Our extended spring break was approaching and it seemed as if the entire town was making plans to temporarily move to a new zip code.
Every kid at school was getting itchy to go away too.
I’m pretty sure our teachers were even having a hard time focusing on getting us on task as they made their own plans to find some sunny spot to rejuvenate themselves.
Our destination this year was St. Augustine, Florida. I was packed and had my sketch book ready to record everything I found along the way.
Our mother had packed us goodie bags for the long drive.
Each bag was filled with candy, car games and a book to read to keep us occupied.
The trip itself was fun for my sister, brother, and me as we stared out the window watching a large portion of America go by.
Upon arriving in St. Augustine I was wowed by the early Spanish architecture against a backdrop of perfectly blue sky and high-perched green palm tree fronds.
I could not wait to get out my ink pens and paper to sketch some of the thousands of images that passed my eyes.
The temperatures were warm and most of my sketches were made as droplets of sweat dribbled down my neck.
The black ironwork against the white coquina stone in America’s oldest city was a bit overwhelming as I wanted to record it all.
My pen flew making as many lines to record my views, moving quickly to a new subject even before I could take in the fullness of the last.
My skills were not fully honed and each finished or half-finished image did not completely capture the perfection of the subjects at hand.
It was as if each notation of line were placed in earnest because I was unfamiliar with my surroundings.
These were not the trees I saw every day in my Adirondack woods so my first attempts to record them were a bit crude.
But as I grew more familiar with my subjects I was able to find the lines they needed.
Every new space, every new view and angle was like a special Christmas present intended for me and me alone.
When I ran out of sketch book paper I turned to the backside of previous sketches to record more thumbnails.
My 30-year-old record of that vacation is now a bit yellowed and faded.
But as I peel back the pages, each drawing still renders the passion I felt when the subjects were fresh to my eyes.
Even the smell of the paper, unseen and untouched for all those years, transports me back to the salty humid ocean air, the sounds of gulls, and the blinding brightness of the images I tried to capture.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com