The Duration

The measure of a life, after all, is not its duration, but its donation.
Corrie Ten Boom

(a lovely flower in Wright’s Square / Savannah, Ga / Julie Cook / 2014)

As our car pulled up to the hotel valet parking, with my aunt and I both shrieking for joy for having made the 4.5 hour journey in one piece, we noted that the guys who were waiting to help us unload the car, looking a bit like deer in headlights–as in “what in the heck has just pulled up to the curb” sort of fretful look.

It was either due to the fact that two crazy woman were hooting and hollering as they pulled up to the valet desk, or that a small SUV just pulled up with a giant Winston Churchill riding shotgun, or that a year’s worth of bags were staring them in the face, as the car was stuffed to the gills.

In our giddy as well as weary excitement, we explained that half the stuff could just stay in the car as we wouldn’t need it until Friday. They seemed relived.
I kind of think Winston had them a tad intimidated.

They loaded all the luggage, dresses, bags, pillows, picnic baskets, etc on the cart and pushed it in as we lagged behind.
The greeting by the front desk staff was warm and cordial—of course it was, this is still the South you know. Our rooms weren’t ready but no worries, hitting the pavement in search of an antique store or two would be a marvelous diversion in 91 degree heat.

Once the rooms were good to go, we made our way back to the hotel and schlepped our crap up the elevator. My room was facing the oh so busy main Savannah East Bay drag—in a nutshell—loud and raucous. Not being one who can sleep in the best of conditions, we headed back down to the lobby to inquire if there was perhaps a quieter room available, but if not, I’d just suck it up and deal with it.

The young lady behind the desk was as gracious and kind as she could be and actually moved me up 3 more floors–a prime view, still over the busy street but up enough as to muffle some of the sound. Pushing the luggage cart, maneuvering it through doors, in and out of elevators with me pulling and my aunt pushing was a comedy of errors—but we managed to unload, reload, move, and unload again with minimal disaster.

As it appears I have arrived for the duration, it must be noted that not all of that is mine.
My husband is coming down tomorrow night. I went ahead and brought down his bag. The bride asked if I’d bring down her dress for the rehearsal dinner. My aunt’s bag was along for the ride–yet the eyes of those in the lobby who were surveying our cart, spoke volumes. . .”they must be moving in” was the same smug stare from every face.

May it also be noted, you can’t take a wedding on the road and show up with some little over night bag.
Miracles are packed in those bags.
Straightening irons, brushes, makeup, baubles, party clothes, pretty shoes, perfume, the organization manual–aka–cookie’s notebook.

And so now, as I sit alone in this big ol room, sans husband and two cats, wondering what do to with myself. . .I think I’ll count the cars which are zooming past on the street below in order to fall fast asleep, as there are more errands and preparations looming tomorrow. All as the countdown continues.

One car, two motorcycles, three loud pedestrians, four street musicians. . .
(***and just so you know, it is now morning and the passing vehicles throughout the night do not, I repeat, do not make for slumbering assistance–nor the 5 AM constant din of traffic pouring into this major eastern seaport town—ode to puffy eyes)