Vacation Home

Zach Percy

Sami and I came bursting through the door like soccer moms at a Target on Black Friday. My dirty blonde barcode flopped on my forehead, while the rat’s nest wrapped in a ponytail bounced out the back of my sister’s head as we flew through the foyer and up the short flight of green shag steps into the living room.

“Nana! Pop!” we cried out.

We peered into the kitchen to the right of the stairs to see Nana sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea perched to her right. She looked up from the newspaper laid out in front of her and smiled slyly at us.

“Well, there you two are! It’s good to see you!” Nana greeted us warmly. “Anyone hungry?”

My sister and I bounded into the kitchen like a pair of jackrabbits, jumping with joy at the thought of food. Such a simple necessity of life never failed to bring unbounding happiness to the two of us.

“Yeah! Yeah!” we exclaimed in unison.

Nana smiled at our enthusiasm. “Alright,” she said. “Chicken nuggets fine with you?”

Ah, chicken nuggets, the caviar of the kid world. There has never been a day where I turned down nuggets—and that moment was no different. Even now when I buy a bag, they’re gone before they even touch the freezer; the only difference is there’s no meat to be found; a change younger me may scoff at, but one that is ultimately the right decision.

Filled with passion for this glorious food, Sami and I whole­heartedly agreed to our Nana’s proposal. She stood up and adjusted her cardigan—a staple of hers. Even in eighty degree weather, Nana could always be found sporting some type of sweater, wrapping it around her torso in search of comfort. Compared to my gym shorts and my sister’s spaghetti-strapped shirt from Justice, Nana looked ready for the red carpet.

She strode over to the freezer and pulled out a large bag of Tyson chicken nuggets. She turned and asked us what we wanted on the side. I said applesauce, Sami said carrots—she was never a fan of fruit-based products.

Nana nodded in approval of our choices and began to load the nuggets onto a pan, arranging them in rows like a Civil War regiment. She preheated the oven and turned towards the doorway where we stood, right as my mom came walking in behind us. In the heat of the moment, I had completely forgotten she drove us here.

“Hey, mom,” she greeted Nana with a sigh.

“Hello, dear,” Nana replied with a smile. “They’re getting faster, huh?”

“Yep, soon they’re gonna run off and leave their mother in the dust for good,” my mom added, putting a hand on our shoulders. Obviously, I don’t remember the exact wording of what she said, as it happened before I even knew how to blow my nose, but let’s pretend it was something this sentimental. In all honesty, it was probably something more along the lines of: “Yeah, just wish they’d run themselves to sleep.” Okay, that one came out having some dark undertones, but the mood is certainly more like my mom’s. Always the cynic, she is.

We asked Nana where Pop was and she pointed to the stairs to our right. We told Nana and Mom that we wanted to go say hi to Pop and left the two of them to talk as we raced up the soft, carpeted stairs. These stairs were especially soft and I emphasize this because I was very familiar with this particular set, having spent plenty of time falling down them. I’ve fallen down countless flights of stairs in my lifetime, but this staircase in particular saw a significant number of tumbles; second only to the one at home. Doctors are still baffled I’ve never broken a bone. Guess my secret is carpeting.

We reached the top of the staircase and stood on the second, but technically third, floor of the house—the foyer always threw off my counting. We turned immediately to our right and were faced with the familiar woodish door to Pop’s computer room—I say woodish because, for starters, it’s not a word, but sounds funny. But more focused on the topic at hand, I mention it because it was a very strange door; one of the strangest I’ve ever met. It looked like wood and sounded like wood when you knocked on it, but it also was incredibly lightweight and when you looked at it’s profile, it appeared to be made almost of a cork material.

I reached for the “gold” door handle and turned it carefully because it had a habit of falling off—another strange trait the door possessed. Luckily, it remained intact and did its job properly as the door slowly swung open, bringing us face to face with the final staircase of our journey. It was not much of a foe, however, sitting at a mere five steps. But unfortunately for me, this one came without carpeting.

Pop sat in the same computer chair he’d owned for years, staring at the screen from behind his square-framed glasses. We sensed that he knew we were there, but he continued to type away, hard at work on one of his countless projects around the community. Even as young as I was then, I admired his work ethic and was amazed at all the connections he had around the county. It seemed like every time we went to Ruby Tuesday or Friendly’s he knew someone from some organization. I suppose that was simply the politician in him always on duty.

Pop finished typing his sentence and turned to face us at the bottom of the stairs. He playfully put his hands on his hips and squinted.

“How long have you two been standing there? Days?” he questioned.

Sami and I giggled, saying we had just arrived. We crawled up the stairs like a pair of Dogs (I didn’t fall this time) and took a seat in the only open chair in the room: a wide white plastic chair that was the perfect size for two petite Percys. It was always either share a chair or stand because all the other seating options were reserved for the stacks of books Pop had scattered around the room. His office resembled a medieval vault of towering treasures, but instead of gold, it was biographies on historical figures in American history.

Unlike Nana, Pop listened to the weather a bit more. He was wearing his classic plaid, collared short-sleeved shirt with pens in the front pocket. On the bottom, he sported a pair of light summer khakis. The man’s fashion was the talk of the family and he never ceased to disappoint.

We looked on as Pop finished answering some emails in anti­cipation of getting his undivided attention. What was five minutes felt like five hours to our impatient minds, but eventually the work was over and he was finally ours. Pop began questioning us about our day so far and how summer was going. I made the mistake of mentioning some­thing that somehow, in some way, dealt with math, which meant Pop broke out the pen and paper. Any time math or physics came up, he would whip out a notepad faster than 1960s Clint Eastwood. Obviously, I could never follow his thought process, but I found it relaxing to watch him work and do what he loved. And it served as a reminder for how much he cared about us and was invested in what we were up to. The great thing about talking to Pop was that he displayed true enthusiasm about anything going on in our lives. Each little anecdote about going swimming or finding a large ant colony under the sandbox never failed to light up his face. He greeted us and conversed as if we hadn’t seen him in years, yet just four days prior to our visit, he and Nana were over at our house for a BBQ. Each moment with us was precious to him and the inverse was true as well.

After a lengthy conversation about baseball and Barbies, Nana’s voice came floating up the stairs calling us down for lunch. Sami and I looked at one another and raced down the stairs, leaving Pop to focus on his work, telling us he’ll be down later.

We entered the living room to find Mom had left for work; a bummer, but that didn’t spoil our spirits, we’d have plenty of time to annoy her later that evening. Nana had set up one of the many quilts scattered throughout the house on the floor for us to use as a makeshift picnic blanket. The quilt was placed right in front of the TV because no other spot could compete. We took our places on the quilt and Nana came in with two plates of nuggets: one with carrots, the other with applesauce. Dropping off the lunches to a chorus of thank yous, she then entered the kitchen once more and returned with two cups of chocolate milk for Sami and I, an absolutely perfect pairing for the chicken nuggets; the childhood equivalent of a nice Chardonnay and lobster. Nana was a connoisseur when it came to wondrous pairings of the culinary world. She was the one who introduced me to the idea of putting butter on your sandwich. Sure, it sounds like a no-brainer and even a classic to older generations, but elementary school Zach had no idea you could do such a thing. Although I hardly make my sandwiches that way, my life remained forever changed because of that “unortho­dox” style.

After thanking her for the chocolate milk and graciously taking it with two hands, I asked Nana for some ketchup and she happily brought me the bottle. I set my chocolate milk down and proceeded to paint my plate with ketchup, creating a sea next to the ocean of applesauce.  Ketchup was one of the five food groups for me, and I would make sure to get my daily serving. I practically drank that stuff like it was water, much to the disgust of Sami. She never understood my love for ketchup and I always adamantly defended my stance—though I must admit, looking back on my obsession makes me a little nauseous.

Once the Red Sea was completed, it was finally time to eat. Sami flipped on the TV to get the proper programming for this peaceful moment. Without hesitation, she went straight to the kid’s channels conveniently grouped together in the mid-200s and settled on Boom­erang. The Pink Panther cartoon was on and that was can’t-miss television. The ones with the Pink Panther himself are alright, but the real comedy lies with the inspector. I mixed some of my applesauce with the ketchup like Bob Ross would with the paint on his palette. There was an art to creating my dipping sauce, and I was a master of the craft. With the difficult prepwork of a great artist complete after a series of careful swirls, I dove into my bountiful feast like a viking; leaving no prisoners to see the light of day. My sister and I inhaled our lunches with smiles plastered on our faces, Clouseau falling off a ladder in the background, as we discussed the activities on deck for today: Old Maid with Nana, Chess with Pop, and maybe a puzzle to round out the afternoon—that is, if Mom didn’t get out of work and pick us up early. If that happened, our plans would have to adjust to incorporate some over-the-top begging. It was doable, it would take some work, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle.

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