Earliversary
Daily writing — Day 5
We were going to have our anniversary early, at least that was the plan.
The plan was that we would go to the lodge on the 23rd and head back on the 24th — he has a conference on the 25th that starts at 7am or something crazily early. But first, he had to plant the corn. That meant the field had to dry enough for the guys to work it. That meant we kept checking the weather forecast, hoping for a streak of three sunny days that would not end on the 24th, or that would be his planting day. It happened: three sunny days up until the 23rd. At noon, he texted me “I’ll swing by home after picking up my seeds.”
We were on the road by 5pm. It would take us 2 hours and 34 minutes to get there, according to Ms. Google. We were going to drive past Saint Louis, the Missouri state line, touch the toe of Illinois. I had booked the hotel with one of those romantic getaway packages months ago. I didn’t check the restaurant’s hours. They were going to be closed at 8.
We called and asked what we should do. “You’d better hurry up, we close the door at 8.” That was helpful. The closest place that would have anniversary-quality food would be in St. Louis, an hour from the lodge. We decided that it would be too big a risk to get there, realize they’re closed, drive back to St. Louis, realize everything in St. Louis is now closed, too. Let’s eat in St. Louis, then.
We found a French restaurant. The patio had a lot of dogs, every table seemed to have one. A huge, long haired golden retriever lying wearily, its tail swiped every so often, creating a jumping rope for the chihuahuas. We got a window table inside. The menu was small, printed with black ink on a sheet of plain paper. The wine list was short, listing “Chardonnay” without brands. The price was steep, marked at anniversary expectation. The courses came out slowly. Perfectly baked bread with very salty butter. Ceasar salad dressing that did smell like anchovy. Trout in herbs de Provence. Potato that startled my taste buds the way the first bowl of phở in Hanoi did when I came home after a couple of years in the US, “Oh, I forgot, this is how it tastes.” The anonymous Chardonnay was good enough for my beer-person husband to recognize it was good wine.
We took a stroll around the downtown of Kirkwood. It was on Route 66 (revived by Pixar’s film Cars). It had a Amtrak station. The Amtrak station and a couple of shops were open, high-school-aged teenagers from the nearby Catholic school were out. Kirkwood was strangely awake for a small town in the Midwest at 9pm. I decided that I liked it.
We got to the lodge around 11. The guy behind the counter was sleepy and didn’t want to go look for our champagne and our chocolate and our restaurant voucher. He checked the winery (a little room with bottles of wine), called his boss, checked the basement and found champagne, checked the mailboxes and found chocolate. We collected our romantic getaway package (“Don’t worry about the voucher, we’ll just take it off your meals.”) and headed up to our room.
We went for a hike the next morning. In daylight, the Pere Marquette State Park was impossibly green. Up high was an earth-sized parasol of leaves, each covering a few inches of sky, sprinkling light through their mosaic painting. The trail went up a steep hill to a shed overlooking the Mississippi river. The river was mid-day sleepy, quiet, wearing a maybe-white gown with large patches of green. We took some selfies and headed down.
I love him. I love the way he walks a few feet behind me. I would sprint forward, then turn around looking for him, and he would always smile. It could be a mountain trail. It could be a lake where we are out swimming. It could be a protest. It could be a new job. He’s always there, keeping an eye on me, smiling, encouraging, “Go ahead, try it out, I’m right here.” I sprint forward, fearless. If I fall, he’ll catch me.
We drove into Saint Louis, stopping in Grafton for ice cream. The tiny town was very quiet on a Tuesday afternoon — it woke up mostly on weekend when tourists spilled over from St. Louis. The highway ran parallel to the river. I rolled the window down, folded my legs on the seat, and ate my ice cream. It was never too early to be happy.
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