No, we are not talking about an Easter song. Instead, the third day is that time in your family vacation when sometimes everyone is mad with each other, kids with kids, parents with parents, parents with kids–every combination possible. People fighting over the slightest annoyance, like a shovel in the sand–as if it was a matter of life or death, or whether to have lunch at 12:00 or 12:30, or play board game x versus y. Everyone becomes childish, even the children–wait, they are supposed to be children, not knowing about boundaries or the meaning of “no” unless these concepts are explained and enforced. As the arguments come to a slow boil and then erupt, crying people retreat to one of the many rooms in the large house by the beach, only to discover that the person they are arguing with is already there. “It is not raining in Tennessee” says one such combatant, a totally visible attempt to not talk about anything meaningful in order to avoid further stress.
“Yes,” the other person replies in a tone which says, “I really do not want to be dealing with you right now, I would much rather be in Tennessee instead of grey, dismal, wet (location deleted upon orders of the local Chamber of Commerce!). An outcome of this insanity is not being able to decide on anything except the need for tissues. And nobody can think or see clearly anyway, even after a good wipe. If you were to enter one of these “third days” as simply a friend dropping by as a surprise, you would be greeted by a storm of fake hellos and awfully nice behaviors. You would not see any kids around; they would have all been sent to their rooms. Later, the sparring partners stumble toward peace in our times, with hugs and mumbled apologies. But still an awkwardness fills the air, and there is a silent sweeping of the issues under the proverbial rug. Eventually, despite this nonsense, the wine bottle is uncooked, the dinner prepared, and everything returns to normal. It is family after all. Besides, the vacation ends tomorrow.
Very early the morning of the prospective departure, the oldest one of the bunch, who surprisingly had stayed almost completely clear of the vitriol, was able to recall a dream he had that night. With a torrential rain coming down a few feet from his bed, he put his dream to paper. It went like this: A number of squabbling family members were in a car; the aforementioned fellow was not driving. Eventually, he became so irritated with what was going on that he asked the car to be stopped. When it did so, he got out, but to his shock, the driver then left, to continue arguing presumably! He shook his fist in frustration, to no avail. Looking around, he noticed an old jalopy. It had no key and no gas, but he was able to get it to coast into town at the bottom of the hill. He attempted to make a phone call, only to be frustrated by his complete packing job of the night before–his wallet, a few bills and coins, and cell phone were all in his “carry-on,” which was in the departed “family” car.
As the senior member of the family sat stewing outside a little country cafe wondering about what should be his plan, a local resident came over and asked, “you know anything about that car behind the garage—it’s leaking fluid and all the people seem real mad?”
At that point, a loud clap of thunder and the sound of crackling lightning woke the patriarch from his dream. He thought about its meaning: Should he have intervened in the family arguments, risking adding fuel to the existing fire. Should he simply ignore the whole thing under the “this too will pass” theory of life. Or should the elder make sure that he always has his own car?!
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