Thursday, April 29, 2010
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'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:
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.
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.
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!!).
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.
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!
- Anything Fits A Naked Man
- Nashville, TN, United States
- Welcome to my blog! I'm Joan, a former actress attempting to reconnect with my first love of writing. Join me as I ponder my Irish dad, sweet grandma, GPS dependency, hatred of the Hallmark channel, and other insightful topics that make you go, "Hmmm..."
- ▼ April (11)