On Aesop, procrastination and 'Carolina in My Mind'
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- October 19, 2024
- 668
There are two distinct and opposing schools of thought when it comes to preparing for a week-long vacation on the Outer Banks.
For guidance, let us refer to Aesop, the noted creator of fables.
Somewhere around 600 BC, he wrote about the grasshopper and the ant. His premise was deceptively simple: while the industrious ant spent his summer months storing food for the upcoming winter, the grasshopper – most often depicted with a fiddle under a wing – enjoyed the weather and entertained other creatures with his music.
Facing the onset of bitter cold and starvation, he pleads with the ant to share a bit of his largesse, so that he might be able to live.
“Making music, were you?” says the ant. “Very well. Now dance!”
The moral of the story – aside from the fact that the ant was nasty and cruel – is that industrious habits are better than artistic ones, that those who prepare for the worst are better suited to survive, that it’s an icy universe and you’re on your own, very vulnerable.
Centuries later, the same message would be adapted to modern times in “The Big Chill” when Nick, wonderfully played by the late William Hurt, mimics Aesop’s nonchalant middle finger:
“Wise up, folks,” he says to his closest college friends, who have gathered to mourn the suicide of one of their inner circle. “We’re all alone out there and tomorrow we’re going out there again.”
Trust me … these are not the kind of thoughts you want occupying your brain when you’re trying to decide if it’s even wise to pack three pairs of shorts (and no thermal underwear) for 10 days in Coastal Carolina when the calendar is hurtling toward Halloween.
All you want to do is enjoy a dozen steamed oysters and a cold one.
My wife – with whom I’ll celebrate 17 years of marriage on Oct. 22 – has been organizing, collating, color-coding and micromanaging her packing process since about Memorial Day.
She’s a model of efficiency, the ant, if you will, in our relationship.
Her lists have appendices, her wardrobe is better thought-out than a walk on the red carpet, and her margin for error can be measured in angstroms. She puts Martha Stewart to shame, I swear to God.
Nearly every time I venture into her office, she’s either confirming a reservation or communicating with a tour guide, some whip-smart dude who is supposed to give us a true Hatteras experience.
There are suitcases, valises, garment bags and totes tidily arranged and, should I ask, she’s more than willing to offer me sage advice.
The problem is that I seldom ask for her assistance.
I’m from the grasshopper wing of the human race, a profligate procrastinator, the kind of guy who once, while in the grip of a rare caffeine binge, jumped into a college roommate’s Audi and rode with him and his wife to South Bend without packing anything more than a carton of Kool Longs and a faded jean jacket.
And this was on New Year’s Eve.
Suffice it to say that it wasn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made.
I remember slouching down in the back seat of a Greyhound bus, one that made approximately 20 stops between Indiana and Ohio, and thinking to myself, “Isn’t this damn ride ever going to end?”
When I got home, there were seismic relationship repercussions.
But as a grasshopper, I understood the rules of the game and bore no ill will toward the woman in my life, who deserved much better.
It’s a lesson that I learned when I was in my mid-20s, one that I’ve taken to heart ever since, and I’m certain that I’m a better man for it.
So tomorrow morning around 9:30 a.m. I’ll have finally finished my packing, leaving me plenty of leeway for our departure at 10ish.
There’s not a whole lot I plan on taking: some folding money, the XM radio, my laptop, my flip phone, two pairs of jeans, some socks and sunglasses, plus my transistor radio and a cooler or two.
It’ll be fantastic to be back on the beach for a week in the oceanfront cottage we’ve rented for the last dozen years or so.
If you’d told me 12 months ago that we’d have moved back home, pulling up stakes after nearly 25 years in Eastern North Carolina, I’d have figured you were playing me for a grasshopper.
But you’d have been right. I mean, every day when I wake up, it still seems very strange to be here once again, this time for good.
Someone please cue up James Taylor’s “Carolina in My Mind”:
“Can’t you just see the sunshine?
Can’t you just feel the moonshine?
And ain’t it just like a friend of mine
To hit me from behind?”
I will savor seeing the sea oats again, bask in the Blue Hour as the sun sets over the dunes and awaken refreshed and ready to prepare breakfast for my lovely wife. I will make the most of every minute, never knowing if this will be the last time I’m ever there.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you find him on Facebook, where journeys and destinations are a way of life.