Road Trip Potpourri

The start of Memorial Day weekend began with . . . snow.  Two inches of snow to be exact—on the lawn and on my car.  This was not the way our road trip to Fort Collins, Colorado was supposed to begin.  After cleaning the snow off the car, loading it up, getting the wife and the youngest son into the car we headed off at 6:00AM sharp!  The great road trip had begun.

Now I am not sure that there is a coherent theme that runs throughout the road trip as there seemed to be a slew of random pictures and themes that occurred as we headed south out of Joliet towards Fort Collins to meet the new granddaughter.  It was definitely an adventure . . . one, in which the temperature at the start was a whopping and bone-chilling 36 degrees and would end with a hellish 87 degrees in Fort Collins.  So, I wore shorts and my new sandals.  My neighbors probably thought I was hitting the microbrews a little early that day, but I wanted to be prepared for the worse.  Besides, the temperature in the Jetta was a toasty 72 degrees!  On the day that weather records were broken for Montana we headed south.

First image that pops out of my memory were the drivers on the road heading to points unknown just like we were—all with a destination in mind.  Our destination was Fort Collins and I drove five miles over the speed limit most of the way there . . . and for the most part I thought I was doing pretty good.  Unfortunately I did not realize that there were so many Indy and NASCAR wannabes on the highways.  Vehicles of all types blew by us as if we were standing still . . . which I can handle, but what I couldn’t handle was that as soon as they blew past me they pulled directly in front of me and slowed down.  Each and every time I had to brake, slow down, and let them basically cut me off.  This is a pet peeve of mine, thus the birds were flying early and often.  It became a sort of highway hop-scotch that I apparently was not too good at.  But no one doubted my sign language.  Luckily we made the trip safely and the only injury was my finger was a little sore.

Then there were those new hand driers—in the rest areas, gas stations, restaurants, and other fine establishments where one might want to dry his or her hands.  What ever happened to those good old paper towel dispenser, you know the ones I am talking about—where you turned a crank and the paper towel came out.  Now there are these fancy, ultra modern ones that strip the first layer of skin off your hands.  Actually the force of the blower in those things blows all the water off your hands, out the side, and onto the floor.  I was lucky I didn’t slip and break my neck.  But not all the places had these wicked machines, some still had paper towel dispensers . . . but not with the cranks.  No, they have those little electric eyes that dispense the paper towel when a hand is waved in front of it.  At one stop it seemed that every time I moved a paper towel was being dispensed for my use.  They just kept coming out and I just kept ripping them off.  Piles and piles of them!  I got stuck in there for nearly fifteen minutes trying to get that thing to stop before my youngest son showed up and pushed me out of the way of the electric eye.  I might still be there if he hadn’t showed up and rescued me!

  
The further south we went the more the traffic picked up and the more people there were.  From Cheyenne to Fort Collins seemed to be nothing but motor vehicles and people . . . and the people looked funny and talked funny.  Then I remembered that we were driving through Wyoming!  Just kidding . . . we still had Colorado to go!  There were people everywhere . . . that is tough on an introvert.  That is why I never liked cities of any shape or size—too many people.  It was kind of overwhelming, but I must say, for the most part, they had manners.  I must be looking old because I seemed to be called “Sir” quite a bit.  That took a while to get used to and the wife said I had to quit turning my head so much trying to figure out who they were talking to—they were talking to me!  Ouch!

Then there were the food servers—waiters and waitresses—at the restaurants.  For the most part they were conscientious, courteous, and hospitable.  Except for one.  For the most part he did his job well—the food was served hot, he kept the glasses full, and he was always Johnny-on-the-spot . . . but in the end he was dishonest.  When the bill came—over eighty dollars, he short changed me the change.  Instead of giving me all of my change he gave me the paper money and pocketed the change—sixty-two cents.  Now I know sixty-two cents is not much, and I might be making a mountain out of a mole hill, but it is the point of the whole thing.  He should have given me all of my money.  The end result?  Well, I pocketed a portion of his tip.  That sixty-two cents cost him a couple of dollars in tips.  He could have kept the sixty-two cents if he just asked . . . shoot, by that time in our trip the change in my pockets was making me look like I was wearing low-rider jeans!

 

The most fearful moment during the trip was while we were waiting for the light to change at a busy intersection.  Calmly sitting in the car I suddenly heard a loud crack and bang—just like a gun shot.  My first thought was, “Hey, were in a big city.  Big cities have gangs.  It must be a drive-by shooting!”  I yelled at everybody to duck and cover their heads!  Turned out to be a blowout of a tire as a lady as turning in the intersection.  The guy in the car next to us looked us over, shook his head in disbelief, and laughed.  Silly hicks from Montana!  

There were also Starbucks everywhere, but I guess that Fort Collins is a “hip” sort of place that way.  Lots of Starbucks junkies running around with their insulated cups of java.  The wife was in heaven as there were at least three Starbucks within a mile radius of the motel.  She had to have her “fix” each morning and each morning we were there with Fort Collins’ best.  She tried to sweeten up the experience for me by offering to buy me a hot tea since I don’t drink coffee . . . but I refused.  I refused because I can’t see paying nearly three dollars for a cup of tea.  I can buy a box of Liptons for three bucks and make nearly fifty cups of tea for that price.

At the same time I must confess, the day we headed back to Montana I broke down and allowed her to buy me a hot tea.  The darn motel did not have any regular tea in the breakfast bar.  I even asked.  The lady told me that people always pick the regular tea over the herbal tea.  I asked if there were more and she said no that was all that they had.  I asked why they didn’t carry more if the regular tea was so popular . . . she said I could go down to Starbucks and get a nice cup of tea for three bucks!  I think it was a conspiracy between the motel and Starbucks.  The wife just smirked at me.  That was a tough cup of tea to get down—took me nearly a hundred miles before I could even admit that I enjoyed it!

These are just a few of the thoughts, impressions, and themes that I remember from the trip—a mixture of “road trip potpourri”.  As unimportant as these were, we did have a wonderful trip to meet our granddaughter—little Emily.  It was fun to be able to spend time with our son.  Good to meet his friends.  I will write more about that in my next blog.  In the meantime, I have to admit it was nice to get home.  Since being home no one has shot at me while driving by . . . I have gotten all my change when I’ve eaten out . . . I have a huge stash of Liptons . . . and there are not too many people . . . plus I can understand them when they speak . . . no one has called me “Sir” more than once a day.  Plus my dogs gave me a royal welcome home.  Road trips are nice, but nothing beats home!

A Little Potpourri

"A miscellaneous collection."

Maybe we have crossed that imaginary line with the weather here in Montana--at least in the lower elevations.  This morning began with a rain storm.  That was all . . . just rain.  There was no snow mixed into the rain.  There was no snow that turned over to rain later in the day.  It was just plain old rain.  Oh, I am sure the mountains picked up some snow and that is not unusual in Montana where it can snow during any month of the year.  But today was different . . . it was just rain.  The earth around here loved it.  The grass greened up, the leaves began to sprout, and there was mud.  Everyone and everything sucked it in.  This was a spring rain.  Maybe, just maybe, we have crossed over that imaginary line that separates winter from spring.  If so, we had better enjoy it while it lasts!  

Plus, if we have really crossed over that imaginary line not only does new growth signify a new season, but it also signifies the changing of the tools.  Gone are the snow shovels, snow tires, sand bags in the back of the trucks . . . and out comes the lawn mower, the rakes and shovels, all the lawn care stuff.  With that stuff also comes the annual yard care lament as I mow the grass, weed the gardens, fight the dandelions, and attempt to keep everything green.  This is not work that I enjoy doing . . . it is a part of the contract I agreed to when I got married.  I should have read the fine print . . .

Spoke to a neighbor this evening and learned that his son, who lives next door to him, got a fine for his dog peeing on a bush in his father's yard.  The dog was basically on his own property (the houses have adjoining yards) when he needed to take a leak.  So the bush got baptized.  Somehow the local law enforcement officer, driving down from the school, decided that the dog was roaming the streets and was a hazard to the community.  So the officer stopped, fined the man, and drove off.  Thirty dollars for the dog watering a bush on its own property.  To say the least this did not sit well with the son.  I was flabbergasted at the story--especially since the dog was on its own property and peeing on its own tree.  But, no, said the officer, the dog was running in and out of the street.  Now I am afraid to let my dogs go out into the front yard--they might get caught peeing.  The headlines would be terrible: "Local Pastor's Dogs Run Rampant--Peeing on Trees!"  

I guess it must have been a slow day for the officer as our little community of 600 rural people have such a high crime rate.  The officer had nothing better to do than to write a ticket for a dog taking a leak on its own property.  Then he had the audacity to fine the leaky pup thirty dollars.  I guess that was better than him using his one city-issued bullet to shoot the poor dog for taking an illegal leak.  I don't blame the dog.  I think that when Mother Nature calls that is one call we all ought to answer.  It just doesn't seem fair that it cost the dog thirty dollars.  I wonder that the fine would have been if this had happened:

 Book him, Dano!

I went to a book sale at the wife's church today--thousands and thousands of books.  It is a really good deal because they sale them for almost nothing and make a ton of money.  Despite being in the land of books I walked away without purchasing one book . . . instead I bought a bunch of vinyl records.  Of course anyone under the age of twenty-five is probably wondering what in the world a vinyl record is, plus how in the world a CD that big would ever fit into a CD player.  Before there were 8-track tapes . . . before there were cassette tapes . . . before there were CDs--there were vinyl records.  And they came in two standard sizes 45s and 38s, but even before that there were 78s.  This was how people listened to music in those prehistoric days.  People would flop one of those on the record player and out would come music.  True, it was a little inconvenient to carry a record player around to take the music with you, but that was the price one paid for good music. 

At the book sale there were vinyl records for sale for twenty-five cents a record.  So I picked up some records.  I got the original soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz and The Sound of Music--classics that everyone should own.  I picked up the Best of the Bee Gees, Neil Diamond Gold, Carol King's Tapestry, and Linda Ronstadt's Silk Purse.  I also got a copy of the original soundtrack of Jesus Christ Superstar (recorded by the original London cast--bet you didn't know that it was a major hit in England before it ever got over to the United States).  I got them all for three bucks.  Besides loving the music I was also moved by something else . . . cash signs.  These original records--all in good shape--had to be worth more than the three bucks I paid for them.  I was seeing big bucks in my mind as some of these records went all the way back to the dark ages of 1962.  These weren't just records, these were an investment to retire on.

Pipe dreams at best.  True they were worth more than the three dollars I paid for them, but nothing even close to retiring on.  In fact there wasn't enough there to even fill the tank of the car.  When it was all said and done the value of the records I bought was a whopping thirty dollars--thirty dollars if I could find someone to pay me that.  Oh well, it was worth the three bucks to see the look of joy on the wife's face as she went through each of the record remembering that she used to have most of them.  Plus, after I tried to shove one into the car's CD player, getting it stuck, I figure it will probably take more than thirty dollars to get all the broken pieces out of the player.  Oh well, live and learn!

Tomorrow morning I take the number two son to a doctor appointment in the big city.  Afterwards he wants to do a little shopping for clothes.  He does not like to go shopping with me because we do not see eye-to-eye on the value of things--in particular clothing.  Lets just get it right out in the open--I am cheap.  My children, especially son number two, sees no problem in spending the big bucks for clothing.  I cringe if I have to pay more than twenty bucks for a good pair of painter's pants.  My children see no problem in spending upwards towards a hundred dollars for a pair of jeans (with holes already ripped into them).  Shoot I could save them a lot of money if they would just buy a twenty dollar pair of jeans and let me rip a few holes in them--I'd only charge them five bucks a hole!  We could help each other out in doing this.  Waste good money on holy jeans--shoot the wife and I could bless them (after all we are clergy) and make them holy!

Because I squeak because I am so fiscally tight, I really have a hard time shopping with the children.  They see style, I see waste.  They do not care for my little commentary while they shop--especially now that they are buying their own clothes with their own money.  So I have decided that I will bite the bit and get myself some blinders for tomorrow morning while number two son shops.  Actually, I am going to sit on some bench while he shops and people gaze.  Might be the best money he ever spent because it will be a first--Dad kept his mouth shut!  Mark it in red!

Well, as you probably noticed by now this blog really wasn't about much of anything, but at the same time a lot about a few things . . . things that were not even related to one another.  It was just a bunch of potpourri--a miscellaneous collection.  But isn't that the way most of our days go . . . just a collection of miscellaneous experiences that add up to make one day in our lives.  Nothing too spectacular, nothing too boring.  It is just the way that things are.  What was the potpourri that filled your life today--any tickets for peeing dogs?