Saturday Centus #6 - Stolen Moments

Welcome to Saturday Centus, Friday edition. I've been gone on a two week family vacation and have missed weeks four and five. Though I can't get in on those linkys, I'm still accepting the challenge. Look for those two later. For now, here's my take on this week's prompt, in bold italics. For other great Centus tales (which you have only 100 words to complete, not counting the prompt) please visit the fab Jenny Matlock. This challenging meme is her brilliant idea.

It’s true, the smell of freshly mowed grass can stay with you for years, for decades. Sighing, she remembers that verdant scent, the summer haze, tousled blanket, legs intwined. Smiles exchanged, giggles shared. Did we really finish that wine? Too bad. I feel silly, want to be sillier. Kisses. Caresses. But time is her nemesis. She watches him drive away, waving from his convertible, charismatic grin firmly in place. And resolution, too. Resolution she reluctantly shares. These stolen moments had to end, she knew that. Taking a last deep breath, saving it all, she walks back to her car, her life. Which cannot include him. And now sitting in her wheelchair, she remembers it all.

Other great Centus tales are found here.

V is for Volkswagen @ Life is Good

Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?   I do.   I believe even unpleasant events can be used to shape us, mold us, grow us. I believe that God is working it all together for my good, even though I don't always understand the method or reason. And in my case, it's usually been big hit-you-over-the-head-with-a-freight elevator type of events that are needed to get my attention. For example, the car I was driving catching on fire.

I graduated from Colorado State in the spring of 1988. By this time, The Swede had gotten another promotion and the rest of my family were living in Virginia. I'd made plans to enjoy some time off, then begin the serious job hunting. Swissie's car needed to get to Virginia, since she had started the school year as a Coloradoan, and ended it as a Virginian, and wasn't allowed to take her beloved Volkswagen Rabbit to St. Paul with her. We cooked up a great solution. I'd drive her car to Minnesota, spend a day there with her, then together we'd drive the rest of the way to Virginia, and I'd stay a few weeks, enjoying the Briarpatch and all it has to offer. I'd then fly home. Sounds like a great plan, right? Yeah, I thought so too.

The first day of driving was uneventful, and besides the boredom of being by myself, all was going just fine thankyouverymuch. After spending the night in a cheap, flea-bag motel at the side of the road, I headed out. I had it all mapped out to arrive in St. Paul by dinner time, and was anxious to see Swissie. Lunch took a bit longer than I had planned because I couldn't put down the book I was reading, but I had plenty of caffeine in my system by the time I got back on the road. Towards mid afternoon, I stopped for my last time. Filled up the tank, checked the oil, took a pit stop myself, and was ready to tackle that last 120 miles.

It wasn't long before I started to have this feeling that I should pull over. But I argued with myself, “Why? You took care of ALL the necessities at your last stop. Keep going!” But the feeling just got stronger, so I pulled of the road at the next available exit. Feeling foolish, standing there beside the car that didn't need anything, I thought, what the heck, I'll check the oil again. Better than standing here doing nothing. I had no more opened the hood then the engine burst into flame!

I freaked out, reaching for the nearest liquid I could find to put out the fire. That turned out to be windshield washing fluid from the outdoor display. (Yes, not a good choice, but I did tell you I was freaking out.) As I'm starting to pour, someone grabs my wrist from behind, gently pushes me away, and douses the fire with a fire extinguisher. That compassionate trucker just says, “There you go, little lady. Fire's out now.” Still not having regained ANY sense, I sit down in the driver's seat to start the engine. “WHAT are you doing?” he asks me. “I'm seeing if it will start.” “Honey, your engine is MELTED. It's not going to start.” Enough sense returns and I realize what a predicament I'm in and immediately start bawling. Mr. Big Rig opens the door and helps me out, and with his arm around my shoulder, leads me into the convenience store of the gas station, and straight to the owner. “This little lady's car just burnt up. She needs your help.”

After waiting patiently for me to calm down, the owner lets me use his phone. Remember, no cell phones yet. I try calling The Swede. He's out of the office, she doesn't know for how long. I call DataBoy, and crying again, I tell my story. “Bummer, dude.” Bummer didn't even begin to describe this disaster. I tell him so. Not so kindly. But he agrees to keep trying to track down my Dad, and I wait. Pretty soon The Swede calls. Fresh tears flow, and the Good Samaritan takes the phone since I'm not making any sense. They converse. You see, this was in the middle of nowhere. This tiny town in Iowa was only two blocks square. No bus service. No rental cars (not that they'd have rented to a 22 year old) no taxi, no transportation out. I was completely stuck.

However, the Good Samaritan turned out to be a saint. He promptly closed the store, put me in his car, and we went to his home to pick up his wife. This kind grandpa and grandma were going to drive me the whole way to “The Cities.” Grandma was thrilled with the adventure, and just dropped whatever she was doing and got in. Can you imagine? He's losing revenue now that his store is closed, and they have volunteered for a 240 mile round trip. Just like that. It's nice to know that compassion is alive and well.

So my adventure ended early. Swissie and I each grabbed a flight the next day, headed in opposite directions. But the day after I got back, I got a call from the principal at a nearby middle school. Would I like to interview for the seventh grade math position? Yes, I sure would. Of all the choices a secondary math teacher has, this had been my first choice. With no voicemail and no answering machine, I wouldn't even have known about it had I been vacationing. And I got the job, teaching there for the next eight years. All made possible because of that fire. Turns out there was a leak in the fuel line, it had pooled on the manifold, and had I been driving, that fire would have spread quickly to the passenger compartment, and engulfing me. It's my firm belief that God turned me around and sent me home to get the job. I just wonder, did it have to be a fire? Surely He could have gotten my attention in a less dramatic way.

For other great posts featuring the letter V, head over to the fab Jenny Matlock and her Alphabe-Thursday meme.

We Are Easily Entertained

One of our favorite places as kids was the sandbar. Our tributary of the Chesapeake Bay, as I've told you before, is Mill Creek. It's just off of Whitehall Bay, which is the last “indentation” on the west side, before the Bay Bridge. We live almost at the end of the creek, and just after one of its big bends. This bend has a sandbar which extends MUCH further than anyone would suspect.

During my childhood, watching big sailboats with fixed keels get stuck there was quite the entertainment. We'd be lounging on the dock as described in my last post (well, not quite, because at that age I didn't have a glass of chardonnay in my hand) and see boats making their way up creek, looking for an overnight anchor. “Do you think he'll change course?” “I think he hits the sandbar, but barely, and gets away with it.” “No way! He's going to get stuck and then we'll have to go drag him off as usual.” “It's not MY turn.” Casual bets were made.

When they got stuck, we'd have mercy on them. There was usually a power boat at the Briarpatch, at first the one belonging to my grandparents, later the one we owned for one short summer (this was when DataBoy was in high school, he's more the fast engine versus sailing) and even later, Aunt Risky's boat. We'd head across the creek, explain about the sandbar, drag them off, and send them on their way. (It was much to our delight that later The Swede found an article in a sailing magazine, chronicling this very phenomenon. “Locals enjoy watching boats get stuck. But if you make it past the sandbar, you'll have a great place to anchor for the weekend.”) However, it's probably that article which also prompted the eventual placement of the marker (warning others of the sandbar) which ended that fun.

But there were still good times to be had at the sandbar. It was great swimming! Around our dock, you always swim with shoes. During my childhood, we had a pair of “Briarpatch sneakers” and our “other” pair. The designated shoes were usually last year's outgrown ones, but we made do. Better squished toes, than stepping on a barnacle encrusted rock, a holly leaf, or an actual crab, ready to pinch you. But at the sandbar, you could ditch the shoes full of the accumulated yuck that was scraping your skin, and let your emancipated feet dance in the sand. Soft sand. Sand that squished beneath your toes. We kids were allowed to take the rowboat, or the canoe out there BY OURSELVES to swim. It was grand.

Now it's my own boys and their generation of cousins who take the kayaks out there to glory in the sand. But if you're cousins and there's some sort of disagreement...then maybe the one of you who rode the taco out there behind the kayak might just take that kayak, leaving its previous customer stranded to swim home, dragging that taco back. Not an easy feat. All because of some sort of boy-conflict reason. But since neither party wished to press charges, we let the matter drop. After all, vacations are too short to be spent arguing, there are crabs that need catching, and plenty of water for all.

The One About the Kayak

No vacation is really complete without at least one embarrassing incident. I usually prefer it be someone besides me, but alas, such is not usually the case.

Our days at the Briarpatch kind of all blend together in one collage of water, boats, sun, libations, power lounging, and crabbing. Relatives come and go, meals are thrown together at the last minute by whomever has been shopping last. We've done this so many times over the years, it really does just flow now. You gotta embrace that mentality, though, or you'll spend a lot of time contacting people and planning things that inevitably don't work out quite the way you imagined. It's called vacation people, please just relax and enjoy. (Not that the family members to whom this applies are reading this...but it needs to be said.)

A typical day starts with The Engineer making big breakfast. Pork fat of some sort, eggs of some variety, bread of some category, whether “bread” is waffles or pancakes or actual bread fried in bacon drippings. (You do know that what you eat on vacation doesn't count, right?) The Engineer making breakfast means I sleep in. Wow. That's my definition of vacation.

Then commences the sunscreen battle. “Why do I need it? I'm already tan!” “ My legs are going to be in the water ALL DAY.” Shut up, don the sunscreen. And be grateful that the hideous burn/rash on those legs isn't worse. That the scabby, peeling mess that used to be an earlobe didn't just give up and jump ship.

Head on down to the dock, following the path that's been used for over forty years. Grab your chair, and commence some serious lounging. Watch the kids play on the “relaxation station” (there are SUPPOSED to be pictures of all of this, but my pesky camera has decided not to let me have them...grrrr.) This is a ten foot diameter floating round sofa, complete with cup holders, and netting in the middle. Perfect to slide into and cool off, then climb back on the sofa with very little effort. Or you might enjoy the “hamster ball”. This five foot diameter ball with one way in was great fun for the kids. You can run in it just like a hamster, but if you get going really fast, it will spin out of control and dump you out. But kids love that. You could also choose the kayaks. Either get in over at the boat launching ramp, or climbing in from the dock. May I suggest NOT getting in from the dock during low tide? Yup, learned that the embarrassing way.

We had four kayaks, borrowed from DataBoy. The plan was to get our whole family in them, and then he'd take our picture. Um, yeah. There I was, just about to get in, and realizing how far down it was. But I'm no chicken (just a klutz).  I decide to get on my stomach and use my arm strength (stop laughing) to lower myself in with both feet at the same time, then quickly sit down.   And it almost worked. I let go of the dock, tried to sit down, and just as I think I'm golden, I teeter  just a tad to the left. But in a kayak, a tad is too much and I was immediately dumped overboard, losing my glasses and favorite hat, and getting bonked on the head by that same kayak. In three feet of water. Retrieve glasses and hat. Try to right the kayak. Too much water in it. How in the on earth do people handle this when they can't stand? It took The Engineer AND DataBoy to empty it. All the while teasing and tormenting me. If my brother hadn't been wearing a camera, I would have shoved him in. But as he pointed out, it could have been worse. He could have been wearing his video camera. Oh well, the water was refreshing, and we did get our picture. I'll post it when DataBoy sends it.

Crabs, Glorious Crabs

I thought I'd start the tales of our adventures with one of my favorite meals. You may recall from my R is for Restaurants that I love Maryland blue crabs. I wrote the beginning of this one evening as we were getting them ready...and am finishing it now.

We're having crabs tonight. Crabs that we caught ourselves. Armed with string, rib bones, bones from our fried chicken lunch, and chicken necks from the bait shop, we managed to pull in over 25 legal little bottom dwellers. I've been crabbing since I was nine, and am pretty good at the gentle yet relentless tugging of the line, crab wiggling and gnawing away, oblivious to the waiting net. My boys have gotten good at it, too. It does take patience, because if you're not sly enough, they will let go and skedaddle away. But hopefully just to next piece of waiting, rotting, greasy treat.

Fixing them is pretty easy. All you need is a big double boiler, water, vinegar, and most importantly, Old Bay seasoning. Put the water and vinegar (about one part vinegar to two parts water) in the bottom of the pan, sprinkle in Old Bay liberally, and bring to a boil. Once it's boiling, dump the unsuspecting suckers into the steamer basket with lid, and wait a half hour. Once they're dead (you'll know when the clawing at the side of the pot stops...) dump more Old Bay directly on them. (Wouldn't want their last minutes on earth to be spent with Old Bay stinging they're eyes...we are humane, after all.)

Eating crab is an acquired skill, best perfected with lots of practice. It's important to have a veteran show you how. My high school best friend's dad taught me well, and If I'd thought to take pictures, I could give you a whole tutorial. But I was too busy picking them to stop, wash my hands, and do that. So here's a rough overview. Get all the meat out. Just kidding! But seriously, it takes patience. The sign of a sloppy picker (Exhibit A: YellowBoy) is being the first done with your crab. I had given him a large one, because they are easier, but I got more meat out of his “finished” crab than out of my medium fellow.

The basic concept is each leg has it's own muscle compartment, and that's the meat you want to eat. If you've done all the other steps right, you should be able to just slide you finger through that channel, poking all the meat out. And cracking the claws is just like eating snow crab, or king crab, only on a smaller scale. But in my opinion, it's not the claw that has the choicest meat, it's the back fin. To get that meat out, I do it a bit differently than on the legs. I remove all the shell, and then with my secret (well not anymore...) twist-n-push-in-twist-n-pull-out move, I can get the whole back fin lump in one try. That morsel is so tasty!

And sitting on the back deck, watching the day turn into evening into night, with this view, 

I was savoring every moment. I wish you blue crab in your future.

Home

I am home again, and reminded of something my Farfar used to say. “Borta bra, men hemma best.” (That's Swedish, my native language, and means, “Away is fine, but home is best.”) It's so true.

I love the road, I really do. Love watching the miles pile up, love stopping at all of the states' “Welcome Centers” to see what they claim as fame in their slice of the vast country, love to eat all my meals out. But home is:

Not having to put down toilet paper on every toilet you use.

Sleeping in your own bed again.

(That's NOT in the same room as your children.)

It's the weeds in your garden, and overtaking your strawberries, but you have STRAWBERRIES! (Which hadn't begun to ripen when you left.)

It's loads and loads of laundry, but no coins needed.

It's your house's familiar smells, even if one of them is the rotten tomato, forgotten on the counter for over two weeks.

And it's checking your email, on a screen bigger than your beloved iPhone...

I'm glad to be home, but exhausted. And I can't wait to write again. See you tomorrow!

If this is Thursday...I think I'm in Indiana

Wow, I've missed this. Missed you. I'd gotten very used to the indulgence of writing and posting daily. This two week “sabbatical” has been a learning and growing experience, as I think most family vacations are. I have a lot of stories, and they're all swimming around in my head. For tonight, I think I'll just make a list of...stuff. And get to the “serious” writing later.

“Stuff” I've learned:

It takes a LOT of sunscreen to keep a family of four in the sun for two weeks. And they'll still get burned, have a rash, itch, complain, turn their feet purple when the sand abrades said sunscreen off, and then peel. But love every minute of it.

An eighth of a tank of gas isn't enough to take nine people tubing, taco-ing (inflatable, draggable water toy which folds you into it like a...taco) and water skiing. You will need the nice people in the yellow speedboat to drag you to the fuel station, take a representative home for the credit card, and then deliver her back to that fuel station. And it's VERY hot on a boat that isn't moving.

Some people have a strange definition of rest. They ride they're ancient bicycle around the rest area, in circles, round and round again, while you wait for your children to conclude their “business”.

Whenever you get three generations of family together, someone will irritate someone. Daily.

Sailing is like riding a bike. The skill never leaves you, no matter how long it's been since you've had the pleasure.

Kayaks tip over if you're not careful.

Even seemingly innocuous waves can knock you on your a#$, and make you lose your second pair of sunglasses.

It's a really long walk from the Bureau of Printing and Engraving to the National Air and Space Museum. In 95 degree heat. With 147% humidity. And no lungs. But it works pretty well to sit against a wall to recover while your intrepid men continue on to several exhibits. If you fall asleep, no one bothers you. And they have air-conditioning.

I can survive without popcorn every night. Just don't ask me to do it two nights in a row.

Though lots has changed over the years, the boardwalk is just as sleazy as ever. You'll still find the desperate girls seeking the attention of the ogling boys (while wearing far too little clothing,) the shopkeepers promising you something for nothing, and greasy, over-priced food. (Though I will admit that I've never seen deep-fried Oreos before...and probably shouldn't again. Just watching my men devour them sent my blood sugar to dangerous levels.)

There's never enough time to do all that you've planned. But plenty to savor along the way. We have two more days of driving, and then we're home. I'm melancholy that our vacation is almost over, but parts of me are looking forward to my regular routine. Life is still good. Even the regular days.