Austrians, Fishies, and Bears. (Oh, My!!)

What would you do if you won the lottery today?  My answer always shocks people, but I swear it's the honest truth.  Before the ink had dried on the winning check, I'd hire a driver.  Full time.

Not one with a fancy limo, mind you, my own car would do just fine.  I just want someone to pick me up and take me where I want to go while I sit in the backseat, contentedly reading the paper, sipping coffee, or napping.

I really, really hate to drive.  I'm using the word "hate" here, preceded by the adverb "really."  Really. Hate it.  Actually, I don't mind long road trips.  I love packing up the car, filling the backseat cooler with sodas and snacks, and hitting the dusty trail.  Just don't ask me to drive. (Because I hate it.)

I think one of the reasons for my intense dislike (or hatred) may be that driving, particularly on long trips, makes me very, very sleepy.  I can pound the coffee, take shots of "5 Hour Energy Drink," smack myself in the face several times, and still, my eyelids will grow heavy after only a few minutes.

I'll admit, this happens when I'm a passenger as well.  The first road trip that Alan and I took together, he estimated that we had been on the highway for exactly five miles when he looked over and saw me completely unconscious in the passenger seat!  He was amazed!

I explained to Alan, in my defense, that my highway-related sleepiness is something I come by honestly.  I've been trained.  Here's how:

Throughout my childhood, my Dad worked carpentry and coaching/referee jobs in addition to his teaching gig.  He did this so he could afford to take his wife and five children on vacation every summer.  Each August, we'd drive ten hours up to his fellow teacher-friend's cabin on the Key River, in Ontario, Canada.  There was also an amazing summer when he bought a used Shasta camper (the pull-behind-the-car kind!), and took us (and Grandma Simmons!) on a six-week trek out West, to California and back!  Lots and lots of driving, and my Dad did it ALL.

Dad was a very organized traveler.  He insisted we leave for each trip no later than four o'clock.  In the morning.  Seriously.  He said this was to beat the traffic, but as I've grown older, I know this to be a big, fat lie.  See, these were the days LONG before comfy mini-vans, personal DVD players, and Gameboys.  We kids had books, one toy each, and a couple of travel Bingo cards.  Our vehicle was a station wagon, complete with "hump" inside.  I can tell you, it grew old pretty quick.

Dad insisted we leave at 4:00 am because he knew he'd have four or five hours of blissful QUIET while we all slept.  We'd literally go to bed in our traveling clothes the night before the trip.  Then, in the dark of early morning, Mom and Dad would pack up the wagon (that's a stock photo on the right, but it looked a LOT like this!), start it up, then come wake us to get in the car.  It was seamless, we'd be back asleep before Dad got the Chevy out of "park."

But eventually, we'd awaken, and all bets were off.  Dad would notice us stirring, then slump a little in the driver's seat, knowing what was inevitably about to start:  Girl Scout songs.  Lots of them.  ALL of them.

My three sisters and I were all very involved in the Girl Scout program. Our Mom even served as troop leader for the majority of our involvement.  As a Girl Scout, for one week in July, we attended a residential, sleep-in-tents camp, where we hiked, swam, roasted marshmallows, and learned many, many, many campfire songs.

Weird, stupid songs.  Let's see, there was one about the Austrian who went yodeling on a mountain top, a bear that chased the singer up a tree, a "fishy" that got frozen in the bay, and another that made absolutely no sense whatsoever, called "Doodeley-Doo."  All the songs, of course, had corresponding hand motions. We executed them all to perfection.

So, my poor father was subjected to hour after torturous hour of his four daughters, along with his wife (Mom enjoyed those obnoxious tunes WAY too much!), belting out song after song, along with the appropriate hand and arm choreography.  For years, we thought my brother, Jack, the baby, had ear infections.  He was constantly grabbing his ears and screaming in pain whenever our "car concerts" began (I was just kidding about that last part, but the kid HAD to have been in agony!!).

Recently, in a rare, non-comatose moment on a car trip, I decided to perform several of those old Girl Scout songs for Alan.  I got about half-way through the "Austrian Yodeling" song when he loudly, abruptly joined in and changed the song's lyrics to something about the Austrian happening upon a nuclear bomb.  "BOOM!  And he DIED.  EVERYBODY DIED.  THE END," Alan raged.  I sat in silence for a few minutes with my arms crossed, staring out the front windshield. Finally, I quietly quipped, "That's NOT how it goes."  He told me I looked tired and suggested I take a nap.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my Dad suffered a stroke over Christmas, and is still recovering at a rehab facility.  My sister, Jennifer, and I visited him there recently when he was having a particularly bad day.  He was tired, he didn't feel good, and he was refusing to take his meds.  The nurse stood their holding the paper cup containing the pills, but nothing anyone did could get him to swallow them.

Suddenly, I had an idea.  I sat in a chair at the foot of his bed and declared, "Dad, you either take those pills, or I start singing the 'Fishy' song.  Loudly."  Dad turned to me, terror flashing in his eyes, trying to determine whether or not I was bluffing.  I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, about to let the first strain fly.  At that, my father grabbed those pills and downed them faster than Lindsey Lohan doing shots at a tequila bar, then held up his hands in defeat.

Powerful thing, that Fishy song.  Gives me ideas.  Just think of it -- Today: Dad's meds.  Tomorrow: World Hunger!  But first, a nap.  Where's my driver?

Thanks for reading!