July 06, 2009

My grandpa says his drill instructor warned them the .45 had a lot of kick for a handgun, so much so that once, after firing, a trainee's hand had spun all the way around so he was pointing the gun behind his back, where he involuntarily squeezed the trigger again, shooting his drill instructor in the leg. Wanting to avoid this at all costs, my grandpa overcompensated and shot mostly at the dirt in front of the target. He never hit the target but he also never hit his drill instructor.

I live a six-hour drive away from my family now and it was a blast to see them this weekend. My brother John Paul and my cousin Phillip are going to Hawaii this weekend to celebrate their respective high school graduations. I made the same grandparents/Hawaii trip with my cousin Patrick six years ago this summer. It was really fun except for when I read through all the books I'd brought and had to be driven to the bookstore to re-up. Patrick is in Afghanistan now, in charge of ninety Marines. We missed him.

I hope you were very drunk this weekend. I hope you ended up near a lake and got double fireworks, the ones in the sky and their reflections. I hope you ate grilled food off a too-small paper plate with an American flag printed on it, and that the plate got soggy as you ate, and I hope the food was cooked by a guy who wouldn't leave his grillside post for anything and made fun of whoever it was that brought veggie burgers. I hope you are returning to work with a sunburn and somehow still a hangover, and I hope that right in the middle of the Venn diagram composed of the miserable the sunburn is making you and the miserable the still-lingering hangover is making you, I hope there is nostalgia for two days ago. That the party's painful echo reminds you of the party and you look back fondly.

My grandpa says after the fiftieth high school reunion, every three years they have a Fifty Plus reunion, and to combat the pronounced unspecialness of being lumped in with a bunch of people you didn't go to school with, his class had been having a get-together at a little bed-and-breakfast there in town the night before the Fifty Plus reunion every three years. It was a nice thing, just them and their spouses. Except now the bed-and-breakfast has shut down, and this year it's just going to be the reunion, lumped in with all those people none of them know, and it's a flight and a rental car and a whole deal just to get there, so he doesn't think he's going to go this year. He just found out some of his classmates have come up with a get-together spot that will hopefully replace the bed-and-breakfast tradition, so part of him thinks maybe he'll go back. But he doesn't know yet.

He went to Humboldt High School in Humboldt, Iowa. His name is Donald Charles Pierson, which is my name too.

Posted by DC at July 6, 2009 06:09 AM

Love this one, DC.

Posted by: Tyler Johnson

You revealed your name. This is like in Scrubs when the janitor finally told J.D. what his was. It all makes sense now.

Posted by: Jerome
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