View From ThE Apple House

Anyone who knows me understands I enjoy storytelling.  It is also understood  I can, from time to time, somewhat embellish the facts, purely for entertainment value.

All of what I am about to tell you, however, is true.  Every single word.   People usually save the best for last, but not me.   This was just too great to leave for the end.

When we arrived at our hotel the Monday afternoon following our wedding, (the same one we stayed at when we realized this thing we had stumbled upon was getting serious), we were already looking forward to launching the boat and taking a quick ride around the river.

The Thousand Islands quickly became our favorite ‘go to’ place when we had some sacred time on our hands – even during the blustery winds of winter, we would hop in the car and take the nearly 3 hour drive to places we loved and enjoyed.   He had been going there since he was born and I quickly followed in his passion for the water and the islands peppering the waters.  Up and down the expanse of the river we would drive, sometimes floating, other times beating a rain shower or making a dinner reservation on time.

Of course, all this driving in both the boat and the car required gasoline, so we invariably would fill up at one of three marinas in the area.   These stations would also serve as the place to buy ice for the coolers I had packed full of cheese & crackers, fruits and nuts, and lunchtime sandwiches if we were so inclined.  Beer, wine, whiskey and ginger ale would round out the list.

The marinas are a haven for part time employment.  Anyone lucky enough to have a family that owned a combination general store and filling station is secured a job every summer for as long as they wanted one.   Sometimes you will find the same teenage boy or girl standing at the pump to fill up the tank, other times a new face will greet you.  All were tan and red faced, an occupational hazard of the weather and the heat.  An outgoing nature and friendliness is a definite plus.

As we sidled up to the dock and he aligned the aft so I could throw the rope to tie us onto the cleats, we watched a young man come bounding out of the office to help us.

“What’ll it be?”  he said with a big smile.  We were probably his first customer all afternoon, all the morning boaters having been out for hours.

“Fill ‘er up, please” my new husband said with an equally big smile back at him.

We both sat down on the back seat of the boat, since we all knew this was going to take a few minutes.

After the young man had pulled the hose around to the gas opening and was pumping the fuel slowing into the old boat, we began to chit chat for a few minutes. He rested his free hand on top of the tank, his eyes parallel with the ticker as the number slowly rolled by.

We learned that he had moved here from Syracuse, because “…my grandma has a place up here, and my family wanted to be closer to her and grandpa.  Also, I was in a high school with a graduating class of 800, and my parents wanted me to be in a smaller school.”   Now a senior when he returned to school in the fall, he was glad they made the move.  His graduating class consisted of 39 students.

He stopped the pump to check the quantity – the tank was half full.

We talked about a few other things, and then he mentioned he had just come back from Boy’s State.

Google says that “….American Legion Boys State is among the most respected and selective educational programs of government instruction for U.S. high school students. A participatory program in which students become part of the operation of local, county and state government, Boys State was founded in 1935 to counter the socialism-inspired Young Pioneer Camps. The program was the idea of two Illinois Legionnaires, Hayes Kennedy and Harold Card, who organized the first Boys State at the Illinois State Fairgrounds in Springfield.”   My son had been to Boy’s State and loved it.

The tank was nearly full, and we had enjoyed talking to him.  He was animated and excited about going back to school, and spoke to us with the right amount of respect and humility for someone his age.  He was friendly but not nosy.  We told him we were on our honeymoon, would probably see him again since we were there for the week.  We were sincerely glad to have met him.

“What’s your name?” my new husband said as he reached out his hand.

The young man grabbed it and shook it firmly, no doubt a technique taught to him by his father, or perhaps, grandpa.  “Kyle.  My name is Kyle.  It was really nice to meet you.”  He flashed his big smile again, and I could tell he meant it.

The week went by much too quickly, as most vacations do.  We were lucky enough to have had terrific weather, with only a slight shower on Thursday morning.  The rest of the time was spent boating, shopping, eating and boating.   We had stopped back to the same marina later in the week, but it had been Kyle’s day off.

Our last event of the week was dinner at the same restaurant he had taken me after he had proposed, and I had said yes.  The TI Club is a beautifully restored high end establishment, with a large veranda in the rear of the building where diners can sit and watch the sunset over the river. The evening was cool and the sun had not yet set, a fitting ending to a wonderful honeymoon.

As we were led to our table, I noticed a family sitting at the table adjacent to ours.  I didn’t pay them much attention, as I was holding the hand of my new husband, blissfully aware this was our special night.

The atmosphere was casual, even though everyone was dressed in their Sunday best.   Children were sitting quietly along side their parents, and I got the feeling this was not their first night being ‘out on the town.’

We ordered our drinks and appetizers, and before long we were having another drink, and then another.   We were laughing and happy, eating and drinking without a care in the world, chatting with our equally friendly waiter, Benjamin.

After a sumptuous dinner, we didn’t think we would have room for dessert, but ordered it anyway.  Hey, we were on our honeymoon.

Suddenly, he picked up a spoon and breathed on it.

“Have you ever hung a spoon from your nose?”  and he attempted to stick it to the end of his.

“Nope” I laughed.  “Never tried it.”

We giggled conspiratorially as he tried several more times without success.  Each time he’d mutter, “damn, how do they do that?”

“How do the kids do it?” he asked out loud.  Looking over his shoulder he saw a young man about 15 years old watching him and laughing.  He had his spoon hanging from his nose.

“Hey, how’d you do that?”  By now, all pretense of manners was out the window – he wanted to hang that damn spoon from his nose, and needed to know the secret.

“Watch” said the boy and he showed him.

Still no luck, but then everyone at the table started laughing.

“Way to go, grandma!” Sitting across from the boy was his grandparents, and obviously his parents next to him.  On his left was his younger sister, not very impressed with the whole ordeal.

Grandma had her spoon hanging from her nose, a big grin across her face.  Covered in pearls and dressed to the nines, she just sat there, smiling as the spoon hung down.

As we started talking to them, my new husband and I looked at each other.  There was something eerily familiar about the boy and his expert spoon skills.

Mom and Dad congratulated us on our wedding, and we talked about how well behaved their children were.

“Thank you!” she said sincerely, as if this is the first time she had been complimented about it.  ” I really love it up here, my parents have had a place here forever.  We are originally from Syracuse, and love it up here, but I didn’t want my son to graduate with a class of 800, so we moved here a few years ago.”

I looked at my husband, and we both realized it at the same time.   “He has a class of 39 now, right?”  She looked at me, confused as to how I would know such a thing.

“I was just waiting for her to finish” he laughed as we both nodded.  “Are you Kyle?” he said laughing to the young man.

“No” he said.  “Kyle’s my brother.”

We all roared.  We explained to them how we had met their wonderful son, how he told us how much he enjoyed going to Boy’s State, and filling in all the pieces of conversation in between.

It was the perfect ending to a wonderful time.  We didn’t want it to end, and so we took a picture to commemorate our meeting.

Complete with Grandma’s spoon, still hanging from her nose.