Yesterday we drove 11/2 hours so my husband could get a COVID vaccination. Everything went well and we were on the way home about noon. With certain restrictions, restaurants and fast food outlets are open. Since we have been erring on the side of caution, Gary chose Subway and we ordered at the counter but took our food to the car.
Eating in the car is a challenge. The cup holder already held hand sanitizer and water so those items had to be moved to make room for the drinks. Then we unwrapped the subs, barked elbows against the doors, and lamented forgetting napkins.
I was about to complain about how much I disliked eating in the car when it occurred to me that in the sixties and seventies, it was an exciting thing. We lived in the sticks so there weren’t a lot of choices BUT even our pokey little town had carhops at the “Dairy Bar.” They brought your food right to the car on a tray they attached to the partially open window. Burgers, fries and drinks were distributed and it seemed so decadent. Normally honest people stole mugs from A and W. The one I took was a favourite of my Dad’s.
“We used to think it was a treat to eat in the car,” I said.
Hubbie looked at me and confessed, “On a Sunday after playing a Saturday fastball tournament, the ‘boys’ would be bored and wondering what to do. Someone would suggest driving an hour get A and W.” Good times.
Once we got home, it was time for the dog walk. Guilt at leaving them alone played on me so I took them on a more novel route. A few days earlier, the open field had been fine. It was good until we had to cross bare ground to access the sidewalk. The bare ground had turned to mud, and I sank in, loading each shoe with about 5 pounds of muck.
Ugh. I did manage to get most of it off by stamping in remaining snow and rubbing the sides of the sneakers against one another. I should know better. When my brother and I were kids growing up on the farm, the spring runoff used to divert into a ditch alongside the road. It would recede leaving the most inviting yellow, sticky clay. Yes, we’d test our rubber boots in it. After getting stuck once, we were warned sternly to “stay out of the mud.” Still we played along side the ditch and my brother went in, sank past his ankles and couldn’t move. He was the younger sibling so I should have been in charge. I tried to pull him out. Several times. He stepped out of the rubbers and I tried to pull them out. No luck. We had to leave his boots, sticking up out of the clay, and go and confess. Mud. Good times.
Then, an adventures. Now, an inconveniences. Even with the annoyances, it was a pretty good day. Old boy vaccinated and I didn’t have to call him to rescue me and the dogs from my own folly. Good times.