Looks like I’ll get to run my own B&B after all. Always did harbor a fantasy along those lines, perhaps because I’ve watched one too many Hallmark movies in my lifetime. You know the kind. The big-city girl, by fate united with circumstance, tumbles into some tiny town that happens to be rustic yet gorgeous, seaside, of course, and somehow not overrun with entitled tourists. She intends only a brief stay, but if a rugged, ruddy fisherman won’t change her mind, The House will — the rambling, ramshackle house that seems to wait just for her. Pile of bedrooms with old five-panel doors, gargantuan kitchen with creaky wood floor and tall cabinets turned out in peeling paint, and, naturally, a huge wraparound porch missing a few boards and needing three new coats of paint but offering a dreamy view of the bluff and the town’s endangered lighthouse. Upstairs, we have a widow’s walk, upon which our heroine strolls while entertaining the possibilities. She knows what she has to do, and we know how the story ends.
Yeah, I’ll never be that girl. Sigh.
For one thing, I’m already small-town, and somehow I don’t see myself stumbling into another with a pile of big-city scratch to make a long-dormant dream come true. Besides, I can’t see myself getting up THAT early in the morning to put the French-press coffee, pecan pancakes and blueberry buckle on the table before the rooster crows. (But talk to me about that overnight breakfast casserole thingy that sort of makes itself … )
Anyway, can’t buy a B&B, so I’ll do the next best thing: I’ll run a B&B for just one weekend.
This summer, in fact.
The girls, my girls, are coming home.
It’s official. Headquarters for Girls Weekend 2014 will be right here, in my smallish house in my small town, and for this I have that grand old tradition known as the high-school reunion to thank. Yes, friends, somehow it seems my faithful band of comrades and I have been out of high school for 10 whole years now. OK, that’s a lie. 15. Fine, fine, 20. Oh shut up, nose; I can see your length with my own eyes and no benefit of a mirror. Twenty-five how-is-this-possible years actually have expired since we turned our green and gold tassels toward the future.
Our friendship — holy crap — has even outlived our high school, or at least its name. But the best news is 25 years later our very own Group of Six has kept it tight, a fact we take special pride in as we remember a certain teacher declaring this would never happen. (“You girls think you’ll be friends forever, but wait … “) The thoughts after the ellipse were all implied. Wait till you see how life changes you, how it pulls you apart and twist-ties your priorities and lays waste to all your little plans.
Well, yeah, but …
Here’s the lowdown on the G6:
Two of us are still hometown girls, another stayed in state and easily accessible, two more moved on to neighboring states, and the other has a whole new, rather hot life in the high desert. Priorities have certainly changed, but we never denied they would. Pin the changes on children (which half of us have), jobs, other commitments, you know the deal. Challenges and agonies have been plenty — three of us have lost parents, at least two to the C word, and one of us is now herself fighting that incomprehensible uphill battle no one ever wants or expects to fight. So, indeed, life has been equal parts cruel and kind, but is anyone ever promised any different?
Through it all, though, we’ve pretty much kept the faith. Once each year, for at least two nights, is our given. Book-ended holidays and random other get-together days are cherries on top of our contractual commitment to one another.
We operate on a rotating schedule. One year is a travel year, in which we agree on a destination, meet in an airport and take it from there. (Key West, California wine country, you name it … ) The next is a home visit, in which we take over someone’s digs for the weekend. The husbands vacate the premises, and, trust me, they want it that way. This little arrangement has taken us on many great U S of A adventures from New Mexico to Maine, with international in the offing. (Iceland, anyone?) We’ve all been abroad but not necessarily together. Must put that on and cross that off the bucket list.
But, for now, for this year, the fun and games will return to good old Northeastern Pennsylvania, where it all began. I’ve been appointed not only hostess but tour guide and travel agent.
Not gonna lie. I’m pretty stoked. Always wanted to host Girls Weekend but worried old home didn’t have that coveted wow factor. (We’ve come a long way, however; a few good wineries and waterfalls can surely a weekend make.)
So I’m in idea mode now and would love some fresh feedback. If you had five friends joining you early on a Friday through later on a Sunday, where would you take them in Northeastern Pennsylvania? (Saturday night is spoken for — reunion, at the casino, which we have now; who would ever have thought? — but other mornings, noons and nights are wide open.) We have a few suggestions on the table, including a hometown bazaar and a for-old-times’-sake pool party/slumber party starring cheese from a can. Bazaars just don’t do it for me these days, but I’ll endure one for this clan, for whom potato pancakes and pierogies are no longer everyday sights and scents. And the pool party, well, that sure would take us back …
To earlier — dare I say easier? — times. Didn’t really think so back in the big-haired, blue-eye-shadowed mid to late 1980s, when we rocked our white pantyhose at the prom, and Gunne Sax/Jessica McClintock was only bashfully flirting with sexy.
We certainly worked hard back then (in school — double math! — and at our paying jobs: Sunshine Market, Kmart, Fashion House … Yes, we had retail covered. Long live blue-light specials and cleanups in Aisle 12.) And I suppose we played hard, if you consider Friday-night football games followed by mass gatherings at Burger King or Mister Donut playing hard. Biggest worries? Would crushes turn into something more? Would first loves last? Would our No. 1 college want us, or would we have to settle for our safety school? How often should we wash these Sergio Valentes? Wherefore art thou, designer jeans?
But back to impending college … Afterward, would we really ever see each other again? Or was our teacher, perhaps, speaking the truth and giving us fair warning?
That’s the one question we have definitively answered. We crushed that question.
Others remain. Is there still time to have another baby? Is there still time to have a first baby? Was marriage a bad idea? Is marriage a good idea? Where is the stability, anyway, in a mixed-up world where 70 is the new 60 is the new 50 is the new 40 is the new 30, but good luck to you because you’ll need it in “this economy” no matter how much you rock your age? And if social media are any indication, many of our classmates truly do. Some say we haven’t aged a bit, but many of us really are like fine wines. You should check some of these sassy people out.
Plenty scoff at reunions. Who needs them in a Facebook-focused world in which we know everything about everyone? But do we really? Look at this photograph … or look at this Instagram. But don’t credit it for telling the entire story. Because it’s just not up to the job, chum.
Go one better. Look into actual eyes. Go to reunions. Go to weddings. And now that you’re all grown up, indeed go to wakes. Whatever it is, get yourself out there. No excuses. You’re no worse than anyone else, and no better. We’re all in this big old bounce house together.
This summer has put me through it, to be sure, and I kind of wanted to call the whole reunion thing off, but nah. I’m holding my head — and my hopes — high. Come August, I’m going to party like it’s 1989 all over again.
Going to open my doors, too, to treasured old friends. Keep the kinship fires burning. Going to be the best host I possibly can be, even in my little house not overlooking the sea.
Neurotic as I am — Is my place good enough? Stylish enough? Roomy enough? Warm enough? Cool enough? — I’m all about this. I got this.
I’m already making the beds and planning the breakfasts.
~ SJS (AMDG)
by SANDRA SNYDER 