(Home) Sweet Home (Alabama)

The trip from LaGuardia to Huntsville required two stops and one plane change. We were an hour late even leaving New York. In Raleigh-Durham, I didn’t even leave the plane. In Charlotte, I had to wait for more about two hours for my next flight, so I found my way to the bar and checked my flight status using my iPod and the abundant wireless signal. I was going to be an hour late into Huntsville. Thankfully, Art-History was there to greet me upon my arrival, accompanied by Ma and NoHips, with a beer for the ride home. We had only an hour before BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler arrived, so that was just enough time to have a drink at the homestead before heading back to the airport. Yes, it was going to be that kind of week.

Art-History and I prepared a bottle of champagne for the ride back to the airport. Once we had gathered all three brothers together for the first time in eighteen months, we hit the road and promptly popped the champagne cork out of the sunroof. NoHips was happy to drive sans bubbly, but the rest of us managed a glass each before we got home. Ma was waiting on the front porch when we drove up.

The remaining time that evening progressed much like the following seven days. To paraphrase Spike Milligan, we all drank. We drank again. Then, several more agains, then a series of agains followed by one long permanent again.

The next several days would see the whole family leaving the house as little as possible. Mostly, we only left to restock our food and drink supplies. We didn’t have much cause to venture into the (relative) cold of the outside world when the primary purpose of our stay was to chat with each other, catch up on the time we’d spent apart, and lubricate our conversations with a copious amount of liquor.

That’s not to say we didn’t have other activities. We also ate like kings. Christmas Eve dinner was a fantastic lamb shank which, in addition to being delicious, caused us to say “shank” many times, as it is a most amusing word. Christmas morning was the usual smoked salmon and champagne, though SignificantTraveler was reticent to try the salmon due to its fishiness. She bravely downed a morsel, completing her family initiation, and opted for more champagne. Christmas dinner was Cornish hens as per our family tradition. It was agreed that the hens this year were of a superior quality.

The day after Christmas was a little gathering of twenty or so people, mostly associated with UAH, who were filling in as my parents’ new best friends. Most of them turned out to be very nice people, and some of them I had even met during my previous visits to Huntsville. As the evening drew to a close, BrynJoe and I revived the tradition of Christmas carols followed by boisterous singing of songs that have nothing to do with Christmas. Despite NoHips’ worries that it would not be a “singing crowd,” the guests were happy to belt out everything from “Silent Night” to “Hey Jude.” Our encore piece, “Sweet Home Alabama,” was strangely well received.

The neighbors, a couple who share their names with my Father and Oma respectively, insisted that we all come to their house the following evening for dinner. Art-History was unfortunately not going to be in attendance, since he was leaving that morning for a rendezvous with his better half. The rest of us agreed readily.

That evening was attended mostly by people from the neighborhood, all of whom were people that we’d met before. This meant that there was less need to spend time getting to know people and more time to get really good and drunk together. Our host was eager to have me play his Napoleonic-era piano and I was happy to oblige. This was a beautiful instrument. Even the fantastic amount of wine I had consumed to this point could not dull the thrill of resting my fingers on ivory keys that predated the Andrew Jackson presidency. The piano was manufactured with “English action,” rather than the modern “French action” to the keys, so the ability to play multiple keystrokes in quick succession was diminished, but the nearly 200-year old soundboard had lost none of its potency. I felt like I should be playing Bach and Beethoven on such an instrument, but one can’t really sing along to the Sonata Pathétique. I took requests instead. I played Andrew Lloyd Webber.

As this party was winding down, one of the guests declared that he had the less-than-desirable fortune of having to entertain future inlaws the following evening and that we should all crash said gathering since these particular inlaws had the habit of being “pretentious bullshitters.” BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler, both consummate bullshitters in their own right (and thus masterfully well-suited for each other!), were leaving the following morning for Graceland, so there was no chance of their attending, but Ma, NoHips and I assented.

So it was that yesterday, as the sole remaining brother in the state of Alabama, I found myself at someone else’s engagement party, charming the bejesus out of the God-fearing folk of the Bible Belt. I still haven’t gotten tired of the astonished look that appears on people’s faces as I sequentially inform them of my profession. “High school science teacher” earns a smile of appreciation. “…at a public school” earns a raised brow of impressed admiration. “…in New York City” causes the listener’s face to dissolve into an astonished expression of shock, pity, respectful awe, and a confused reassessment of my physical and mental toughness that is normally only given to the infantrymen of Iraq or the aid workers of Darfur.

After gleefully knocking the collective socks off of anyone I could corner into conversation, we retired home where I was faced with the unhappy task of cheering for the Giants as they snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Cheering for the Giants over the Patriots is sort of like hoping that Stalin beats Hitler. You’re not exactly sure you want them to win, but figure it’d be better than if the other guy did. You can stop gloating now, BrownSox.

So I’m currently sitting at what I’m pretty sure is the only damn electric outlet in all of Charlotte’s airport, waiting for my flight back to LaGuardia, which has been delayed by exactly 70 minutes that remain opaque to all but the shifty Useless Airways employees. I’ve had time to write all this and I still won’t board for another hour. Oh, and due to a nonsensical North Carolina law, the airport bars won’t be serving alcohol until noon. The good news is that I haven’t got the shakes or anything, so apparently a week of nonstop boozing isn’t enough to turn me into more of a raging alcoholic than I already am. After this week, New Year’s Eve is going to be tame.