Bouncing back from a canceled vacation: Brad springs into action

My Week of Amy came to an abrupt halt when Brad's anticipated trip to Alaska was suddenly canceled. My carefully planned itinerary, that included a grueling marathon of television watching, tireless snacking, and multiple opportunities to sleep in, was up-dated to include some doubles events.

Nestled in my chair, clutching a fistful of Twizzlers, I watched as Brad, looking to fill what was supposed to be a week filled with fishing with something productive and meaningful, got up to leave the room. "Where are you going?" I asked, praying that his answer would be, "To the refrigerator." 

No such luck.

"Thought I'd pressure wash the house," he said.

I sighed. What a way to spend his hard-earned vacation. And there goes my Week of Amy. Okay, then. I guess we were in it. Let the games begin.

So...first up, was target shooting. 

From multiple angles and incorporating varying degrees of difficulty. 

Pressure-washing a two-story house using a ladder apparently wasn't hard enough. Let's introduce
motorized vehicles. So, as Brad balanced along the raised edge of the cargo bed of our Titan directing 1500 PSI of water at his target, I played ground crew, trying to maintain a perfect amount of slack in the hose to keep my husband from pitching forward or sling-shotting backward.

Fortunately, I had a prior commitment that kept me from seeing the conclusion of this activity. I drove off as Brad entered the perilous next leg of his event: Scaling the roof and skipping rope with twenty feet of hose.

I spent the next several hours representing my proud family name in water sports; including fencing with wacky water noodles. I also tested the boundaries of buoyancy by swimming the breast stroke with a 6-year-old attached to my neck. "Margaret Mitchell," I gasped, "Hold onto my shoulders." 

Somehow, both Brad and I managed to survive this day.

Those of you raised in the 70s and 80s well-remember the now-incomprehensible reality of being limited to three channels of television. And those of us not particularly fond of sports were then further tortured. March Madness was a nightmare. But the Olympics...oh my. The Olympics were a never-ending horror show. Enter 2024 and my husband's utter delight that we have multiple channels focusing on every obscure sport known to humankind. What on earth was the basketball thing with no dribbling and a soccer net? We watched, amazed, at the smaller-than-we-remembered ping-pong table and how the players seemed to serve from their foreheads. "We'll have to remember to fluff the feathers," Brad suggested as we took note of the badminton players tricks to win.

And, oh my, the trampolining. Initially skeptical, Brad was quickly converted. His commentary (that had been RAMPANT throughout the Olympics) evolved into colorful  and quirky sound-effects. Fortunately for us, this fortuitous exposure would prove beneficial the next day when we embarked on our next event: Team Mattress-Marketing. We bounced on all surface-levels including multi-gauged inner springs, gel memory foam, latex, and hybrids. 

Next, we competed in the  javelin.

Which consists of Brad trying to stuff an uncooperative wire brush up our pellet stove pipe. Obstacles included retinal burn from a misdirected flashlight beam as well as vision impairment when your partner fails to shield you from a shower of soot.

The next day (Sigh...remember the Week of Amy?) was heavy-lifting. Unloading a ton of pellets. Not the hyperbolic ton as in I ate a ton of M&Ms. No. A literal ton. Amy (sort of) helped unload a ton of pellets. 

I'm not sure what Olympic event is the equivalent of Brad and I racing the emptied trailer back to its resting space OVER a thick nest of tree roots. Hurdling? Steeple chase? All I can say for sure is that, in this instance, Brad's coaching could have used a little work. I have to admit that this particular activity got me a little emotional: I just couldn't get over it!

Sigh.

And, yeah. I would have gotten away with it, too...if it hadn't been for my medal-ing husband.

A License to Drive (your daughter crazy) Part II

            When last we left off, Savannah had meritoriously earned her New York State driver’s permit and was eagerly anticipating the many hours of practice time required to achieve full driving status.  Naturally, the sixteen-year-old was enthusiastic about learning to master the intricacies of the standard transmission; so much so, in fact, that her death grip on the stick shift resulted in the decapitation of the ball. 

The key to the successful acquisition of knowledge is directly proportional to the consistency of teaching.  I initially began teaching Savannah to drive until, upon observing her father’s rather unconventional driving style, she inquired as to why he was stopping at the stop sign at the end of our seasonal road.  “You stop at all stop signs,” he replied firmly, watching the play of doubt cross her face.  Her fate was sealed as he watched her slide the truck into neutral approaching another one of those pesky stop signs.  “Why aren’t you downshifting,” he inquired.  “Down…what,” she questioned before taking her father on as her full-time driving instructor, leaving me unceremoniously in the dust.

I was, however, given the honor of taking Savannah to her road test.  “Do you think you can handle this,” Brad asked, “I can take off work if you need me to.”  I admit I reacted a tad testily.  “It’s not rocket science, for Pete’s sake,” I snapped, “people do this every day.  I’m pretty sure I can get her to her driver’s test on time.” 

I blame the Department of Motor Vehicles.  I called multiple times to ensure that I’d dotted the T’s and crossed the I’s.  I had certificates, testimonials, recommendations, and immunity records.  Did I mention that I called more than once?  So there we are, parked in line near the Warsaw monument, watching the poor saps ahead of us jerk their vehicles awkwardly onto the road and weave unsteadily towards the school.  The brave man giving the test approached each parent prior to the test to ask something and suddenly, my heart sank into my shoes.  I bolted from our truck and raced over to him, interrupting his conversation to ask if it were necessary for me to have my license.   Incredulous, he assured me that it was customary for New York State certified drivers to always carry their licenses when operating a motor vehicle.  He glanced around, perhaps for a hidden camera, as I responded in pure panic. 

It’s one thing for my kid to fail her driver’s test herself but, by golly, I would not allow myself to be single-handedly responsible for screwing up such an important day for my daughter.  I burst into tears on the sidewalk while Savannah sank down so far on the truck seat that her knees brushed the floor.  Needless to say, the Department of Motor Vehicles hires angels.  This very nice man explained that if I could retrieve my license in the next twenty-two minutes, he would still allow Savannah to take her test that day.  I could hear Savannah’s moan of despair (or perhaps disgust) coming from the open window of our Ranger as she quickly calculated the distance from Warsaw to our house and back. Tears steaming down my face, I leaped into our truck and drove in the swiftest and most law-abiding fashion possible, obeying each stop sign, taking note of every single double line, and not using my horn at all.  I apologized to Savannah every quarter mile of that trip but for some reason, she didn’t seem at all surprised by the turn of events.  “It’s okay, Mom,” she said, clutching her seat like a baby monkey as I rounded a corner at a sedately comfortable speed. 

Long story short…she passed the test!  We didn’t know it then but that event was more than just a driver’s test.  It was, for Savannah, yet another lesson in performing under more than the usual stressful conditions.  It wasn’t enough that she had to take her test using a stick shift.  She had to take her test with a stick AND an unstable mother who somehow managed to get her daughter to the start line with two minutes to spare.  It wasn’t until two weeks ago that the real reward of that day showed itself as Savannah was working, hauling in salmon nets in Alaska when the boat she was on got stuck sideways in the shallows.  Surveying the mess, the foreman addressed his small crew.  “Who’s going to grab the tractor to get us out, “he asked.  When no one answered, he spoke again.  “Can’t any of you drive a stick?”  The lone girl on the boat slowly raised her hand.  Turns out that every day is a test and thank goodness, Savannah was more than prepared.

as published in Warsaw's Country Courier

http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/