Remember To Be Surprised

"She was up a tree with confetti to the hurricane
Vocal cords ringing, a machete to the sugar cane"
 - Confetti To The Hurricane, by The Deer 



Sunday afternoon found me taking a drive home down a road I'd been down dozens of times, though not in many years. The thing I always remembered about highway 2222 is the hill: as a child, it was a Great Hill, incredibly steep and long. I would marvel at my Mom's bravery as she drove us up and down that precipice on our way to and from Grandma's house while we listened to hour upon hour of "Adventures in Odyssey". From the backseat of her car, I'd gaze outside as we flashed past the trees going down, or climbed steadily up. I was ever so curious to see if the hill was anything like I remembered.

As usual with these types of things, it both was and wasn't. The hill wasn't as steep or tall as it had seemed when I was a child. Yet in other ways, it was just as impressive. Rolling hills covered in trees spread out on either side, just as I recalled. Coasting along at the bottom of the hill, sights I had forgotten came into focus: the large apartment complex set on the very edge of a hill which always looked so impressive to me as a child, almost castle-like, and which I admitted still had an impressive quality all those years later. Other large homes sat precariously, it seemed, on the edge, ones which would likely strike me mute over the cost. There were a few new shopping centers along the way, yet not many. The place as still gratefully green. Unlike the "Big Yellow Taxi" song, they hadn't put all the trees in a tree museum yet.

I came to the intersection of 360, and even more memories flooded back. Of swimming along Bull Creek. Of hiking to the overlook for the 360 bridge. Of the handful of weekends spent petsitting for a coworker who lived in that area, taking care of her two dogs and home while she and her husband traveled. It was while staying in their home that I received news of my Grandma's death, packing up all my things and leaving to go pick up my sister from college for the funeral that weekend. It was there I felt giddy in love with a boy who later broke my heart, and next time I was there, where two friends came to stay a night and be a kind distraction. I confessed to one of those friends that while staying there, I liked to take night walks alone occasionally. Years later, she reminded me of this fact, surprising me with how she had remembered while I had all but forgotten.

The road climbed upwards again, and I recalled the winding road which offered views of lake Austin, though only caught in brave snatches when the trees cleared. Once again, I was comforted by how little it had changed, how many trees still remained along the road I'd memorized as a child.

There's a grace to memories: how some can be so sharp and painful, making us physically wince and wish earnestly to forget, alongside the healing balm of the gentle ones, the sweet ones which come unexpectedly, triggered by any of our senses. The smell of the countryside after a heavy rain. The feel of rolling out dough for bread or pie crust. The sound of my Dad doing woodworking in his shop, or my Mom playing the piano and singing. The taste of a cherry tomato, fresh from the vine and warm from the sun. The sight of each of my siblings an hour after they were born, impossibly small and perfect.

I plan to make the drive again soon. Maybe I'll cross the 360 bridge or stop at Bull Creek. In any case, I'll see what else I remember, remembering all the while to simply be surprised.