nature, and on this topic I kept my own counsel. At an opportune moment, I fled, while the men made their way toward the dumpster, presumably to discover what treasures I had left there. I was happy to be absent when they found out.

For dinner various hands contributed to making a series of pizzas from scratch (though the dough was admittedly pre-purchased). Kirk and I did our part by trying in vain to keep our offspring out of the fireplace and away from the piano. We all serve humanity in our various ways, some by conferring benefits, others by refraining from harm. In the culinary realm, I join the latter group by staying out of the kitchen; the former group is denied me. The pizza was good; if Kirk and I had helped, it might not have been.

After all the kids were safely abed we waxed really adventurous by braving the frigid night air to take advantage of CSIAC’s outdoor hot tub. After that we played “True Colors,” in which I scored a narrow victory over Lia. I have the distinct advantage in this game of being able confidently to predict that I will always get the most votes in response to questions on the order of, “Who is the biggest nerd?” and the fewest votes in response to questions on the order of, “Who is most likely to embark on such-and-such an adventure?” But a win is a win, and a narrow win over Lia is only so much sweet revenge against the memory of all her haughty victor’s stretches after each installment of a lifetime of thrashings in “Set” and “Pente.”

We then went to bed, glutted with the heady satisfactions of warm friendship, lively conversation, and an abundance of artery-clogging artifacts from the factories of Little Debbie. Mattie additionally furnished a generous supply of black jelly beans, for which she happens to be one of the seven living mortals who have a taste. She kindly offered to share; all declined.

The night was a long one. Katharine woke up hungry about midnight. Because her hands were cold, Lia ushered her into our bed for the rest of the night. This was a source of joy to Katharine, insomnia to her parents. Morning finally came as the merciful conclusion to a wretched night. Julia and Eli, who slept like angels, were merrily reunited with Carter, and the terrible trio gleefully romped round and over and atop of Josh and Mattie, who had theretofore been sleeping on a mattress on the floor. When all were finally roused to join in the general cheer we had breakfast, which pre-announced itself in the sizzles and smells of bacon and crepes and breakfast casserole. It was all delicious. We added the satiety of morning to the gluttony of the previous eve. It was all that a vacation should be.

We then went for a walk along the old port and saw the elegant nineteenth-century mansions of its ancient proprietors. We hoped to meet up for ice cream at one of Mystic’s quaint ice cream shops, but all were closed. (The previous day we had seen and taken pictures—at least the Cheneys took pictures—in front of the pizza joint around which the drama of a Julia Roberts movie I have not seen is said to unfold.) So we went home.

On the way, we stopped to see the U.S. Nautilus, the nation’s first nuclear submarine, now a ship-cum-museum. This may have been cooler than anything we saw in Mystic, with the possible exception of the whales. The girls had not been at their most endearing and obedient during our final hours in Mystic—and I had not, therefore, been animated by my native good cheer—so this proved a happifying coda to our trip. And we even ran unexpectedly into the Hustedts on our way out.

After that too-lengthy summary of our one-day vacation, we review in rapid fashion the events of the rest of the week:

On Friday Lia went to the keynote address of a conference on the teaching of classical languages through history. She learned about French girls learning Latin in the latter decades of the nineteenth century.

Also on Friday, I got the stomach flu and vomited more violently than at any time since before my mission. Almost everyone else in the family—Eli remains a holdout—contracted the bug in short order (happily without the vomiting) and as a result we all missed Church today. The ward, particularly the primary and the nursery, surely seemed quiet without us.

On Saturday, desperate for some fresh air, we went outside and Lia, Julia, and Eli planted peas and carrots in the strip around our porch while Katharine and I conversed about the cosmos. Eli apparently thinks that a gardener plants carrots the way a vintner treads grapes. We hope our humble harvest survives the eagerness of her agricultural dance.

Also on Saturday, Eli climbed into bed with me while I was reading. As punishment, I tickled her mercilessly. When she called out for respite, I imposed a Carthaginian peace, under whose terms she and I were to go to the living room to read a story together. “Climb on down,” I said, as I helped her onto the floor. “No!” she remonstrated. “It’s ‘Climb OFF down.’” It would seem that pedantry loves company.

Actually, Julia has shown signs lately of a burgeoning lexical tolerance. Mistaking the exclamation “Blast!” on the movie “Little Women” for the non-grammatical “Plast!,” and mistaking the latter for an etymological cousin of “plastic,” Julia cried out “Plast!” in the kitchen the other day when Lia pulled out a roll of plastic wrap. She then explained to Lia, “That’s what they say on ‘Little Women.’ We say ‘plastic’ instead. But that’s okay,” she concluded with that grand sweep of tolerance so typical of good New Englanders, “people have different ways of saying things.” Indeed they do. And it is to this general principle that I appeal in defense of the several pages I have just spent chronicling what may have merited, by generous standards, four or five sentences.