Devonne Brown

I pack exactly what I think I need for a planned vacation. However, my plans don’t always follow my itinerary so I pack a few alternative activity outfits. I might as well pack a space suit and a fuchsia tutu, to fill my new purple suitcase, for I am a linen wearing creature of habit. There is an order of operations to my packing that maintains quality control, but the most crucial additions to the luggage cannot be made until moments before I walk out of the house, so I have actually developed a method to my accoutrement organization that works if I’m paying attention to the checklist. 

There’s a checklist?

First of all, the underlying answer to where I will be going and what I will be doing is always, “You look marvelous, darling.”

I need cosmetics. I don’t require many, a moisturizer to make me pretend my age spots will never grow, foundation to cover the stubborn little buggers, and big black mascara to make my itsy-bitsy eyelashes long and lush. Less is supposed to be more for women of a certain age. I wear less makeup than I did when I was younger, but mascara doesn’t count. It must have a white layer, primer, and a black layer, the stuff,  to make sure my eyes get the proper attention from behind my glasses. They do all the heavy lifting, glancing, glaring, and of course, rolling.

Next, I count out exactly a week’s more underwear than days I’m going to be gone. Accidents happen. My mom put a curse on me when I was a kid. She told me to always have clean underwear in case you get hit by a truck when you’re away from home. Check.

My planned vacations usually involve my sister and brother-in-law’s place on Emerald Isle. I go out of my way to stop at every bathing suit store on the way down there to find the right new one. There are no such things as good bathing suits in the heart of Appalachia, so a big part of the trip is finding one, nonchalantly, on the way down. It has to be black, and it has to cover my big ass and thighs. Its job is to expose my skin to the sun and let its light cleanse my soul. I believe in the healing properties of sunshine. I grew up in the sixties when “laying out” meant turning brown without sunscreen in the sun in the summer and feeling good about it. It’s a guilty pleasure I never got over. 

Dammit, I look good with a tan and intend to get another one this summer. Yes, skin cancer is real. Tell that to my Mother who art in Heaven, and was a nurse.  I intend to stay in the pool as much as possible, to help the bathing suit. I have white hair now. I looked great with brown hair and a tan, now I’m about to rock the geriatric universe.

“Mom, do me a favor, go to the weather department up there and keep the weather good while I’m down at the beach. I don’t have a lot of time on the water this year. Thanks.”

I don’t go to the beach to do anything. When we aren’t in the pool or on the beach, all my sister and I do at Emerald Isle is work puzzles, she does; I write. We drink cold white wine in the pool in insulated cups with lids that float, and talk about things sisters need to talk about. The more wine we drink, the more important and entertaining our conversations get. No one makes me laugh like my sister does. One look from her is all it takes in any situation in any place to send me to gales of laughter. It’s another one of those blessing and curse things. We have learned, over the years, when it’s not safe to be near each other. It is best we not sit together at some social functions, like funerals.  I imagine we’ll have even more fun now that she’s got a new grandson. I get to play with him too.

Every Saturday night is steak night at the beach and time to get fancy. I’ll wear a long dress to dinner, dressy but casual. I’d have packed three. The long black vee neck with half sleeves, the long blue crew neck with three quarter sleeves, or the long red one with no sleeves. No sleeves? What was I thinking? I have to wear sleeves to hide the wing flaps under my arms. Even tan wing flaps are unacceptable. If I start talking and gesticulating, I just may take flight.

Did I remember my medication?