Transportation tales

Frost on the Windshield

Thursday morning was a hoar frosty morning. The view through the windshield was kind of neat. I felt bad that had to defrost it so I tried to take a picture first. It worked!

Frost on the windshield reminds me of a Depeche Mode song I like. Excuse me while I go listen to it.

(And if you know the song I mean, hope you go listen to it too:>)

© Lizann Flatt, www.lizannflatt.com
No part of this blog may be used without written permission from the author.

A Big Backstory

Last Friday morning I walked my son into the high school’s office to sign him in as late. The first secretary looked up and pointed out the late registration secretary around the corner of the desk. This second secretary looked up from her keyboard and said, “Is the reason for the lateness: family, weather, an appointment, or something else?”

Um…what? Which category? Which one category? My brain couldn’t process that. My reasons fit into a bunch of those categories. In fact, I had a whole backstory full of reasons. So I stood there like an idiot. How the heck could I distill my morning to fit into just one category? So out spilled the whole sorry story.

What I told them went something like this:

I got up early, got the girls breakfast and drove [in treacherous snowy weather] to skating rink for 7am. I found out my son had missed the bus because hubby was stuck in a ditch and didn’t get home to wake him up. After arranging for another mom to take the girls to school, I drove [in treacherous snowy weather] past home to find hubby at the roadside getting his vehicle towed. I drove [in treacherous snowy weather] hubby home to change clothes, also picked up son, and drove [in treacherous snowy weather] to town to drop hubby at a critically important appointment in one end of town and then drove [in treacherous snowy weather] to the other end of town to sign son in at school. And I needed to leave immediately because I had to drive back home [in treacherous snowy weather] to the village library where I was now likely to be a few minutes late for my annual job evaluation, after which time I could expect hubby’s text so I could drive back into town [in treacherous snowy weather] to pick him up, and then drive [in treacherous snowy weather] back home again. Did I mention that town and home are like 20 minutes apart in good weather?

Gad, no wonder those secretaries laughed at me. And no wonder no one wants to have an entire backstory dumped on them at once.

© Lizann Flatt, www.lizannflatt.com
No part of this blog may be used without written permission from the author.

In Search of the Thief

I found myself earlier this month chauffeuring my son to a hockey thing that was over an hour’s car ride away. Imagine my delight when he brought along a book to help pass the time.

He was reading The Thief by Megan Whalen Turner, a book I’d already read and recommended to him. (Why yes, that is me feeling a moment of parental satisfaction.) On the way home he begged for some ice cream so we stopped at a McD’s off the highway. After we got back on the road and the ice cream was devoured, he went to pick up the book where he left off.

But the book was nowhere to be found.

He searched as best he could while seat belted in but no luck. I assured him we’d find it once I pulled over. So I did just that. We searched and searched. No Thief under the front seats, not under the middle seats, not in the door pockets, not in the glove box, not wedged under the crap on the tray between driver and front passenger.

Gen had gone missing. With one chapter to go.

In addition to feeling acute sympathy for my son being denied the ending of a good book I couldn’t bear to think that perhaps we’d abandoned Gen in the McD’s parking lot some 35km back down the road. My poor book, perhaps lying there abandoned at the mercy of seagulls and tires and the weather. That’s no way to treat a good read. On the other hand, it would be about a half hour back. Then another half hour to return to where we were. I waffled. My son said he’d just buy me another copy of the book. But it bugged me too much.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave it.

I had to know if it was back at McD’s lot. I had to attempt the rescue. So back down the road I drove. I parked near our former parking space only to watch a big old beige Buick pull into the spot. The view of the pavement was now obstructed, plus it was getting dark, so it would be tricky to see if The Thief was lying there. Um, could we go looking around under the car without looking like thieves ourselves? Well, no. We looked suspicious but we did it anyway.

No luck. No book.

So it was back into the Odyssey, me feeling disappointed the whole 35km back to the turnaround point and further on up the road. Maybe someone else had picked up the book and was enjoying it. That was somewhat comforting.

We arrived home, unloaded all the junk from the car… and found The Thief tucked inside the folded down 3rd row seat.

All that for nothing? Yes and no. I guess just like a good book, it ended well. And there’s a lot of satisfaction to be had in that.

© Lizann Flatt, www.lizannflatt.com
No part of this blog may be used without written permission from the author.

Directions or Descriptions?

Ah, Muskoka. Where I live. And where directions to someone’s place are more like descriptions. They include phrases such as:

  • I do not know her address 
  • She lives on This Road off of That Road 
  • It is on the left hand side a little ways past the dam 
  • There is a red sign but it’s spelled wrong 
  • You go down that road past the house on the right to the next house on the right 

and then a phone number “in case you get confused.”

Which I did.

So I had a nice detour down a remote rut and crater infested road I’d never driven before. The shoulders were either non-existent or so soft and squishy I feared executing a 3-pointer would mire the Odyssey in mud. I followed the road all the way to the end before turning around. But I got to my destination.

Descriptions. They lead to places you’ve never been before. Isn’t that what writing is all about?

© Lizann Flatt, www.lizannflatt.com
No part of this blog may be used without written permission from the author.