One from the archives…

My fourth year in college was a particularly carefree time in my life. Despite facing some major life changes on the horizon, I was footloose and fancy-free. And so were my friends. Ours was a slightly unusual posse. I was the lone (unattached) girl in a group of eight guys. Eugene, Michael, Brad, Derek, Milk, Fister, Craig, Tim — and Kristy. I got stares everywhere I went. Of course, I got nothing else. We were good kids with good heads on our shoulders, and a lot of energy to burn off. Middle-of-the-night dashes to camp grounds, stupid drinking games, spontaneous road trips, and a lot of silliness were the standard weekend agenda items. We had no worries, other than footing the bill for beer and gas. Your basic college-kid lifestyle.

At the end of our fourth year, just after exams and just before graduation, we all set off on the ultimate college trip: Beach Week. Except, we were terribly poor and couldn’t afford to get to any place exotic. The destination? My home — a mere six miles away from the beach. My saintly parents were willing to leave the house and allow their daughter and eight guys to shack up for the week. I can only wonder what the neighbors were thinking.

One night during that week a group of us decided that the homefront was a little too staid, and ventured out to the beach. A designated driver drove us there and dropped us off. After some, ahem, swimming, we decided it was time to get home. A quick stop at a bar to grab a couple “for the road” later, we pondered just exactly how we would be getting home. My friends thought nothing of the six mile trek back to the house. I myself was thinking reasonably — I pitched my thumb out at the next car that passed. The guys were horrified when the car actually pulled over. “We can’t hitchhike. It’s not safe,” they said. (And swimming while intoxicated is at the top of the list of safe things to do.) I peered in the back of the car and saw an empty child’s safety seat. “This guy has a kid. He’s fine. Get in the car.” We all piled in. Six of us, plus the driver, in a Toyota Tercel. Thankfully, the driver put the child’s seat in the trunk.

Our driver was a twenty-three year old father of one, married for two years, and in the Navy. This much we learned on the six mile drive back to our house. He was only a few calendar years older than us, but he was ages beyond us in terms of life responsibilities. Married. Child. Employed. At the end of our ride, we thanked him, and then half-heartedly invited him in for a beer. He accepted. Yikes.

I now must interrupt the flow of this story for a little description of the house into which he’d just been invited. My mom is one to pick up something in an antique store, bring it home, and find just the right place for it in her house. And there it will remain until the house is sold. Make no mistake about it, the house is tastefully decorated, and impeccably clean. It’s just full of stuff. Unique stuff. The stuff conversations are made of.

So, into this home our gentleman driver came. We settled into the kitchen, popped open another round of beer, and began the uncomfortable dance of conversing with someone you don’t know at all and aren’t particularly sure about. Little did we know we were about to get a profound lesson in life.

Our gentleman driver was a social guy. I think he was getting a kick out of the little adventure we’d heaped upon him, and he was enjoying his audience. We sat there as he told story after story of his life. Married. Child. Employed. Eons beyond our comprehension. I think he was enjoying, too, a little carefree tryst of his own as he stood amongst a group of kids so far removed from any of the responsibilities that kept him awake at night. He wanted to impress upon us just how different his life was from ours. “You wake up in the morning. Every morning. The kid’s crying, the dog’s barking, the wife’s nagging. Nothing is simple. Nothing is recognizable. You say to yourself ‘Just when did all of this happen? Just how’…” He paused. He looked around. Up above him, hanging from a rack in the ceiling, was his inspiration to continue. “‘Just how did I get a wicker chicken in my kitchen??!!’”

We erupted in peals of laughter. Up above us, amongst the many things my mother had collected, was a wicker basket in the shape of a chicken. Instantly, we had the symbol for married, responsible life: a wicker chicken. We had been made privy to one of life’s major lessons: having a wicker chicken meant you were all grown up.

For years later, we all fondly remembered our gentleman driver and the wicker chicken. We all joked about wicker chickens as each of us gained respectable employment, married off, and began having kids. Many a wedding toast included odd references to the famed bird.

Tim and I were among the last in the group to get married. Yes, as it turns out, the odds eventually favored me and one of the boys in the group decided he liked me more than a friend. Of course we got more than our fair share of wicker chicken references at our wedding.

We went to Spain for our honeymoon. We chose a few small towns in southern Spain and spent a few days in each. Lazy days. Blissful days. One afternoon, while walking down the street in Ubeda, my husband stopped cold.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

“What?”, I asked.

He was speechless. He raised his arm and simply pointed. I turned and followed his gaze. There stood before us a large plate glass window full of wicker chickens. Full of wicker chickens. Basket after basket of woven wicker chickens. Big ones. Little ones. Medium sized ones. The motherload of wicker chickens. As if sent from above.

We went inside and selected our wicker chicken. We were married and all grown up.

Years later, my mother gifted the original wicker chicken to us. She doesn’t know much about all that went on that week at her house outside of her presence, and she doesn’t even know the entire story of our gentleman driver, but she does know that wicker chicken means a lot to us. So, she gave it to me. Now, the Original wicker chicken and the Spanish wicker chicken sit side by side in my kitchen. They clash horribly with the decor in my kitchen, but they’ll never lose their place of honor. Married. Kids. Employed. I’m happy to be all growed up. Happy.

Thanks, Gentleman Driver. And if you ever see my son or daughter trying to hitch a ride, stop and tell them to call their mom. It’s not safe to hitchike.