We were driving down the main highway in my home town. It was under construction, and the lane in which we were to drive seemed to be too narrow to drive. So I straddled the finished part of the lane on the left and the unfinished on the right.
My wife, in whose car we were driving, asked why I was driving like that.
“Because, the lane isn’t wide enough,” I explained.
She watched the orange traffic barrels whizzing past her window for a moment, then looked ahead.
Calmly, she said, “You’re going to hit the barrel.”
“I’m not gonna hit the barrel.”
She repeated with firmness, “You’re going to hit the barrel.”
“I’m not gonna hit the barrel.” I replied. I hate it when she offers driving suggestions. I know how to drive. I’ve had a driver’s license as many years as I have not.
With some concern she reiterated: “You’re going to hit the barrel.”
I was mad. I gritted my teeth.
“I’m NOT going…”
THUD!
…
I looked over and saw the passenger side mirror folded flat against the car. I could clearly read the message about objects being closer than they appear.
…
“I guess I hit the barrel.”
There is cruel irony in the inability to open the Tupperware in which your delectable French silk pie is cradled.
I took the boys to Quarry Quest this last weekend. Mom conveniently bowed out of baking in the hot sun in a shadeless, rock-strewn quarry. In my mind, it was better than the pouring rain in a mud-filled quarry like last year. The boys and I searched for fossils in quarry rock, prospected for fool’s gold, and lobbed rocks at signs like a bunch of hooligan middle school students.
We took a tour of the quarry in a giant dump truck, but the kids weren’t to interested in the other construction equipment. Our older son didn’t even ask about the cherry pickers this year, and most likely our younger didn’t realize all there was to do. His favorite part of Quarry Quest? The shuttle bus. “There’s a bus, Dada, there’s another bus!”