We drove straight through a thunderstorm, because of course that's the weather when careening down curvy mountain roads. Some lady we had to pick up along the way fills our ears about how long it has been since she got to see everyone. We overhear a couple of phone calls to her husband, who is trying to sell their other home on the other side of the state. She's concerned about something with the awning and siding on that other house. Prior to all this, she was gnawing on some super crunchy chips with her mouth open. She's lived here her entire life, and knows where this place is we're trying to navigate through the storm.
I'm annoyed, because I am the one driving through the mess. The one scenario I despise the most is slowly taking shape - driving in the dark while it's raining. I'm sure I am pissing off some of the locals driving behind us, as I'm trudging through the storm a couple miles below the speed limit. They'll get over it. I tighten my grip on the wheel a little bit more as rain pounds against windows and small sticks and debris fly out into the road.
The lady in the backseat said she knew where the cabin was, our destination, but still went ahead and called one of the folks already there. She put him on speakerphone, where we could vaguely make out his directions thanks to choppy, fading reception. GPS is useless to us now. He recites directions like he is from the country, using descriptions and landmarks instead of street names and rights or lefts. "Now when you get down that last winding hill there instead of going over where you're used to you're gonna take it right on through that gravel road past the wooden gate and..." I knew it was going to be somewhat in the middle of nowhere, but I didn't think it was literally nowhere.
Once we mercifully reach the cabin, we're greeted in the driveway by an older fellow wearing a pink bandana on his head. I assume he's going through chemo, but I don't ask. He sounds like the guy that gave us directions. He helps the lady with her bags - we didn't bring any - and the four of us march into a garage that's being used more for storage than anything. A stairwell takes us up two levels to an enormous living room and kitchen space, where there are seven other people, milling around snacking and drinking and chatting. A few are outside smoking, huddled underneath a tiny awning until the rain eventually stops. The lady we took along for the ride has been hugging each and every one of the cabin folk as I place my beers in the fridge while my friend ventures outside to join the smokers. I take a beer and head outside not long after.
Those at the cabin before we arrived had recently attended a memorial service for one of their old friends. Not the best moment to meet and greet others, but they all seem in pretty good spirits. Outside, the downpour we drove through is now just a light, fading trickle, soon to clear up and bring fog over the mountains. A few of us are chatting, sipping on beers, and everyone but me has a cigarette in their hand. Tony, one of the people here who we actually know, is somewhat frail and keen on smoking Newports and sipping cans of Coors Light just about every time we see him. He's very grateful we made the trip out, and seems somewhat relieved the festivities are over. I guess he had to play a song at the service - an actual request from his recently deceased friend - and Tony felt he somehow botched the whole thing. We reassure him it was fine, and at least he had the gumption to get on stage and do it. Not that he's unfamiliar with stages.
Tony, like everyone else at this cabin, is involved in some capacity with the performing arts scene. Most of them met at a particular summer stage theatre years ago, and have remained lifelong friends since. The shows they were in then don't really matter anymore, but the memories are still there, occasionally regaling moments when X character had to say this to Y character but it didn't come out the way it should have, or Z character having to play an instrument that she wasn't really good at but butchered through the song anyway. Their performances were so long ago, but the memories stayed fresh, as if they just wrapped up a show earlier in the evening.
I'm annoyed, because I am the one driving through the mess. The one scenario I despise the most is slowly taking shape - driving in the dark while it's raining. I'm sure I am pissing off some of the locals driving behind us, as I'm trudging through the storm a couple miles below the speed limit. They'll get over it. I tighten my grip on the wheel a little bit more as rain pounds against windows and small sticks and debris fly out into the road.
The lady in the backseat said she knew where the cabin was, our destination, but still went ahead and called one of the folks already there. She put him on speakerphone, where we could vaguely make out his directions thanks to choppy, fading reception. GPS is useless to us now. He recites directions like he is from the country, using descriptions and landmarks instead of street names and rights or lefts. "Now when you get down that last winding hill there instead of going over where you're used to you're gonna take it right on through that gravel road past the wooden gate and..." I knew it was going to be somewhat in the middle of nowhere, but I didn't think it was literally nowhere.
Once we mercifully reach the cabin, we're greeted in the driveway by an older fellow wearing a pink bandana on his head. I assume he's going through chemo, but I don't ask. He sounds like the guy that gave us directions. He helps the lady with her bags - we didn't bring any - and the four of us march into a garage that's being used more for storage than anything. A stairwell takes us up two levels to an enormous living room and kitchen space, where there are seven other people, milling around snacking and drinking and chatting. A few are outside smoking, huddled underneath a tiny awning until the rain eventually stops. The lady we took along for the ride has been hugging each and every one of the cabin folk as I place my beers in the fridge while my friend ventures outside to join the smokers. I take a beer and head outside not long after.
Those at the cabin before we arrived had recently attended a memorial service for one of their old friends. Not the best moment to meet and greet others, but they all seem in pretty good spirits. Outside, the downpour we drove through is now just a light, fading trickle, soon to clear up and bring fog over the mountains. A few of us are chatting, sipping on beers, and everyone but me has a cigarette in their hand. Tony, one of the people here who we actually know, is somewhat frail and keen on smoking Newports and sipping cans of Coors Light just about every time we see him. He's very grateful we made the trip out, and seems somewhat relieved the festivities are over. I guess he had to play a song at the service - an actual request from his recently deceased friend - and Tony felt he somehow botched the whole thing. We reassure him it was fine, and at least he had the gumption to get on stage and do it. Not that he's unfamiliar with stages.
Tony, like everyone else at this cabin, is involved in some capacity with the performing arts scene. Most of them met at a particular summer stage theatre years ago, and have remained lifelong friends since. The shows they were in then don't really matter anymore, but the memories are still there, occasionally regaling moments when X character had to say this to Y character but it didn't come out the way it should have, or Z character having to play an instrument that she wasn't really good at but butchered through the song anyway. Their performances were so long ago, but the memories stayed fresh, as if they just wrapped up a show earlier in the evening.
I spent most of the evening just listening to the stories of everyone around me, getting a slight buzz from my beers. The mood was jovial, which struck me as odd, considering they all came from a memorial service. Yet there wasn't a single person dressed in the typical black, mourning regalia, not a single person in a frumpy mess of tears over their lost friend, or just the typical wretched pain that comes with losing a loved one. This cast of friends were...just fine. Laughing, joking, reminiscing, telling stories about old theatre days and other life happenings. They were enjoying this moment, this reuniting of souls passionate for similar things. Things that might not be attainable anymore. Most have been aged out of stage roles, maybe some are too arthritic to sway and dance and move like they used to on stage, wowing audiences to thunderous applause. But they were all here, all making the trek up rainy slopes of hills just like I did. Making that trek from all walks of life, a few distant cities, and stocking the table and fridge with all sorts of snacks and drinks for everyone to share.
Toward the end of the night, Tony was tinkering around with a laptop, trying to hook it up to a television screen. It was a power point montage of Ricky, their recently deceased friend. Ricky passed away a few months ago en route from Philadelphia to someplace upstate New York, where I'm from. Once Tony finally gets the setup to work, we all gather around the television to watch. I never met this Ricky fellow, but there he was, captured in moments a few decades ago, hugging, moving, dancing with younger versions of those around me. He looked like a fun fellow. Full figured, big hands, and I guess could strum a banjo like nobody's ever heard. Ricky's friends here are laughing at some pics, talking about them, pointing out little details like they're going through their yearbooks. The memories they created with Ricky were theirs and their alone - and in this moment, this was their true memorial service to him.