Grace Priddy vulcanlogic81@hotmail.com
Among the circle of friends I grew up with, there is a special spring tradition. Of course, we don't have to sniff the air for blooming honeysuckle or listen for twitterpated bullfrogs to know winter is behind us.
Nay, my fellow droogs celebrate an altogether different rite of spring. Over the years, we abandoned Punxsutawney Phil for a more entertaining weather mascot. Instead, each Easter we chase our dear friend Jarrett into the woods, and then watch to see if he comes out itching. The poor guy is so sensitive to poison ivy he breaks out in nasty hives at the weed's mention.
So of course, as his closest confidantes we know his single weakness, and exploit him annually as a sort of swollen human barometer. He's actually a pretty good sport about the whole thing, considering we do this to him every April.
But the trouble is, payback can be hell.
Growing up around all boys, I never got to be much of a teenybopper. Barbie and Skipper usually took a backseat to my other toys, unless my Princess Leia action figure was beating the crap out of them. I spent most of my childhood waging light saber wars in the backyard, and watching my buddies make home movies narrated by armless, plastic replicas of Billy Dee Williams.
And while we, ourselves, may always take great pride in our impressive X-wing collections and vintage Mark Hamill posters, each of my friends has had to eventually arrive at the same disheartening conclusion: we are incredible dorks.
This May, just as in 1999, we prepare ourselves for the next Star Wars episode debut by hunting for costume ideas and scouting local toy stores for the lowest serial numbers on the back of the new figurine bubble packages.
But try as we might to stay abreast of the merchandising, our itchy friend Jarrett always seems to be a step ahead of us. Our childhood ringleader, if you will, Jarrett consistently had the inside scoop on Lucas film releases and new developments on the collectibles market. For years, he was a sort of folk hero to the rest of us, the true Star Wars junkie we strove to match.
How he did it, none of us knew. Perhaps it was all of that extra time he had on his hands when the rest of us were outside, enjoying the spring air while our poor friend was stuck inside, covered in skin rash. Whatever the cause, one fact remained: When it came to sci-fi trivia, Jarrett was the undisputed champion.
This spring, however, as I come to the sour realization that my Visa card just can't take one more Toys 'R' Us shopping spree, I have to surrender in my vain battle to be the coolest Jedi in Southern Illinois. I scowl as I watch innocent 6 year olds tear into their brand-new toy packages in the Wal-Mart parking lot, gleefully destroying what resale value their second series battle droids have left.
For them, it is easy. These are (gulp) toys. For kids, right? I think back to my own childhood, to many fond recollections of crashed Tie fighters and battered light sabers. Granted, there's no telling what fortunes were squandered in the tattered plastic remains of our circa '80s staged battle scenes. But maybe, just maybe, the memories are worth more.
And as I guiltily drive to Jarrett's house, Calamine lotion in tow, I can't help but think how he got us all back. As kids, we spoiled his spring each year. While we were free to run around in the yard breaking stuff and being kids, Jarrett was stuck indoors miserable from poison ivy, his toys still unopened. But in the end, it is the rest of us that are losing sleep this May, as we lay awake ruing the day we dented our first light saber.
It's true, Jarrett. You got us all back, better than any of us could ever have predicted. So as you go down in history as the coolest Jedi in our own squadron, I tip my hat to you. May the force be with you, Big Guy. You earned it.
Not Just Another Priddy Face appears on Wednesday. Grace is a senior in architectural studies. Her views do not necessarily reflect those of the Daily Egyptian.
Published on 11/17/05; 12:24:44 PM
