Sally and Ben were both in high
school—God bless ‘em, they weren’t as rowdy as the children of my other friends—and
I decided I’d treat them to a fun spring break trip. Well, at least “fun” in my
eyes. Sally was in 10th grade and Ben in 11th, so they
weren’t that far apart in school. Sometimes I laughed about Ben’s paired obsessions.
He was one of the best players on the football team and from the gossip I heard
from other mothers, it seemed that all the young women at the school lusted
after him. Yet instead of going on dates on the weekends or treating one lucky
lady to a soda pop, Ben would spend hours in our backyard conducting science
experiments. Secretly, I was proud that I had raised a true nerd at heart. Football
might get him a scholarship to college, but it wouldn’t keep him afloat in the
real world forever. Science, on the other hand, might.
Sally was different, bookish. She
reminded me of myself in the few years that I had been able to attend high
school. Her stack of library books was tall, and she was even inspiring me to
check out a few lower-level reading books from the local library to brush up on
my (almost non-existent) reading skills. Sally and I would read together most
evenings on the couch, and she was often throwing out random historical facts.
She was taking a class on “U.S. Presidents” and I figured I’d combine her interests
with my desire to take the kids to Chicago. There were so many things about the
Windy City that I loved, and I hadn’t been there in God knows how long. I
figured I’d pair my lust for the city with Sally’s lust to visit the hometown
and grave of her self-proclaimed “favorite” president, Abraham Lincoln.
I was tempted to do a cross-country
road trip and really show the kids
what traveling was like but at the last moment I decided to book plane tickets.
A couple days in the car with Sally and Ben and just me sounded like a lot the
more I thought about it. Anyway, on the first Monday for spring break we set
out for Chicago. The Windy City was a blur. It was COLD – it was only March –
and I don’t think I had really packed for the kids enough. They seemed to be
shivering the entire time and I ended up buying more sweaters, beanies, and
scarves than I had planned on purchasing. Damn. My spending money felt like it
was being ripped out of my pocket every day. We rented a cheap, beat-up car and
drove to Springfield early one morning the day before we were set to fly back
to California. The air was cool and crisp, and I could see my breath outside as
well as inside the car. So much for that “fabulous heating system” the car
rental place had jacked up the price for.
We drove to Lincoln’s grave first.
And I’ll admit, I was spooked. Who would come to a grave? Why? What was the
appeal. It was also still early morning and mist hung in the air. I would’ve
opted to stay in the car but I couldn’t very well let Sally wander all over the
place by herself. Ben refused to come, bundled up in his coat and half asleep,
and I didn’t have the energy to wake him and drag him out to this godforsaken
monument. As Sally and I walked towards the
grave, we spotted another woman in the distance. She was bent over the inscription
on Lincoln’s grave, and seemed to be tracing it with her hands. When she
spotted us she bolted upright and made a beeline for my daughter, who was a few
paces ahead of me. I quickly sped up, wondering what this woman wanted with us.
“Have YOU been here before?” She asked eagerly. Too eagerly.
Sally’s face lit up with excitement:
“no, no I haven’t. This is my first time and I can hardly believe my eyes.
Lincoln was my favorite president.”
The woman’s eyes shown with
admiration at my passionate teenage daughter.
“That, my dear, is the best thing I’ve
ever heard.” She introduced herself briefly to me, and before I could even
choke out my last name had linked arms with my only daughter and was strolling
towards the moment, explaining this and that, and, I’m sure, filling her head
with crazy stories that were either complete lies or complete truth. Who knew?
All I knew was that this woman didn’t
seem weird. Maybe she had a personal connection to Lincoln? Maybe she lived
around here. Maybe this was a regular thing she did? Hell, I didn’t even know
maybe she was a goddamn docent or tour guide or whatever they called tour
guides of goddamn cemeteries. I set off at a casual walk behind them, not ready
to be immersed in an in-depth conversation about Lincoln’s grave – I didn’t
really give a shit—but I wasn’t about to let my daughter walk off with some
completely random women.
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