Pick of the Season

Oh summer vacation and its choice choices! 

Today I spent my morning playing pickleball and my afternoon picking vegetables in my garden. Maybe next I'll pick a movie to see tomorrow.

Rings a Bell

After seeing the trailer yesterday for the latest Mission Impossible movie, Heidi declared that we should watch the previous six before catching the seventh on July 12. Why not? I thought, but as I searched our streaming options, I proposed that we watch number six first, and then work our way backward.

"I don't think we've seen that one," I said, "so there's that."

Heidi agreed, and as we watched the opening scene, I was certain I was right: there was nothing familiar about the primitive cabin Ethan Hunt was holed up in, or the messenger who came to his door. And I undoubtedly did not recall any of the exchanged codewords or the mission description on the reel-to-reel tape which predictably self-destructed in five seconds.

But when, in the next scene, the deal for three orbs full of plutonium went sideways because Hunt would not sacrifice a member of his team, a tiny neuron in the back of my memory fired, and by the time Angela Bassett and Henry Cavill were on screen, I knew we had seen the movie, and I even recalled several vital details about the plot. 

Soon I was recalling a hot summer day, and a third person with us at the theater, but when and who? Conveniently, my movie theater rewards membership keeps a record of all the movies I have seen in their theaters, and it didn't take much to scroll back several years to July 30, 2018, when we saw the movie at noon. Next, I clicked through the archive of this very blog to find that it was Josh who went with us. He was still living in the area, and having a flare-up of his chronic IBS, so we got him to come to stay with us for a week so that we could nurse him back to health.

I think I dozed off not long after that, secure in my refreshed five-year-old memories, but a little bored by the movie whose novelty had been negated.

Been Away Awhile

I struggled to manage my expectations as I slid into my swanky recliner seat in the Dolby-equipped theater. We were there to see the new Indiana Jones movie, but first, of course, there were the trailers. In the next 15 minutes or so we saw Tom Cruise destroy a train that he had built for just that purpose, Captain Marvel and a couple of her colleagues destroy several things, and lots of horror previews, replete with screams and jump scares. Each trailer boomed through the theater, shaking our seats.

"It's soooo loud!" I shouted to Heidi, who was sitting next to me.

"It's the movies, Babe," she answered with a smile and returned her attention to the screen.

Recovery Time

So often I have heard people sigh some variation of, "Oof! I need a vacation from my vacation!" 

I know what they mean: anytime we take an extra day or two during the school year to get away for some fun, coming back, without the downtime that a weekend usually offers, can be brutal. 

I thought about that this morning on our first day home from our recent vacation. As we walked to the farmer's market, the whole day stretched before us-- heck! more like the whole week, if not the whole summer-- and I sure was grateful.

And So It Grows

The clouds were heavy and thunder rumbled as I spun the numbers on the garden gate's lock this afternoon. In the first hours home from a summer vacation there are always a couple of must-dos, pet the cats, open the mail, unpack my part of the travel supplies (downstairs and the kitchen), and check on the garden. 

This time of year, being away is always a thrilling balance between worrying about the well-being of the plants and being eager to see what growth there has been in the time we've been gone. Today was a particularly rewarding check-in: I harvested a quart of green beans, a couple of zucchini and a yellow squash, and 10 cherry tomatoes. In addition, I clipped a pretty bouquet of purple coneflower, orange mini sunflowers, and red zinnia. 

As the first fat drops of the impending thunderstorm began to fall, I hastened to the gate, grateful for both the crops in my hands and the rain that was about to nourish my garden.

Happy Trails

I confess my hopes were not high when we set off from the parking lot of Cacapon Statepark and up some stone steps to the head of the 1.5-mile Ridge Trail, described as a moderate loop by the WVDNR. Maybe I was thinking that last year at this time we were hiking up Gorham Mountain in Acadia National Park, winding up through a balsam wood to granite ledges where we could stop to admire the ocean view. Then we were even lucky enough to snag a few of the earliest blueberries ripening on the low bushes that lined the trail.

But as I set foot on the first sandy steps of this ridge trail, I noticed a few familiar shrubs along the way to the granite step-ups. "These look like blueberries," I said.

"They are blueberries!" Treat replied and turned around to show the little wild blueberry he held in his hand. As we climbed up the rocky ridge, the deciduous trees gave way to pines and the blueberries became more plentiful. We filled an empty bottle while a little stream gurgled below us, and while it wasn't Maine? I sure could not complain.

Who Belongs in a Museum?

To get in the spirit of the upcoming release of the fifth and final Indiana Jones movie we watched Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Last Crusade last night. (Temple of Doom was a definite 'no' for me; I've always found it a disappointing follow-up to Raiders.) 

I saw Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade on the day it opened in 1989. I was in Bristol, VA, visiting a friend of my then partner. The three of us had lunch (meat and three) at Morrison's Cafeteria in the mall and then went to the multiplex, at my insistence. As I recall, the two of them were blasé about the movie, but I loved it.

Even so, as much as I enjoyed that movie, I can't remember the last time I saw the whole thing. I had forgotten that River Phoenix plays a young Indiana Jones in the opening scene and that all of his iconic possessions and experiences, from the whip to the snakes to the scar, fedora, and leather jacket, are explained there, too.

As we watched last night, my brother used the miracle of the internet to deliver interesting information about the production and characters. "Sean Connery was only 12 years older than Harrison Ford," he told us, "much too young to actually be his father."

"How old was Connery when they made the movie, then?" I asked. 

"59," Bill answered.

"That's your age," I pointed out. "You look much better than that."

Old movies can do that to you, though, mess with your mind. There's a disorienting intersection between who you were when you first saw the movie, your memories of your thoughts about the situations, characters, and actors then, and who you are now. 

Because, seriously? 

No way is my little brother old enough to be Indian Jones's father!