One steamy Saturday afternoon I packed the kids in the station wagon, waved good bye to Patrick and got on the road at exactly 4 pm along with all the other people driving to the beach. What started as a three hour tour turned into five long hours. Finally seeing seagulls pooping on our window, we put away our individual electronic devices (not, me I always drive with two hands on the wheel!) and started chattering about the holes we’d dig on the beach. That’s when Johnny asked the most dreaded of all questions, ‘Where is blankie?’
‘I packed him.’ I said confidently, ‘in your bag on the floor at your feet.’ He looked down and started to wail piteously. ‘You did pack it,’ Francis clarified, ever happy to enhance his brother’s pain, ‘but Johnny took it out when you went back inside to feed the dogs. He must have left it at home.’ The wailing turned horrifically high pitched.
Channeling Dankia Patrick, I yanked the car across three lanes of traffic and into a screeching halt on the shoulder. Cars whizzed by, as I emptied the entire contents of the station wagon onto the side of the road. Beach toys, umbrellas, chairs, boogie boards, board games, the spare tire – everything - was hurled onto the grass. When I threw open the suitcases, cars started slowing down thinking I was conducting an impromptu trunk sale. I waved them away with one hand while I dug around my suitcase with the other, spilling underwear and copies of People Magazine.
‘We’ll buy a new one when we get to the beach,’ I said brightly as I got back in and started moving. The wailing had turned to sniffles as Johnny paused for a minute and then started the barrage that would never end: ‘It has to be blue, it has to have three stars and two moons, it has to be soft but not too smushy, it has to smell the same, it has to have ripped edges, it has to have the stain in the left corner, it has to….’
Like people on a deserted island who hallucinate about rescue planes, I convinced myself I’d be able to find Blankie’s replacement on Saturday night at 8:30 pm in a store along Ocean Highway. My husband, I mean Francis, cheerily commented, ‘you’ll never find an exact match.’ I asked people along the street, sweat dripping from my brow. They looked at me askance and kept walking. I called an interior designer friend who said there used to be a shop, but it had gone out of business. I called my brother-in-law with a child of similar propensities and was told to give up the ship. Not knowing what else to do, I wheeled in to the nearest candy shop. Plied with sugar and way past bedtime, we arrived at the beach cottage. At midnight they finally nodded off to sleep in front of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Johnny whimpering the whole time. He woke up every hour on the hour to let me know in a sobbing crying puddling mess that Blankie was no where about. At 5:30 am we called Patrick to discuss The Code Red. He put Blankie on the phone who promised Johnny he’d meet us at the beach by 10 am the next morning. 28 hours to go.
I decided to conduct Olympic Games on the beach that day. We ran races, dug deep, built high and flew kites like Chinese children. That night we ate at the boardwalk in front of blaring music and neon lights. We went on rides. We did every possible exhausting thing, but to no avail. We were up all night again holding vigil, staring glassy-eyed at Blankie's cheesy replacement I had purchased on the boardwalk. Francis snored on, completely unperturbed by the shenanigans going on in the house.At 9:55 on the dot a shinny white truck drove up to our front stoop where we had been sitting since dawn. A handsome, smiling man got down and approached us with the Holy Grail in his very hands. Handel’s ‘Messiah’ started playing softly in the background as the man handed the box to my son who stood, mouth agape. ‘Is this Blankie?’ He asked reverently. The man nodded and Johnny hugged the box to his thin chest, eyes shinning. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He sobbed out as he hugged the poor guy. I had to detach Johnny’s skinny arms from the man so we could open the box and celebrate the reunion appropriately (and so the man could get on with his job).
In our family, FedEx will forever be associated with all things good and wonderful. We would have easily spent seven times the charge for to have Blankie join us at the beach. As a matter of fact, Johnny would have robbed his entire piggy bank and traded all futures (a.k.a. Friday allowances) for the moment. Patrick and I are so grateful we are buying stock as soon as we have $43 to purchase a share. We believe everyone should step forward to support this - the most wonderful company in the world! If anyone has any doubts, I would like to refer you to exhibit A below:
'The Reunion'
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