Since about 7:30 this morning the phrase "nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians" has been threatening to force its way out of my mouth, but so far I am resisting temptation. I am resolved to avoid using "nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians" to describe where I was this morning, no matter how appropriate the phrase may be. Nothing I encountered this morning will make me say it: not the winding country roads, not the gently rolling hills dotted with ramshackle farmhouses, not the sun shining pinkly on the mirror-like surface of the creek. Not even the road sign advertising "corn roast and computer repair" will induce me to utter the words "nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians," so if those words need to be said, someone else will have to say them.
I was driving through the aforementioned area at the crack of dawn in order to deliver the German kid to the bus that will take him home. Okay, the bus isn't taking him all the way to Germany; that would be a feat defying cliche. I took him to the bus that is taking him to the plane that is taking him home, and this required leaving the house at 5:30 a.m. (yes, another early Sunday wake-up call) and driving him two hours to a vocational school nestled in the you-know-what where we waited for the bus while contemplating the wisdom of a sign advertising "School of Cosmetology Restaurant." What do they do, style your hair while serving dessert? What if they mix up the hair mousse with the other kind? "Two eggs over easy and could you take just a little more off the back?"
Closer inspection revealed that the arrows following the words "School of Cosmetology" and "Restaurant" were pointing in two different directions, suggesting that they might not refer to the same establishment. This was disappointing as I was rather looking forward to seeing a wait staff handle hot rolls and hot rollers at the same time.
But it gave me something to think about besides the sorts of cliches that come to mind while saying goodbye to someone whose socks I've been washing for the past nine months. Everything I could say sounds as if it's been said a million times before: Thanks for the memories. We'll always have Paris. So long and thanks for all the fish. When words fail, I reach into the bag of cliches and pull out whatever comes to hand.
But then who listens to words when heartfelt hugs are on the agenda? In the end I was left standing in an empty parking lot with not so much as a sous chef to curl my mane. But that's what happens when you're nestled in the--Oh never mind.
2 comments:
This is beautiful, Bev! It reminds me of when we took our German girl back to the airport a few years ago. We also had an interesting sign story, though the two events were not simultaneous. In Williamstown, there is a sign advertising Daschound Pups for sale. Well, the Daschound is, of course, a German dog, and Pups in German (pronounced "poops") does not mean baby dog, but, well, flatulance. She couldn't understand why anyone would want to buy such a thing!
In reading this blog entry and the one from Monday back to back, I guess I'm glad that his farewell, cliched as it could have been, wasn't along the same lines as the student's was.
How empty your house must feel tonight. When are you going to Germany to visit with his family?
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