March 29, 2024

I’m sorry, Dad, I have to cancel

Brisk fall winds usher in a season of festivities. The sense of pending dormancy and chill probes deep into the core of the human spirit, urging us to celebrate before hivernal hibernation sweeps us all indoors.

My move to Iowa has greatly inhibited my seasonal social calendar. As chlorophyll drained from deciduous leaves in September and October, I envied my friends who perched atop the Blue Ridge visiting wineries and cideries. In October, I couldn’t flock back to William & Mary for my first homecoming weekend as an alumna to chase cheap shots of vodka with greasy bacon cheese fries, nor could I visit a friend and surprise her on her 21st birthday. Last week, I could only mail my mom a birthday card instead of presenting her with a trinket overdressed in tissue and ribbon and giving her a hug.

This weekend, my father and I will not clink red solo cups filled with bourbon and ginger in a parking lot surrounded by rust-colored brick academic buildings before heading into a stadium to cheer for opposing teams of the oldest, most frequently played football rivalry in the South.

Before the formation of the SEC in 1933, the College of William & Mary met Richmond College, now the University of Richmond, on the 50-yard-line in 1898. Chapel Hill and the University of Virginia may have faced off the same year as Auburn and the University of Georgia in 1892, and Auburn and the University of Alabama first clashed a year later. At the end of this year, however, Chapel Hill and the University of Virginia as well as Auburn and University of Georgia will have met only 123 times, and Alabama and Auburn will have met only 83 times. 2018 marks William & Mary and the University of Richmond’s 129th meeting.

My father attended the University of Richmond, and in keeping with my competitive streak, I landed at William & Mary. During our time at our respective ivory-towered institutions, we both viewed athletic programs as an impediment to the institution’s overall academic excellence. Something about attaining alumni status makes you go all misty-eyed and renege on iron-clad collegiate convictions: From my first to third year, Dad tried to wrangle me into the annual game. My fourth year, I caved, blew off writing a paper and dragged myself from bed way too early on a Saturday for a tailgate.

And I surprised myself by having fun. Iowans may love their Hawkeyes and Cyclones, but I promise you that no one tailgates quite like a Southerner. We show up with entire bars packed into our trunks and layered Jell-O shots in school colors. We’ll pick up apple cider doughnuts from the farmers’ market for the morning, and we’ll make homemade pimento cheese, spinach-artichoke dip and country ham and puff pastry pinwheels slathered with butter for the afternoon. We’ll also thrust a cocktail napkin with a phrase like, “If you can read this, you need a re-fill,” in cutesy lettering into your hand so you don’t ruin your lipstick on a beef tenderloin roll. If you happen upon those of us dedicated to tradition, you’ll notice we’ve coiffed our hair, applied full faces of makeup and dressed as if we stepped out of a Ralph-Lauren window display. Preppy is alive and well.

Maybe I have the bourbon and gingers to thank, but hollering directions at stretch lycra-clad sinewy college boys as if they could hear me amounted to enough of a good time to make it the traditional kick-off to Thanksgiving week. In years past, Thanksgiving, and the entire holiday season, opened with the annual father-daughter trip to the liquor store I’ve enjoyed since I was a little girl standing on grey, cigarette-perfumed carpet tilting my head back to stare up at shelves of glass bottles gleaming under the hum of fluorescent bulbs. It was an education in a well-stocked bar and the liquors to avoid at fraternity parties in later years, and it presaged the making of bourbon-laden cranberry preserves and custardy, soporific eggnog.

During college, I skipped a few classes before Thanksgiving break to drive from the Tidewater to the Valley so that I wouldn't miss our annual outing. In my first writing gig, I dedicated a blog post to the promise that at 40 years old, I'd still remind Dad not to make the holiday liquor store run without me.

This year, I have to break that promise, and it cracks a little piece of my soul.

Contact Phoebe Marie Brannock at 641-792-3121 ext. 6547 or pbrannock@newtondailynews.com