GETTING THE DRIFT

There was a movie in which the narrator (and I presume the writer) had a thing for floating plastic bags---grocery ones and 7-11 ones and any other kind, just so they would loft on the wind, swell like frog-bellies, and float across his vision.  He considered  it a  new art form, and liked it above all others.

I kinda think that anything floatily airborne is beautiful---the baloony, wafty part, floating over the housetops,

but then, like fading flowers that droop and curl or stand naked of petals amongst the beautiful new blooms, there’s that drifty mess that scurries down streets like a haunty glimpse of SOYLENT GREEN.   Or the blow across a shorn field, catching on the fodder-nubs or ending up against fences and hedges and trees---the hazards to wildlife are phenomenal.

Sometimes trees close to mini-marts and quik-pik places and red-lights take on the look of a rolled frat house on Homecoming weekend, or a buncha leftover cul-de-sac tree-ghosts along about Thanksgiving.   

And for some arcanely unreasonable reason, plastic bags were for an evening some of the most coveted toys in the house. The Grands last week were all past the children-under-three caveat, and somehow our three youngest caught on to holding plain old Ziploc quart-size ones mouth-open to the fan, and were just struck by the hilarity of all the noisy rustles and flaps.   And an escapee, flooting to the ceiling like a cumbersome balloon---that would send the whole tribe into such giggles that they ALL lost their grip on the things, and multiplied the fun.

THEN, they rooted through the recycle bin for those big ones with handles from the bookstore, and all was lost.   Conversations were well nigh impossible, like trying to talk beneath a ready-for-takeoff 747.   And when the letting-go of those fugitive balloons started and the chasing began---oh, my---fairs and carnivals have no such charms.

 When several of the adults got into the mix, the ceilings were afloat with puffy momentaries, scooting around into corners and collapsing behind chairs.   It was like an episode of Keystone Cops---all of us madly dashing about, running into furniture and each other, but all laughing fit to bust.

I’d sorta let that evening settle away to the back of my memory, and the bags are all ready for pick-up, but just this morning, Sweetpea came into possession of a big ole yellow bag from Dollar General (oddly enough for cut-rate, it was probably the most satisfyingly noisy AND air-worthy of them all).   She spent a solid hour dashing here and there, release-and-catch, jump-and-grab, ad infinitum.

I have no idea where I was going with this---it's just a zany memory of that haphazard, swift, runabout time with the GRANDS, as they always are.

Stopping to remember them brings memories I didn’t know I had. 

 And after looking on the internet for pictures of plastic bags, carrying this big stash of cloth bags in the car has become an even greater priority now.