I still think silent letters in any language are beyond stupid. All they do is make spelling hard.
Last Sunday morning around 2:30 I awoke coughing and with my windpipe on fire. Not just burning but shooting three-foot flames out like some kind of dragon. I tried some Pepto but it just cooled my throat and turned my poop dark. Evidently I had acid reflux and aspirated some. I'd had that happen before but never that bad. It kept me up all night hardly able to breathe.
I spoke with the on-call nurse at the Base and she said to call 911. I thought she was crazy at first but then realized she was right. After all, if an old fat diabetic guy called me about having chest pains I'd have him call 911 too.
It was cool knowing the siren I could hear was actually coming for me. The EMTs wired me for sound (EKG) and found no heart problem (phew) and said I should to the ER. My favorite way to kill a few hours. By this time my shortness of breath was the big problem so off we went to St Josephs Hospital.
If you ever want to be seen quickly at an ER, show up as an old fat guy with shortness of breath and chest pains. It works like a champ. It didn't get me out any sooner, but I did get seen quickly. The nurse must have gone to the Marquis de Sade School of starting IVs. I was way dehydrated so I know it would be harder to find a vein to hydrate me, but sweet Florence Nightingale, that's me under there.
It turned out to be pneumonia in my left lung so they pumped me full on antibiotics and sent us on our way with instructions for me to rest for a few days. I only worked two hours on Monday, six on Tuesday, and seven on Wednesday and Thursday. By then I was so tired of not being able to breathe that I stayed home today (Friday). I'll take it easy for the next two days even though it means missing the fine and pleasant misery of the father and sons camp out.
I do enjoy the time with my sons and grandsons but I really would like to breathe normally again
Friday, May 13, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Washday
Sunday seems to have become the new Thursday for me. I used to write on Thursday night but found nothing happening two Sundays ago so I wrote then planning on making that a habit. The following Sunday though, Benjamin and family came over and we played a rousing game of Boggle. I would much rather have family over to enjoy whatever we do than write this blog. Besides, even though I lost (Dan won) , it was great to see Pete get his comeuppance by losing to his little brother.
Melissa and kids came over tonight but we menfolk were at our stake general priesthood meeting so we missed them and I now have time (and quiet) to continue my (almost) weekly waste of cyberspace.
Lesley commented on my last bog that I predate Zip-lock bags. Well kiddo, I predate a whole bunch of things not the least of which is permanent-press which brings me to my topic of washday.
When our kids were young and multitudenous every day but Sunday was washday. A daily (except for Sunday) rotating chore for one of them was to fold two baskets of laundry. An eon-and-a-half ago when I was a lad washday happened about every two weeks or whenever I wanted to play ball with my buddies. It was always on Saturday when I was home from school except in the summertime when it could strike at random, unannounced, killing what would have been a fine and pleasant summer day.
We had a washing machine that was state-of the-art with TWO agitators and a wringer that could swing between them and also run in reverse. It was HUGE. You don't know what a wringer is do you?
This was way before the spin cycle was invented so to wring the water out of the clothes, you put them through two horizontal rubberized cylinders that would squeeze the water out. Then they would go into the first tub of rinse water, through the wringer, into a second tub of rinse water, back through the wringer, and into a basket to be taken to the back yard and hung on the clotheslines. Unless they were white clothes or sheets. They went into yet another tub of bluing so they would look even whiter then, you guessed it, back through the wringer. It was quite effective. Tedious, time consuming and a ton of work, but effective.
My sister Bonnie wrote a poem about washday extolling the virtues of the wonderful clean smell of the sheets and clothes as Mom would take them off the line and pile them them up in our arms. All I knew was I was missing out on playing with my friends.
The washing and drying was really only half of the chore. All but the sheets, towels, and my whitie-tighties had to be ironed. What I thought was ironic (wink, wink) at the time was Mom taking clothes that were now quite dry and sprinkling them with water so they could be ironed later. We had a dryer (or wrinkler as my Dad called it) but it was only used in inclement weather.
You've come a long way baby!
Melissa and kids came over tonight but we menfolk were at our stake general priesthood meeting so we missed them and I now have time (and quiet) to continue my (almost) weekly waste of cyberspace.
Lesley commented on my last bog that I predate Zip-lock bags. Well kiddo, I predate a whole bunch of things not the least of which is permanent-press which brings me to my topic of washday.
When our kids were young and multitudenous every day but Sunday was washday. A daily (except for Sunday) rotating chore for one of them was to fold two baskets of laundry. An eon-and-a-half ago when I was a lad washday happened about every two weeks or whenever I wanted to play ball with my buddies. It was always on Saturday when I was home from school except in the summertime when it could strike at random, unannounced, killing what would have been a fine and pleasant summer day.
We had a washing machine that was state-of the-art with TWO agitators and a wringer that could swing between them and also run in reverse. It was HUGE. You don't know what a wringer is do you?
This was way before the spin cycle was invented so to wring the water out of the clothes, you put them through two horizontal rubberized cylinders that would squeeze the water out. Then they would go into the first tub of rinse water, through the wringer, into a second tub of rinse water, back through the wringer, and into a basket to be taken to the back yard and hung on the clotheslines. Unless they were white clothes or sheets. They went into yet another tub of bluing so they would look even whiter then, you guessed it, back through the wringer. It was quite effective. Tedious, time consuming and a ton of work, but effective.
My sister Bonnie wrote a poem about washday extolling the virtues of the wonderful clean smell of the sheets and clothes as Mom would take them off the line and pile them them up in our arms. All I knew was I was missing out on playing with my friends.
The washing and drying was really only half of the chore. All but the sheets, towels, and my whitie-tighties had to be ironed. What I thought was ironic (wink, wink) at the time was Mom taking clothes that were now quite dry and sprinkling them with water so they could be ironed later. We had a dryer (or wrinkler as my Dad called it) but it was only used in inclement weather.
You've come a long way baby!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
More of Frightened Ma
I can't really blame this on my sweet mother because the time I spent as a zygote and ever-expanding young fetus took place from about mid-year 1948 to March of 1949, long before the invention of Zip-Lock bags. Plastic was a newfangled thing back then and not to be trifled with.
You couldn't even buy unused plastic bags then unless you had a bread factory or some other type of factory that made stuff to put into plastic bags. Ok, maybe that would be called a bakery but whatever, you get my point. I remember that Wonder Bread not only would build strong bodies 8 ways (whatever THAT meant), but it came in a plastic bag with multicolored balloons on it (on the bag not the bread).
Mom was way ahead of her time because she would save the bags and use them for her own bread or whatever else she might think of to put in them. My primary use for them was to wrap one around the end of a stick, light it on fire, then drip the flaming plastic onto ants, scorpions or anything else that got in the way. My bare foot did that once and taught me to wear shoes during the process.
Bottom line: plastic bags are good. At least they were until some idiot thought twist-ties weren't modern enough and came up with those stupid plastic tab thingies. Ugh! Just let well enough alone wouldja? I hate those things too. Twist ties are so much easier to deal with, which brings me back to my real subject: Zip-Lock bags.
I despise them. They are odious to the absolute max! I never know if I have sealed the dumb things or not. No matter how hard they try to make it easy for me to tell. Changing colors, making a little zipping sound, a brass band marching through the kitchen playing "Ta-Da!." I still don't know until air starts oozing out and I have to start all over.
Now Babs has paid good money for some that have TWO lines of zipitude! As if I didn't have enough trouble with just one. And the dopey things are made of plastic so thick you could use it for a tarp! A very small tarp, but a tarp none the less. What am I supposed to put in there? Cactus? Used razor blades? Broken glass? Unexploded ordnance? I just want to have a handful of goldfish with my brown bag lunch for Pete's sake.
Don't even get me started on opening them.
You couldn't even buy unused plastic bags then unless you had a bread factory or some other type of factory that made stuff to put into plastic bags. Ok, maybe that would be called a bakery but whatever, you get my point. I remember that Wonder Bread not only would build strong bodies 8 ways (whatever THAT meant), but it came in a plastic bag with multicolored balloons on it (on the bag not the bread).
Mom was way ahead of her time because she would save the bags and use them for her own bread or whatever else she might think of to put in them. My primary use for them was to wrap one around the end of a stick, light it on fire, then drip the flaming plastic onto ants, scorpions or anything else that got in the way. My bare foot did that once and taught me to wear shoes during the process.
Bottom line: plastic bags are good. At least they were until some idiot thought twist-ties weren't modern enough and came up with those stupid plastic tab thingies. Ugh! Just let well enough alone wouldja? I hate those things too. Twist ties are so much easier to deal with, which brings me back to my real subject: Zip-Lock bags.
I despise them. They are odious to the absolute max! I never know if I have sealed the dumb things or not. No matter how hard they try to make it easy for me to tell. Changing colors, making a little zipping sound, a brass band marching through the kitchen playing "Ta-Da!." I still don't know until air starts oozing out and I have to start all over.
Now Babs has paid good money for some that have TWO lines of zipitude! As if I didn't have enough trouble with just one. And the dopey things are made of plastic so thick you could use it for a tarp! A very small tarp, but a tarp none the less. What am I supposed to put in there? Cactus? Used razor blades? Broken glass? Unexploded ordnance? I just want to have a handful of goldfish with my brown bag lunch for Pete's sake.
Don't even get me started on opening them.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Don't Be Scared Ma
Sometime, somewhere, somehow I was told that if women are frightened by something when they are pregnant it can/will affect the unborn baby that is thoroughly enjoying life (up to that time anyway) in their mama's bulging belly. This I believe to be the absolute truth.
I am quite sure that during the months I spent gestating in the mobile lazy-boy of my mother's womb she must have been scared by a multitude of things. I will mention just a few here.
1. Buttons.
OK, I'm not afraid of buttons. I can touch them, hold them, and have even been known to sew one back on when absolutely necessary. I just hate them. Actually they aren't so bad on their own, but when I have to put them into those little slits in my shirts that they call button holes, I want to vomit. It's too frapping HARD! Even when I was younger and had the nimblest of fingers, it took more time that I was willing to waste just to wear a shirt with a collar. That's why tee-shirts were invented. I still think collared shirts should come with velcro instead. Don't even get me started on those stupid buttons on shirt sleeves that you have to do with one bleeding hand.
2. Peanut Butter.
Why in the world would anyone want to ruin perfectly good and tasty peanuts by turning them into PASTE? Yes, I tried the school paste. It, like peanut butter, smelled so very good but tasted like stuff you would squeeze out of Shaquille's sweat socks. Yuck, no thank you. It's like eating modeling clay and yes, I tried that too.
3. Shoe Laces.
I think this harkens back to the button thing. If they weren't so dorky looking I would wear only velcro shoes.
When I was little and living in Atomic City, Idaho we were about thirty miles from town (Blackfoot). I immensely enjoyed going to town because it meant going to at least one store (or why else would you go) and I could usually whine my Mom into getting me some candy or a toy.
One fine day I got wind of the fact that my brother Stanley was going to be taking my Mom to town as she never learned to drive in her entire 80 years. I immediately began to take up the whiny pleading to be allowed to come along. "Sure!" said Mom. What? Had I wasted my best whining just to have her cave in so soon? "Sure you can come along Ronnie." "As soon as you tie your shoes."
Rats! She had me there. I could no more tie my shoes than I could kiss my own elbow (I tried that too). I was stuck. No town, nor candy, nor toy for young Ronnie. Or so they thought. I trudged off looking as forlorn as I possibly could then ran around to the back of the trailer where the station wagon was parked and hid in the back.
And waited, and waited, and waited. I waited until I could see that we were about to cross the Snake River bridge that has Blackfoot/Camelot waiting on the other side. I jumped up and hollered, "Guess how I tied my shoes?"
At this point Stanley drove into the ditch.
After we got back on the road, Mom finally got her blood pressure down to the point where she could speak once again and asked, "How did you tie your shoes?" "The wind tied them," says I.
They were indeed tied and to this day I have no recollection as to how they got that way.
I am quite sure that during the months I spent gestating in the mobile lazy-boy of my mother's womb she must have been scared by a multitude of things. I will mention just a few here.
1. Buttons.
OK, I'm not afraid of buttons. I can touch them, hold them, and have even been known to sew one back on when absolutely necessary. I just hate them. Actually they aren't so bad on their own, but when I have to put them into those little slits in my shirts that they call button holes, I want to vomit. It's too frapping HARD! Even when I was younger and had the nimblest of fingers, it took more time that I was willing to waste just to wear a shirt with a collar. That's why tee-shirts were invented. I still think collared shirts should come with velcro instead. Don't even get me started on those stupid buttons on shirt sleeves that you have to do with one bleeding hand.
2. Peanut Butter.
Why in the world would anyone want to ruin perfectly good and tasty peanuts by turning them into PASTE? Yes, I tried the school paste. It, like peanut butter, smelled so very good but tasted like stuff you would squeeze out of Shaquille's sweat socks. Yuck, no thank you. It's like eating modeling clay and yes, I tried that too.
3. Shoe Laces.
I think this harkens back to the button thing. If they weren't so dorky looking I would wear only velcro shoes.
When I was little and living in Atomic City, Idaho we were about thirty miles from town (Blackfoot). I immensely enjoyed going to town because it meant going to at least one store (or why else would you go) and I could usually whine my Mom into getting me some candy or a toy.
One fine day I got wind of the fact that my brother Stanley was going to be taking my Mom to town as she never learned to drive in her entire 80 years. I immediately began to take up the whiny pleading to be allowed to come along. "Sure!" said Mom. What? Had I wasted my best whining just to have her cave in so soon? "Sure you can come along Ronnie." "As soon as you tie your shoes."
Rats! She had me there. I could no more tie my shoes than I could kiss my own elbow (I tried that too). I was stuck. No town, nor candy, nor toy for young Ronnie. Or so they thought. I trudged off looking as forlorn as I possibly could then ran around to the back of the trailer where the station wagon was parked and hid in the back.
And waited, and waited, and waited. I waited until I could see that we were about to cross the Snake River bridge that has Blackfoot/Camelot waiting on the other side. I jumped up and hollered, "Guess how I tied my shoes?"
At this point Stanley drove into the ditch.
After we got back on the road, Mom finally got her blood pressure down to the point where she could speak once again and asked, "How did you tie your shoes?" "The wind tied them," says I.
They were indeed tied and to this day I have no recollection as to how they got that way.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Sesenta y Dos
The title is Spanish for sixty-two because I can't remember how to spell it in French. It also coincides with the number of years I've been walking this big blue marble. Well, I guess I was carried for a while then crawled a bit but you get the picture. We had a nice get-together last Sunday evening with the Tucson Howes and the Clarks along with Aunt Lorna and Mia. Per tradition, we had earlier feasted on the meal of my choice which happens to be German pancakes and bacon.
Babs had treated me to "Zinburger's" the previous afternoon before the Wildcats lost to Washington in the PAC-10 championship game. I even whined enough that she got me a blizzard after the game to soothe my sadness.
It's way past weird being sixty-bleeding-two years old. I really didn't see it coming. Senior discounts without lying about my age. It's a good thing I love my job so much or I could collect Social Security and live off of all the taxes we all have paid over over our lifetimes.
I feel much younger of course except when I get up from a chair or am startled when I see that fat bald guy looking at me from the mirror.
The good news is that I see that guy on a regular basis staring back all red-faced while I'm straining away on some of those Spanish Inquisition machined at the "Old Man's" gym on base.
My last few doctor visits have been quite outstanding too. Who'd a thunk that diet and exercise doo doo would actually pay off.
Even at the dentist. I had an exam last Tuesday. Look Ma, no cavities! They still yang at me about flossing but I just smile, nod, and tell them "No thanks." Why mess with success? These pearly-whites have lasted me lo, these 62 years and will probably last however long I need them without putting strings in my mouth. Perhaps my mother was frightened by some dental floss while carrying me.
More on that next week...
Babs had treated me to "Zinburger's" the previous afternoon before the Wildcats lost to Washington in the PAC-10 championship game. I even whined enough that she got me a blizzard after the game to soothe my sadness.
It's way past weird being sixty-bleeding-two years old. I really didn't see it coming. Senior discounts without lying about my age. It's a good thing I love my job so much or I could collect Social Security and live off of all the taxes we all have paid over over our lifetimes.
I feel much younger of course except when I get up from a chair or am startled when I see that fat bald guy looking at me from the mirror.
The good news is that I see that guy on a regular basis staring back all red-faced while I'm straining away on some of those Spanish Inquisition machined at the "Old Man's" gym on base.
My last few doctor visits have been quite outstanding too. Who'd a thunk that diet and exercise doo doo would actually pay off.
Even at the dentist. I had an exam last Tuesday. Look Ma, no cavities! They still yang at me about flossing but I just smile, nod, and tell them "No thanks." Why mess with success? These pearly-whites have lasted me lo, these 62 years and will probably last however long I need them without putting strings in my mouth. Perhaps my mother was frightened by some dental floss while carrying me.
More on that next week...
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Time
It has been some time (more about that later) since I have been able to bore my reader(s?). I have an excuse, lame though it may be. When I was ensconced in my hotel room in Florida listening to a BYU basketball game by tuning my trusty laptop to KSL, I happened to touch the power supply and came back with 3rd degree burns. This is not right, thought I. But even after checking the connection it was still hotter than the shady side of the sun. I tried it again the next day with the same results so I figured it was toast (hee hee).
A while after I got home I had Pete order a new one online. They said it would ship in 5 or 9 weeks so I knew that poor reader would get withdrawal symptoms but, low and behold, it was delivered to our front door the very next day! It was like they had a guy waiting with his engine running just to get it to me. Cool huh?
Some time ago I got an offer in the mail to try Time magazine for $12 for a year. 52 issues for $12 seemed like a great deal to me so we got it. I was sure they would really sock it to me when it came time to renew because I was rather hooked on reading each issue from cover to cover. It seems to be much more evenhanded and not as left-leaning as most of the media.
I got a notice last year that I would need to renew if I wanted to keep getting my news fix. Now it was going to cost me $20 for a year or, get this, $30 for FOUR years. No-brainer. I'd like to think I'm much smarter now too.
February 22 was George Washington's birthday. I don't know how old he would have been since he's quite dead but my sister Bonnie (also dead) would have been 63 years old. She died in 1985, the year after being named the Utah Poet of the the Year. I wondered what she would have been like at 63. How many more poems we would have and how many more beautiful paintings and how many more young people she would have influenced in art and life.
As a tribute to her and my Dad, here is what I consider her best poem:
THE PROVIDER
He gave us all it took to get along.
Including bowls of laughter with our soup
And closets full of teasing till we cried.
He spoke too loud because he couldn't hear
With the ear that was hurt when he picked a fight
With someone twice as big and just as drunk.
I never saw my mom pass his chair
and miss a friendly grab.
Her primness tabled, she would buss him back.
His hair was mostly salted, partly black.
The caterpillar of his eyebrow
Humped above his spangle-damp brown eyes.
And he could almost flap his ears
Like they were hinged next to his head..
And he would flap in church.
Our dignity would suffer, mom's face would furrow.
For work he wore a red-plaid lumber-jacking shirt.
And boots it was mine to lace up.
As it was his to brush and braid my hair.
And he would whisker-burn and sting my cheeks
Bur how I loved that hurt and loved that man.
His rowdy life was like a rowdy day
So busy that you get caught up with it
Forgetting that the night will ever come.
Night was like his undetected fragile heart.
And like the night that came, my father died.
Thank you Bonnie.
A while after I got home I had Pete order a new one online. They said it would ship in 5 or 9 weeks so I knew that poor reader would get withdrawal symptoms but, low and behold, it was delivered to our front door the very next day! It was like they had a guy waiting with his engine running just to get it to me. Cool huh?
Some time ago I got an offer in the mail to try Time magazine for $12 for a year. 52 issues for $12 seemed like a great deal to me so we got it. I was sure they would really sock it to me when it came time to renew because I was rather hooked on reading each issue from cover to cover. It seems to be much more evenhanded and not as left-leaning as most of the media.
I got a notice last year that I would need to renew if I wanted to keep getting my news fix. Now it was going to cost me $20 for a year or, get this, $30 for FOUR years. No-brainer. I'd like to think I'm much smarter now too.
February 22 was George Washington's birthday. I don't know how old he would have been since he's quite dead but my sister Bonnie (also dead) would have been 63 years old. She died in 1985, the year after being named the Utah Poet of the the Year. I wondered what she would have been like at 63. How many more poems we would have and how many more beautiful paintings and how many more young people she would have influenced in art and life.
As a tribute to her and my Dad, here is what I consider her best poem:
THE PROVIDER
He gave us all it took to get along.
Including bowls of laughter with our soup
And closets full of teasing till we cried.
He spoke too loud because he couldn't hear
With the ear that was hurt when he picked a fight
With someone twice as big and just as drunk.
I never saw my mom pass his chair
and miss a friendly grab.
Her primness tabled, she would buss him back.
His hair was mostly salted, partly black.
The caterpillar of his eyebrow
Humped above his spangle-damp brown eyes.
And he could almost flap his ears
Like they were hinged next to his head..
And he would flap in church.
Our dignity would suffer, mom's face would furrow.
For work he wore a red-plaid lumber-jacking shirt.
And boots it was mine to lace up.
As it was his to brush and braid my hair.
And he would whisker-burn and sting my cheeks
Bur how I loved that hurt and loved that man.
His rowdy life was like a rowdy day
So busy that you get caught up with it
Forgetting that the night will ever come.
Night was like his undetected fragile heart.
And like the night that came, my father died.
Thank you Bonnie.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Being Away
Taking a page from Linda's blog, here are eleven things about being away (in no particular order):
1. Being alone. It seems like it should be nice to be alone for a change, but it really bites. When I first walk into the hotel room I think "this is really cool." That feeling lasts for about 35 seconds.
2. Cell Phones. What the heck did we do before cell phones? I know. I either ran up a huge bill, only called once a week, or, if I got lucky, was able to connect with my home base and get them to feel sorry for me and connect me with our home phone. This time I was able to talk to Babs during lunch and again in the evening.
3. Food. Eating out is also cool at first but wears off rather quickly. Thank heaven for Hampton Inn and their wonderful breakfast! Waffles, fresh and canned fruit, yogurt, cereal, eggs, bacon, toast, bagels, pastries and three kinds of juices. No, I didn't eat all of that every morning. The variety was outstanding. I did eat enough that all I wanted for lunch was a salad. Weird though, I spent 12 days on the Gulf Coast and forgot to have seafood.
4. Beds. I had two double ones in my room and no, I didn't switch from one to the other. My butt/back/body has been sleeping in a water bed for so long (years and years and years) that I have difficulty sleeping on anything that doesn't slosh.
5. Sleeping alone. I have had company (Babs, along with various and sundry kids) for almost 40 years now. Yes, it would have been crowded in a double bed but I found I still only used half of it. The best night's sleep I got on the whole trip was the two at Scott & Suzie's home on the futon without folding it down flat. Hampton Inn has the best beds so far.
6. It was wet. I don't like wet. Water is supposed to be pumped from the ground. It's not supposed to fall on your head.
7. It was cold. I don't like cold. That's why I live in Tucson (even tough it got colder there while I was gone).
8. It was wet AND cold. Those terms should be mutually exclusive.
9. Airlines. It is truly a marvelous thing to climb into a metal tube and wind up a couple thousand miles away in just a few hours. It would be nice though is the seats didn't kill my butt.
10. Rental car. They ran out of mid-size models so I had to "suffer" with a full size Mercury Something-or other. It was nice but cost more to make the trip to Birmingham.
11. Coming Home. Always the best part of the trip. The kids didn't come running up and hug my legs like they used to. But then they didn't ask what I brought for them either.
1. Being alone. It seems like it should be nice to be alone for a change, but it really bites. When I first walk into the hotel room I think "this is really cool." That feeling lasts for about 35 seconds.
2. Cell Phones. What the heck did we do before cell phones? I know. I either ran up a huge bill, only called once a week, or, if I got lucky, was able to connect with my home base and get them to feel sorry for me and connect me with our home phone. This time I was able to talk to Babs during lunch and again in the evening.
3. Food. Eating out is also cool at first but wears off rather quickly. Thank heaven for Hampton Inn and their wonderful breakfast! Waffles, fresh and canned fruit, yogurt, cereal, eggs, bacon, toast, bagels, pastries and three kinds of juices. No, I didn't eat all of that every morning. The variety was outstanding. I did eat enough that all I wanted for lunch was a salad. Weird though, I spent 12 days on the Gulf Coast and forgot to have seafood.
4. Beds. I had two double ones in my room and no, I didn't switch from one to the other. My butt/back/body has been sleeping in a water bed for so long (years and years and years) that I have difficulty sleeping on anything that doesn't slosh.
5. Sleeping alone. I have had company (Babs, along with various and sundry kids) for almost 40 years now. Yes, it would have been crowded in a double bed but I found I still only used half of it. The best night's sleep I got on the whole trip was the two at Scott & Suzie's home on the futon without folding it down flat. Hampton Inn has the best beds so far.
6. It was wet. I don't like wet. Water is supposed to be pumped from the ground. It's not supposed to fall on your head.
7. It was cold. I don't like cold. That's why I live in Tucson (even tough it got colder there while I was gone).
8. It was wet AND cold. Those terms should be mutually exclusive.
9. Airlines. It is truly a marvelous thing to climb into a metal tube and wind up a couple thousand miles away in just a few hours. It would be nice though is the seats didn't kill my butt.
10. Rental car. They ran out of mid-size models so I had to "suffer" with a full size Mercury Something-or other. It was nice but cost more to make the trip to Birmingham.
11. Coming Home. Always the best part of the trip. The kids didn't come running up and hug my legs like they used to. But then they didn't ask what I brought for them either.
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