A memorial day.

Second-tiered holiday's were not something that my family celebrated when I was growing up. We labored on Labor Day, Memorial Day, Vetrans Day, ......Secretary Day..... My parent's hobby is hard work.

Its not that I begrudge that fact. Actually, now that I am a parent myself I understand the allure of staying home. Oh, do I understand.....

Friday, at percisesly 2:00 pm my husband called me from work. "Could you pick me up in thirty minutes? Oh and....can you find a hotel and plan the weekend before you come? I want to get out of town."

Normally I would point out that this suggestion was a little last minute, but my husband isn't often spontaneous so I figured I would just roll with it.

The plan was to leave at six-thirty the next morning. This is the part of the story where I become part Buddist and admit that I believe 100% in Karma. You see, if there is anything that I have ever made fun of my parents for, it is their ambitious goals to leave at a certain time that always, most prophetically, end up being HOURS later than "expected."

We left at eight.

Our first matter of vacation business was to drive to Orange Virginia, a spot on the map most people probably don't notice. My desires for the visit were nostogic and intellectual. Almost seven years ago I lived in orange Virginia as a missionary for the LDS church. Orange was the only location in this particular mission that was exclusively "country." I spent the remainder of my mission in cities like Alexandria, and just outside of Arrlington.

Is it weird? I just wanted to see the little duplex that was my home for six sweaty, humid, adventurous months.

Instead we drove on through the town because seven years hadn't helped my inner compass (where did I live?.....) and everyone was stir-crazy. Luckily our real desitnation had historical signs guiding the way.


I have always loved history, but I am a "net-thinker". I cannot remember details unless I have layed down a visible, tactile, memory-filled net to catch details about things. This is the advantage of living on the east coast. History is fossilized everywhere, from small monuments verifing a site of a civil war battle, to entire estates intact from one of our contries founders and presidents. In this case, James Madison's Montpieler.

I was excited. I even clapped-danced my way to the beginning of the tour as I explained to our three-year old where we were. Usually, my mere enthusiasm is kindergarten-cold contangeous. This time (and I should have been prepared from the cliff notes I got in the car-ride there) I was told that, "I just want to go to the hotel and the pool!!!"

Jace was patient but I could see the glimmer of "I told you so" in his eyes. (He had told me and had amended our itinerary from visiting three homes of previous presidents, down to one.)

Our tour guide was fantastic. She scoured the group before we even began and accessed the situation. She looked at the woman with a sour pucker and cross eyebrows and knew that later she would have to bluntly remind the woman that this tour was not going to be a politcal discussion. She spotted the tall well-put together woman and dicerned that her "questions" were going to be excuses to flaunt her own historical prowess, and then, she spotted Belle and knew that if she could just include her in the tour Belle just might behave. So, while leading us through the spectacular home Belle accompanied the tour-guide by holding doors and pushing buttons.

We still ended up skipping out early. We were in the dinneroom and our guide was explaining details about furniture and antiques. Just as she was explaining that a certain vase had been comissioned by Dolly Madison and then sent from France to Montpiler, had survived the war, and all these years in perfect condition, my very own baby reached over to take a closer look.

Barely excaping loosing our fortune before it had even been made, we opted to a self- guided tour of the less-fragile exterior of the home. We were given a demonstartion of early American cooking, strolled through gardens, learned about the restoration process of the home, and finished with lunch on the lawn. All of which was pleasant, but stressful as we wrangled two kids and their questions of "when are going to the hotel and to the pool?"

Our next stop (two hours later) was a small town just outside of Shenendoah National Park. Our object was to visit the Luray Caverns, which are....caves....in Luray. The line to enter the caves wound down the street and was occupied a lot of people from India. I was slightly facinated by this fact, and I couldn't help but spend my time waiting in the line wondering how so many people from India choose to decend upon the small town of Laray Virginia just to see a cave. I also spent my time noticing how well-behaved their children were.

Our decent to the cave was almost missed because it took all twenty minutes of standing in the blazing sun before Belle decided, right before our turn, that she NEEDED to go potty. After the second time of waiting in line, we were finally able to enter.

We had brought along our hiking backpack for Jay, but when he figured out that his crying caused an echo we had to take him out. Jay isn't quite walking so the only option was to carry him. Speaking of which, I sometimes wonder if my child ever attended a game a Quiditch without my knowing, because I am pretty sure he swallowed the golden snitch.



The cave was facinating. Stalagmites and Stalactites rippled, spoked, and even drapped like curtains. Lights illuminated our path, and had I been alone my imagination would have carried me away as if I was in Bilbo Baggins pocket.

My imagination, sadly, is rather malnourshed these days, because I was too preoccupied with a bouncy-baby boy, and a little girl who (JUST WANTED TO GO TO THE HOTEL AND THE POOL) that I didn't have much time to tangle with the relm of pretend.

We emerged from the cave with one thing in mind: We have to feed these kids. I asked the clerk at the hotel for her favorite restraunt in town.

"Well now, that would have to be Uncle Buck's. They got em a good bar and food."

"Is there anything else? Family friendly?" I tried to be polite.

She massaged her gums with her last few teeth. "No hon. The only place here is Uncle Buck's."

It turns out she was lying because two streets down from Uncle Buck's was Uncle Doug's. We still went to Uncle Buck's.

We showed up right after a Memorial weekend rush. The hostess, who was also the waitress, the manager, and the assistant cook, pointed us at a table before hurring off to add up tickets, and clean tables.

I didn't have the nerve to ask for a high-chair, which put everything within reach for not just my three year old, but the one year old as well. Exasperated (and menu-less, drink-less, and starving) I returned to the car for a couple of bannanas to tide everyone over. Two trips later (handwashing and potty for the little lady and a diaper change out on the lawn for the little man) we finally had our food.

We had all ordered steamed shrimp, which had I known I would be de-shelling with a hungry infant on my lap I may not have ordered. Too hungry to be self-concious Jace and I made it a group effort, shelling shrimp as fast, as little mouths (and big mouths) could eat them. Two shrimp to go, the waitress/hostess/assistant to the chef asked if we would like a high chair. I had my hands too full to answer her.

Finally fed we were able to honor Belle's request to go to the "hotel and the pool!" It was, in her eyes, as good as Disney Land. A few beds were jumped on, every closet and door opened, all the complimentry lotions sampled. At long last both kids fell asleep.

Sometimes when I think of sleeping in a bed that a lot of other people have slept in, I get the heeby-jeebies. This time I was just ready to crash, and I did, but nearly got a concusion from the mattress. "So this is what it feels like to put a sheet on cement!" was the last thing I uttered before falling to sleep.

Stiff, but in otherwise good form, we began our next day of adventurous driving the ridge to Shenedoah National Park. Belle was still miffed we had left the hotel, which had me puzzled because every other day of her life she has always been game for outdoor activity.

"Why are we hereeeeeeeeeeee!" She moanted for the forty-five minute drive.

I tried to change everyone's mood about the situation with an animated pep talk.

"We are going to see all kinds of animals, a waterfall, some mountains."

"I want to see a bear."

"Well, we might not see a bear...." I trailed off, as we rounded the corner to a traffic jam of bikers taking pictures of non other than a black bear.

Excited I flipped out the camera gabbed about how lucky we were to see a bear so soon in our trip. 1,000 blurry photo's later, we pulled away and I concluded, "wasn't that neat?"

Belle shrugged. "I want to see a Lion."

And so it went. We saw a deer, a fawn, a snake, a turkey, lots of birds, but no lion. Obviously the day was a failure. Besides, we weren't at the hotel and the pool.

The weekend concluded with a three hour drive home. We were worried about memorial day traffic, but aside from one forty-minute stall we made it home driving the actual posted speed limit. That is, until we were one mile from home.

We were all clapping, excited to be so close to the house when the car started to moan, then shudder, then grind. We puttered into our parking spot, knowing with angonizing surety that our car had just made its last trip.

This thought, as you can well imagine, was not the exact one that I wanted to carry with me into a muggy shut up house that quickly filled itself full of unwashed vacation items and debris from the car.

That same sad thought mingled with other sad, but less important thoughts. The fridge is empty. The kids are tired. I am cranky.

For a moment I wanted to trade our weekend in for a do-ever. Yep. I will take a brand new couch please, instead of that wild and crazy weekend that ended in a huge finiancial dent.
But, then I dug into my safely gaurded bag of values and remembered: I'm a Corbridge/Maughan. Corbridge/Maughans value memories over things!

A wild and crazy weekend with my kids will be remembered and laughed about for ages. A couch--well, a couch will just get post-dinner fingers wiped on them.

And, with that I conclude my recitation about our weekend. It may not have been a "vacation" but it will always stand out in my book as a memorial day.

The end.