It’s that time of the year when Kathie and I get ready to head to northern New York to open our modest camp on the St. Lawrence River. It’s a laborious task made even more arduous by the 4-1/2 hour trip to get there. But obviously, we do it because the good times far outweigh the burdens as we maintain … the Labor Camp.
Hauling the boat up there is a project in and of itself. I had to get the trailer registered and fit to roll. Naturally, as is the case every year, one of the blinker lights didn’t work. It had to be fixed before I could get it to pass inspection and on the road. So …
I took the boat and trailer into the garage down the street. There I had the light fixed and got the whole rig inspected. I drove it back to the house and pulled into the backyard. There, I could easily load the boat with stuff that I didn’t have room for in the truck — things like garden tools, weed whacker and fishing equipment.
We have a lot of stuff there at the river, but quite frankly, we forget what we leave behind and I want to make sure that when we get there, we have the proper tools necessary to work ourselves to about eight clicks beyond what the human body is physically capable of doing. Why? Because once we’re there, it’s Murphy’s Law on steroids: “Anything that can wrong, will go wrong … over and over again.” and we simply gotta get ‘er done, as they say.
I know what you’re thinking: “Why doesn’t he just make a list when he closes up every year of the stuff he leaves, in case he forgets?”
Well, I do. But I forget where I put the list. Or I find it on the kitchen table at the camp when we go back to reopen it the following year.
Anyhow, it wasn’t until after everything was loaded and we were set to roll, at first light next morning, when I noticed something: The trailer’s blinker light was not working again. I wasn’t surprised; the same thing happens every year. It doesn’t matter where I take it to get it fixed, the same thing happens. However, I was undaunted, “undaunted” because …
I have a master’s degree in rationalization, bestowed upon me by Professor Kathie Valley, and I justified it was good enough to go because the 240-mile trip has only three right turns and one left turn all the way there to the river. But note, I don’t count the signaling I’m required to do while changing lanes on the Thruway because, well, then I’d have to put that in the worry box and be concerned about it. It’s kinda related to the “outta sight, outta mind” concept of ignoring really important stuff that might interfere with your single-minded plans just waiting to explode. “Hand me a match, will ya, I wanna see if this sign says ‘Caution: dynamite’.”
Another trick I’ve used in the past — successfully, I’m embarrassed to admit — is to act totally upset if I do get pulled over for a signal light violation. “What?” I question, quite miffed, “I just paid $319 to get that ###thing fixed!”
“Officer,” I ask as I rip off my seat belt, “can you please sit here and turn the blinkers on and off, then step on the brake pedal for me, so I can see for myself. That gol-dang mechanic ##%5E% me, big time!”
Thank God that most of the people out there protecting us on a daily basis have at least a modicum of empathy and feel bad about my situation and let me off the hook … even though my predicament is deceitfully embellished.
And a funny thing about being untruthful nowadays is that it’s an accepted form of doing business, even at the highest level of office in our country. “It was just hyperbole … I was joking.” Yeah, OK. #!#!!
“And this year’s Oscar goes to ‘The Lying King’.”
Where was I? Sorry, I tend to get side-tracked. Oh yeah: getting ready for the next morning’s departure.
While I was in the yard packing, Kathie was noticeably missing from the action. That’s unlike her. I went inside the house … nothing. She was nowhere to be seen. I checked to see if her car was there. Gone. I figured she must have run to the store.
After an hour, I texted her, wondering.
She replied that she was in an urgent care facility tending to rashes that had popped up overnight. She didn’t tell me, she explained, lest I worry. Great.
“And I wish they’d hurry up,” she texted, “I’ve been sitting here waiting forever.” I told her to try to relax so they could figure out the problem. “Just a small bump in the road,” I tried to reassure her.
“Well,” she shot back, “speed bump number two is dead ahead. I’ve got a root canal scheduled in an hour.”
Murphy’s Law is expanding its jurisdiction. Stay tuned, right here, for what happens next, in the continuing saga of our woe-is-us, whiny, privileged senior citizens’ lives. But for now …
That’s the way it looks from the Valley.