Read Online Study in Perfect by Sarah Gorham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Gorham
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unplugged the digital clocks. The tarnished mantel clock chimes capriciously. Time to rise when the sun reaches the Swedish painted bed. Time to swim when it soaks the glassed-in porch and the breezeway is thick and still. Time for dinner when âcounter-twilight,â a reflection of the sunset in rust and purple, appears in the east. We sit happily in one minute, two, three, as the earth rotates and colors drain from the sky.
I think of my vacation as a miniature lifespan. During the first wide-eyed days, like the first weeks of a newborn, time is sluggish, even static. The nurturing first breakfastâoatmeal and cream, or pancakes with fresh-picked raspberriesâstretches on forever. We wrap our arms around the kids, around each other. There are long, luxurious hours till lunch. We can bike to the park
and
run to town for batteries. A nap feels like a full nightâs sleep. So lapses Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday. The girls have occupied the roof with cushions and towels, their tanning salon. I nibble at my novel.
Iâve brought with me twoâone is a classic (family requirement), Fitzgeraldâs
Tender Is the Night
. The otherâs contemporary, Paula Foxâs
Poor George
.
George
is tough going for its creepy claustrophobia. Still, I dawdle and sigh over Foxâs tautobservations: âHer feet swelled like muffins through the open spaces of her suede sandals.â Fitzgerald brings the sea into every line: âSimultaneously, the whole party moved toward the water, super-ready from the long, forced inaction, passing from the heat to the cool with the gourmandise of a tingling curry eaten with chilled white wine.â Fox seems brown, clotted, and thick. Fitzgerald is turquoise and swift, but perhaps thatâs because he comes second, later in the trip.
It is a known phenomenon that long periods of time appear to pass more rapidly as people grow older. Thereâs a logical explanation: one day to an eleven-year-old is roughly 1/4,000 of her life, while the same twenty-four hours to a fifty-five-year-old is approximately 1/20,000 of her life. The measure of time itself remains constant. But here, even a preteen notices the hours are striding along at a conspicuous clip. By midvacation, the morning seems not so sumptuous or full. We say itâs because we slept in later. We say the book reads quickly because we are more relaxed, more able to concentrate. But the girls know better, and they are itchy.
So we get serious, determined to cover all the bases, to squeeze in as much fun as possible. Two trips to the drive-in, one on Thursday, and one Monday, to catch both movies but avoid the crowds. Cancel the Farm because the driveâs too long and, really, arenât we too old to be cradling kittens and baby goats? Climb Eagle Tower on the way to Little Sister Beach and pay only one parking fee. And malts, Wilsonâs incredible vanilla malts every night, brought down to the dock to watch the bay swallow the sun, inch by inch.
The Koine Greek word for âbeautifulâ derives from the word,
hÅra
, meaning âhour.â Beauty was thus associated withâbeing of oneâs hour,â as in a perfectly ripe cantaloupe, or a sunset at its absolute peak. Can you imagine freezing this moment, or having it all at onceâa lifetime of sunsets, each slightly unique, layered one on the other, compounded till their beauty, and our experience of it, breaks down? Thank goodness the earth withholds, gives us twenty-four hours to forget, so we return each evening with a relatively fresh pair of eyes. Thank goodness for the gift of finitude, just right for this particular instant.
Alas, the second set of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday seems like an abridged version of the first. One trip to the grocery store for grape juice and the entire afternoon seems to evaporate. Kristin and Bonnie have finished their required reading assignments, and Bonnie is satisfied with her tan.
I think of my vacation as a miniature lifespan. During the first wide-eyed days, like the first weeks of a newborn, time is sluggish, even static. The nurturing first breakfastâoatmeal and cream, or pancakes with fresh-picked raspberriesâstretches on forever. We wrap our arms around the kids, around each other. There are long, luxurious hours till lunch. We can bike to the park
and
run to town for batteries. A nap feels like a full nightâs sleep. So lapses Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday. The girls have occupied the roof with cushions and towels, their tanning salon. I nibble at my novel.
Iâve brought with me twoâone is a classic (family requirement), Fitzgeraldâs
Tender Is the Night
. The otherâs contemporary, Paula Foxâs
Poor George
.
George
is tough going for its creepy claustrophobia. Still, I dawdle and sigh over Foxâs tautobservations: âHer feet swelled like muffins through the open spaces of her suede sandals.â Fitzgerald brings the sea into every line: âSimultaneously, the whole party moved toward the water, super-ready from the long, forced inaction, passing from the heat to the cool with the gourmandise of a tingling curry eaten with chilled white wine.â Fox seems brown, clotted, and thick. Fitzgerald is turquoise and swift, but perhaps thatâs because he comes second, later in the trip.
It is a known phenomenon that long periods of time appear to pass more rapidly as people grow older. Thereâs a logical explanation: one day to an eleven-year-old is roughly 1/4,000 of her life, while the same twenty-four hours to a fifty-five-year-old is approximately 1/20,000 of her life. The measure of time itself remains constant. But here, even a preteen notices the hours are striding along at a conspicuous clip. By midvacation, the morning seems not so sumptuous or full. We say itâs because we slept in later. We say the book reads quickly because we are more relaxed, more able to concentrate. But the girls know better, and they are itchy.
So we get serious, determined to cover all the bases, to squeeze in as much fun as possible. Two trips to the drive-in, one on Thursday, and one Monday, to catch both movies but avoid the crowds. Cancel the Farm because the driveâs too long and, really, arenât we too old to be cradling kittens and baby goats? Climb Eagle Tower on the way to Little Sister Beach and pay only one parking fee. And malts, Wilsonâs incredible vanilla malts every night, brought down to the dock to watch the bay swallow the sun, inch by inch.
The Koine Greek word for âbeautifulâ derives from the word,
hÅra
, meaning âhour.â Beauty was thus associated withâbeing of oneâs hour,â as in a perfectly ripe cantaloupe, or a sunset at its absolute peak. Can you imagine freezing this moment, or having it all at onceâa lifetime of sunsets, each slightly unique, layered one on the other, compounded till their beauty, and our experience of it, breaks down? Thank goodness the earth withholds, gives us twenty-four hours to forget, so we return each evening with a relatively fresh pair of eyes. Thank goodness for the gift of finitude, just right for this particular instant.
Alas, the second set of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday seems like an abridged version of the first. One trip to the grocery store for grape juice and the entire afternoon seems to evaporate. Kristin and Bonnie have finished their required reading assignments, and Bonnie is satisfied with her tan.
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