Every once in awhile, though, I'd get nostalgic. It would manifest in different ways - most need no mention - but on a late (we'll call it Tuesday) night, I penned an essay for my Wednesday presentation in Prose Writing. It was more a manifesto than an essay. I wish I still had it. I don't. But the gist of it was this:
I found a tee-shirt at a chainsaw festival in Northern Vermont. It was a plain old thing with simple block writing that said, "You ain't livin' unless you can piss in your front yard."There were other funnier, dirtier, and dumber variations of tee-shirt truisms on sale, but this one had one of those heaven-sent golden rays beaming on it. Why? Well, for context let's rewind a bit...
... to the first day of sophomore year, high school. My roommate was a newbie, a transfer from another school. We had briefly spoken on the phone, but never met in person. A quick reintroduction/introduction was made, and then, like any self-consumed teenager I bolted off to find all the friends I'd missed for three long summer months - and left Gary behind. I don't know what he did with his day, he was pretty shy back then, but I didn't see him. Not until the following morning, actually, at four A.M. I shuffled in bed and noticed Gary across the room, standing in his boxers in front of our window, gazing out at pre-dawn in the North East Kingdom. This was the view - nearest I could find on the Internet - that he was looking at:
Sure, beautiful. Pre-dawn? Kinda weird.
Our friendship grew, and about a month into school we had one of those conversations that usually resides in the history of most great man-panions. The 'I thought you were really strange when I first met you and now we're almost best friends' kind if conversation. While we were talking I brought up the moment. The pre-dawn moment. The moment that still stood between me accepting him as a normal enough dude to qualify for best friend status. He laughed, then said, "I was taking a piss, man."
I went over to the window. Sure enough, a healthy-sized spot of dead, brown grass below. Apparently this hadn't been a onetime occurrence. I was relieved that Gary wasn't a closet nut bag, and equally intrigued by his casual disinterest in modern plumbing. So intrigued, in fact, that the next time my bladder called, instead of heading downstairs to the loo, I whipped open the sill and let loose in the great wide open. Pissed right out the window into the front yard of our dorm house.
Let me tell you, liberation never felt so good.
The patch of dead grass grew beneath our window. It was not as much an adolescent act of defiance as it was an embrace of the rustic freedom the sparsely inhabited yet wondrously beautiful N.E.K. inspired. The opportunity to do what you want without scrutiny from the rest of the world. Even if your neighbor's last name is Jones, they live so far down the dirt road that you don't know what kind of baby stroller or bicycle you're trying to keep up with. No billboards telling you where to eat, sleep, drink, socialize and find your match. All of this space, this rugged, majestic, unadulterated land at your fingertips. Encouraging you to be yourself. To be authentic. To live bold, wild and free.
The characters that inhabited this northern New England community were an eclectic bunch. There was Mike, the poma liftie (lift attendant) at Burke Mountain, who'd spend days off in the summer hiking the trails, probably harvesting his personal stash of homegrown while cutting secret back-country ski runs for the winter ahead. When the snow would fall heavy Mike would disappear for a few days, probably enjoying his personal stash of herb, and definitely poaching his personal stash of powder. Sure, this way of life isn't everyone's ideal. But it was Mike's. And he didn't really give a hoot what city-slickers in their weekend Range Rovers thought of it. This was the way he wanted to live. Then there was George, the retired Type-A lawyer that set to hiking the same mountain, Burke, daily. Over time he logged well over a million vertical feet hiking tirelessly through spring, summer and fall. In the winter he would trade his boots for skis, and in various neon suits, always at fifty-plus mph, rip down the mountain yowling at the top of his lungs at the sheer greatness of, well, life I guess. Just the chance to see the loud-mouthed, madman senior-citizen bombing ski runs in neon was worth the price of a lift ticket.
So, back to college and that duplex I was living in. Every so often, like any practicing Irishman in their youth, I'd wander down to the bar for a pint. On those nights when one pint became more, I would stumble home late in the evening, perhaps singing an Irish fight song or two. My little duplex, with its six by eight patch of mud, and the giant slab of paved parking lot a stone's throw from the 'rural highway' that runs through Durham, would never cease to turn my Irish spirit into something more ornery.
"This isn't livin'," I'd slur to no one in particular. And then, sometimes, for old time's sake and a sense of counterbalance, I'd pee in the yard. Of course, while peeing I'd slur with greater conviction, "This is livin', this is livin'!"...
And then my neighbor's window would fling open:
Cheryl: Hey, shut the fu ... Dude!
Me: Hey Cheryl.
Cheryl: You're peeing in our yard.
Me: I am?
Cherly: Again!
The window slams shut. Pause. I'd gather my surroundings...
Me: So I am. Sorry.
... and make my way inside. I'd scavenge around my room until I found it - my favorite tee-shirt - then conk out with some delusional sense of accomplishment.
For many of us that ever harbored Thoreau-inspired ideals, you get older and your big-city goals instigate compromise. Michelle and I live in Los Angeles. We don't have something that even resembles a yard, and I certainly don't come home and pee on our concrete porch when I'm feeling too cosmopolitan. You settle for getting into nature when you can. When you can't, you attempt to live with the same joie de vivre that you would if you could pee in your front yard. You settle for wearing the tee-shirt, not necessarily in public, and doing your best to let its sentiment guide you.
Michelle and I got engaged up in Lake Tahoe. On that same weekend we pretty much decided we wanted to get married there too. For some people, choosing a general location is probably a nightmare. For us, it was the one if the easiest decisions yet. While the lake certainly has its share of million dollar homes dotting its shore and the surrounding mountains, they hardly trivialize the rugged, natural mystique. Whenever we're there hiking, skiing, floating the river or whatever, not a day goes by that we don't look at each other and go, "this is livin'."
Due to his small bladder and Irish proclivity for a drink or two, I imagine that Gary may be the first to unzip his trousers and find a tree or open patch of grass at our wedding reception. He won't be the only one, that I'm sure of. In fact, it's one of the better reasons that we decided on an outdoorsy, nature wedding. No, not for easy access, but to get our family and friends together for a fresh breath what life is all about. To kick off our shoes; let the cool grass tickle our feet, shiver our spines, and clear our minds. To eat, drink and rock out under a star lit sky. For Michelle and I to celebrate the commitment to adventure life together, and to have that celebration in a place that inspires us to make our adventure bold, wild and free. Yes, to get married and let loose in the great wide open.
