A Whirlwind Visit, The Usual Craziness

My dad recently retired and called a couple of weeks ago to say that he'd like to come visit us in mid-May.

"Sure, dad, that'd be great." That would give me plenty of time to get ready.

However, with all that retired-guy freetime on his hands he sprang into action, called around, and arranged to stop and visit several people on his trip here and back. In doing so, he had to nail down some specific dates for his plans.

A week or so ago he announced to me that he'd be coming in earlier than anticipated. As in two weeks earlier than planned, leaving me with just a few days to get ready. Eeek!

"Oh. Um, okay. Sure. We can do that." I think.

Needless to say, already in the throes of my spring cleaning, I stepped things up cleaning like mad and trying to get everything just as I wanted it.

Naturally, our washing machine chose that particular time to go on strike.

While all of our bath towels were inside sopping wet and still soapy, the machine refusing to budge to the rinse and spin cycles, and a burning rubber smell emanating from the machine.

I knew I dare not push things, and try and force the machine to continue it's job. My sister Johanna once had a washing machine catch on fire. I had enough to worry about for the moment.

I think it was a case of the washer conspiring against me with the sewing machine again. (Admittedly, I've not upheld the bargain which was struck by getting the sewing machine in for a much needed overhaul after Christmas.)

Which entailed making last-minute arrangements to cart a load of sopping wet towels across town to my MIL's house to wash them if any of us were to have towels for showers the next morning.

True to my dad's Modus Operandi, due to his stops along the way I didn't have an exact time to go by as to when we could expect him.

Lunch passed, and he still wasn't here.

A little later in the afternoon and still no sign of grandpa, I took a short nap with Judah then went to pick up Jericho from school.

My dad got to the house just after the boys and I arrived home.

Thankfully, my crock-pot did not enter into the labor dispute, and I had a hot dinner of spaghetti, salad and garlic bread waiting on our weary traveler.

The boys were ecstatic, as Grandpa had told them he was bringing his fishing poles and his motorcycle along with him in the back of his truck. Jericho was interested in the fishing, and Judah in the motorcycle. And helmets.



This, of course, entailed much trying on of "Kwumpuh's heowmut" and getting up on his "moto-psycho" after dinner.

Later that evening, we took a long drive into the 'country', to look at a steal-of-a-deal home we'd heard about.

Turns out we couldn't even find it, and the desert road we were driving on to get there was so long and bumpy that our driver's side window fell into the door again.

It was at that point that we determined we wanted nothing to do with any house which was that far off the beaten path. Well, that and the fact that the homes in that area had backyards leading to the traintracks.

And because I wasn't tired enough (from all my getting ready for company and driving all over the countryside, and being laundry transport and taxi service for the day) my dad and I ended up staying up late to catch up. Finally, around 1 AM, we called it a night, and headed off to catch some Z's.

Wednesday morning, after dropping Jericho off at school for testing that he couldn't miss, I once again drove my dad all over the desert sight-seeing.

That was when the Automobile Union got involved in labor negotiations in my household again.

That whole window-falling-into-the-door thing from the night before?

It had apparently been a warning of things to come. Sort of like a couple of mafia thugs coming to rough you up a bit before calling in a hit.

This time, the car meant business.

While we were waiting in the long, snaking line going onto campus to pick Jericho up from school, I began to smell the strong scent of antifreeze.

Inside the car.

I remarked about it, but figured perhaps it was the junker car in front of us that was to blame for the smell.

That is, until dad suddenly yanked his foot out of the way and said, "Yeow!" Upon further investigation, he reported, "I believe your heater core just went out. Something hot is dripping out of the dash onto my shoe!"

Turns out it was our junker that was to blame. *blushes*

In spite of 91 degree temperatures outside, the windshield was steamy with anti-freeze vapors. A clear indication of heating core problems.

Yes, we've been down this road before in our journey with junker cars.

Which also explained why I had suddenly begun to feel breathless and a bit panicky while trying to do a little old thing often referred to as breathing.

For a few moments, I wondered if perhaps I was having a heart attack or something, and wished I were home so I could google the symptoms and get myself sufficiently freak myself out.

As it turns out, it was 'just' an asthma attack. I knew this because the very same thing had happened before when the heating core in our truck went out. Or broke. Or whatever it is that they do. Anti-freeze vapors cause wretched asthma attacks.

I don't get these attacks very often. In fact, they're usually separated by enough time that I forget what it's like, and then find myself well into the middle of one before I realize what is happening and that I need to find my inhaler, stat.

This one was a doozy.

Oy.

After picking up Jericho we had some time to burn. With the windows down for ventilation and to clear the steam from the windshield, and being ever-so-efficient, I thought we'd wend our way home slowly via back roads so we wouldn't break down on the freeway to look at more potential properties in order to save on gas.

Right now, you may have gathered, we're in the market for a home on some acreage. The prices are finally in the semi-affordable range, so every spare minute it seems we are out looking at the homes our realtor has found for us, in an attempt to find the one that is just right. It's hard work!

I thought this would bore my dad to tears, but as it turns out, he loved it.

Even coming from beautiful green Washington State, he kept commenting that our arid, brown and dusty desert was 'beautiful' country.

Jeff and I have continued to hold out hope and to pray that the Lord would see fit to allow us leave this place this coming summer, and move to a quaint little hobby farm somewhere in rural America where it was green, and had four seasons, and was far from the exhaust-ridden air of the Southwest. Somewhere that we could grow something besides sage, yucca and a couple different types of cacti.

But alas, after only 10 years into our wilderness experience, it appears we still have another 30 to go. Perhaps from all the grumbling during our early years here, I'm not sure.

We've learned our lesson, however, and are trying to be content in our circumstances, and not go around grumbling and getting angry and striking at rocks (or in our case, cars) or anything.

Later that evening, after church, we were all exhausted and went to bed early.

Thursday, we kept Jericho home from school for the promised fishing trip with Grandpa.



Which was quite an experience with little brother thrown into the mix.

If he wasn't running around yelling, "I want to hoe-d da ducks" and getting perilously close to falling in the water, he was trying to dig around in "Kwumpuh's tacko box" to see all the shiny, feathery, sparkly things inside. Or to play with the fishing knife in there.

Don't let his innocent countenance fool you.



Shortly after this picture was taken, Grandpa was switching out a bass lure for one that he thought might work to attract the catfish our 'neighbors' were pulling up left and right.

Grandpa was half-kneeling, a realistic and rubbery looking minnow-shaped lure waiting atop his tackle box to be switched out for the bass lure.

Judah squatted down beside his "Kwumpuh" to inspect the little "Fithy" lure, and before any of us could tell what was going to happen, Judah's little arm shot out quick-as-lightening, grabbing the sharp tri-hooked lure and flung it into the depths of the lake.

My dad looked up at me his mouth dropping open in utter astonishment. It had all happened so fast!

I laughed uporariously (after offering to pay to replace it, of course).

Minutes later, big brother managed to get his lure tangled in a tree that was bending over the lake out where he'd cast it (catfish are known to lurk in the shade of said tree, but it's difficult to judge casting distances when you're a novice 11 year old fisherman).



While grandpa expertly disengaged the lure from it's bondage in said tree and brought it back to shore unscathed, I again laughed uproariously. "Between the two of you, grandpa is never going to want to take us fishing again!"

Moments earlier, I'd suddenly had a flashback of a similar fishing trip with my dad in the Puget Sound as a young girl. A time when I misjudged the execution of my own casting, and lodged my fish hook in the back of my dad's arm. (Ooopsie! )

Thankfully, my dad was longsuffering and still took me along dozens of times after that. Even when we girls complained and whined about having to bait our own hooks.

Those long ago fishing trips usually involved all kinds of junk food not usually allowed in our diet. Wonder bread and pack-of-Buddig lunch meat sandwiches, Cheetos, and Hostess cherry pies. And soda. And pudding cups.

It was a big deal, and the food alone made it totally worth the long day spent sitting around holding poles at the shore's edge.

We got a late start on our little fishing excursion, however, having to go back for the diaper bag.

Then I had to stop off for gas in the truck. Jeff had selflessly taken the car so I wouldn't get another asthma attack.

And then, of course, we had to stop off for lunch.

Then I had to make a trip to the store for bottled waters, and didn't even think to get extra goodies to make the boys fishing experience complete.

Nope. This time, we arrived at the lake with naught but our water bottles.

But I needn't have worried.

Judah was thrilled to be "fithing" with a pole that had the hook attached to one of the loops at the end of the pole, without a line in the water (because sharp hooks and fishing line do not mix well with 2 1/2 year old boys).

Jericho would have stood on shore for several more hours reeling and casting, content with the knowledge that there were indeed fish in the water, and statistically speaking, there was a chance (however remote) that he might catch one.

We later learned from our neighbors that their secret was to use live worms to pull up the catfish, not lures.

Not that I'd have wanted the boys pulling up those scum-sucking bottom dwellers anyway. Especially from that murky green water. *shudders* I don't 'do' cleaning fish. Especially fish with long, creepy whiskers.

I was content to take pictures and try to keep little brother from meeting an early demise at the water's edge.

Who knew that bees, and deep water, and sharp tri-hooked fishing lures and knives and ducks swimming past our fishing hole could cause such diversions for an inquisitive two year old?

Later that evening, after a short siesta for us all, thanks to Judah not having had his much-needed nap, we dropped the boys off with daddy's mom for a couple of hours, and were off to an Awana leader's appreciation dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant.

Good food, great fellowship...it was lots of fun.

I came home ready to got straight to sleep.

However, instead of going to bed like a rational human being, I decided to stay up late once again yakking with my dad.

I'm quite sure he thought I was insane, expending thousands of words on all manner of mundane topics until the wee hours of the morning.

This SAHM business, and interacting with only a toddler for hours a day on most days, has done strange things to my social skills.

I find I'm a little too desperate eager some days for adult conversation.

So much so that I'm downright chatty with telemarketers and wrong number calls. To the point where they cut me off. And then I cry, feeling dejected.

Okay, so maybe it's not that bad, but you get the picture.

Yes, my bloggy peeps, in real life, I have become one of those obnoxious mothers of a preschooler who yaps incessantly not letting others get a word in edgewise. (I have seen the light, however, and am actively working to curb this behavior.)

However, my dad did a pretty fair job of getting his two cents in. Gave me a real run for my money, truth be told. Finally, about 2:30 AM we had exhausted every possible topic, and headed for bed.

Early Friday morning, my dad left to meet up with a buddy a couple of hours away. My dad had brought one of his motorcycles along in the back of his truck because they planned on going for a scenic ride through Yosemite on my dad's way home.

Thankfully it's nowhere near Sturgis or places usually haunted by Hell's Angels, because I'm afraid dad and his buddy look like a couple of movie stars.



Minus the fancy riding jackets and bandanas.

Maybe more like the GoldWing version of Wild Hogs.

With flannel jackets.

And riding helmets with 2 way radios in them.

"Yep-a-doodle!"