There's been somewhat of a communication break-down in the Mosiman family over the years. A bulk of the problem can definitely be attributed to my wayward attention span. I am geographically-stinted which is not helpful with a husband who travels a lot. "Where's Brad?" someone will ask when he's out of town. "Colorado," I answer confidently. One of my daughters would let out a small sigh and gently correct me. "No, Mom, he's in Connecticut." If I say Maryland, he'll be in Michigan. Denver? No...Delaware. Once, while dropping him off at the airport, Brad repetitively provided me with meticulous driving directions to get me safely home. Although it makes Brad nuts, I think my driving philosophy is ingeniously flawless. Eventually, I'll get there. With Brad's directions partially embedded in my brain, I first became hopelessly trapped in the Buffalo Airport parking lot before merging north into busy traffic. "South!" Brad was shouting from 15,000 feet above us, "I told you a thousand times to drive south!" Meanwhile, on the ground, I was looking for the positive side and the nearest exit to turn around. "At least Daddy doesn't know we goofed up," I told my giggling girls, not anticipating the exasperated answering machine message that would be awaiting me at home (when we eventually got there).
Today, to celebrate the last day of school, Brad took me to the Glen Iris Inn at Letchworth Park. Against Savannah's wishes, we sat on their beautiful outdoor stone veranda. We were surrounded by the majestic sounds of nature: the spring-fed fountain, the wind in the trees, the rushing waterfall, Savannah complaining that she was cold and hates eating outside.... My delicious "Ultimate Mudslide" might have contributed a little to my lack of family focus but most of the blame rests on the woodland rodents. "Look," I said, interrupting Savannah's description of her day, "a squirrel! Oh my goodness, he's standing on his back legs. Can you see his little white belly? Over there, Savannah, by the stop sign, do you see him?" "Yes, Mom. As I was saying..." she continued. I squealed again. "A chipmunk! There! No...there! No...over there!" (I named him "Zippy.").
Dinner (and dessert!) successfully concluded, we headed home. Along the way, we were momentarily delayed by a passing train. This event has always been a source of delight for my family. "They're empty," Savannah remarked of the train cars flying by. "They must have unloaded recently," I answered wisely because I couldn't think of anything else to say. Fearing that I might have to add another intelligent observation again soon, I immediately launched into song. "Down by the station, early in the morning, see the little pufferbellies all in a row." As I came to the climatic conclusion of my little ditty, I paused generously to give Brad plenty of room to jump in. "Puff puff, toot toot, off we go." He missed his cue so I circled around to give him another shot. "puff puff, toot toot...?" What was wrong with him? He hasn't said a word since we stopped for the train. Maybe he wasn't in the mood for that song. I tried another one. "I've been working on the railroad...all my live-long days..." He just stared straight ahead at the train. Not a word. Had I somehow offended him? Perhaps he wasn't in a song-mood. Perhaps poetry would coax him off of his silent state. "A peanut sat on the railroad track," I recited, "its heart was all a-flutter. Train came roaring 'round the bend, Toot-toot, peanut-butter." In front of us, the train finally came to an end and the gates lifted, allowing us to pass. "How many train cars were there," Brad asked, finally coming back to conversational life. I looked at him blankly. "Guess," he said. "You counted them?" I inquired incredulously. I'm sitting next to him, performing a Tony Award quality show and he's counting train cars like a "Sesame Street" puppet? "Yes, while you two were making idiotic observations about train cars completely loaded with vehicles, singing stupid songs, and quoting crappy poetry, I was counting." "Fifty," Savannah offered. "Seventy-five," I predicted, in a perturbed but participatory tone. "One hundred and two," my husband shared.
We're doomed. I can only remember the first letter of every word Brad utters. He prefers the tiresome monotony of inventorying concrete nouns rather than relishing my company. The "Sesame Street" connection may not have been far off. Perhaps Brad and I are destined to design and direct pre-school television programming. Another insight regarding our relationship is that maybe we need to focus on our areas of strength. My annoying tendency to put everything to song. Brad's need to reiterate his point fifty-thousand times. My marriage might be greatly enhanced if we combined these two characteristics in some fashion. I'm going to suggest to Brad that we sign up for Gregorian chanting lessons. Right now, he's busy counting the traffic traveling on our seasonal dirt road so I'll bring the subject up after I guess the consequenting result to his scenic survey.
Glad you enjoyed your evening at the Glen. Yum! Yum! How many train cars were there Amy?
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