Drei Finger hoch der Gin, das Glas im Gesicht

Except I’ve only got about two fingers in my glass, it’s sitting on the table, and it contains whiskey. And that’s a line from a song; I don’t have to explain myself.

The alcohol is causing me to reflect upon my life. Lo, it has been many years since my youth. Every family vacation a camping adventure. Tent camping, my friends: the only pure kind of camping. I’m close-minded on this score. RVs and pop-ups are fine for old folks, but let’s not kid around. This is serious shit. You there, on the air mattress – get lost. Real campers only use foam, if that.*

Anyway, hours in the car driving to Montana, to Utah, to Maine. Four kids with ten years splitting the oldest and youngest. Cheerios on shoelaces, books, coloring materials, books, Adventures in Odyssey (in the later years), books, whining, and occasionally singing. Probably some Psalty and Raffi. There’s a Hole in the Bucket, Dear Liza, Dear Liza. Mareseatoatsanddoeseatoatsandlittlelambseativy. Found a Peanut. Sweet Violets. Kum ba ya and whatnot.

One song was my Dad’s favorite. Drove my mother crazy, but we kids loved it. And, damn it, Max has got to earn his keep somehow.

This one’s for you, Dad!

*In the interest of full disclosure, it must be admitted that Himself prefers an air mattress due to back considerations. This has been a real roadblock in our marriage, as I have struggled to maintain respect for my otherwise noble and worthy husband.

~ by themeansister on October 19, 2009.