Possumblog

Where was I?

Not that it matters.

Anyway, outside into the hot. Rebecca and Catherine ran to go get their bikes, and Jonathan got out the scooter. They played and fought with each other and fussed and feuded until Jonathan had enough of the company or the climate, or both, and went inside. I stayed out of it, other than to warn of approaching vehicles.

I had bigger fish to fry anyway--those ugly spots in the tire well were making me uneasy. Got the spare out, noted it needed a good cleaning, and got some spray cleaner and doused the well. Say, whaddya know! It wasn’t rust, but hunks of tar or sealant or something that had spattered into the inside from who knows where. I got some degreaser and in not long at all, it looked brand new down in there. (As if anyone but me would care.) I remembered to take out the soggy mat from the trunk. Very odd, that. There wasn’t any rust, and the top carpet seemed dry, but the fiber mat was soaked. Maybe it was from the car wash.

Anyway, I took that out and laid it on the driveway. You all probably didn’t realize this, but laying an old dirty insulation pad on your driveway attracts children, who for some reason don’t listen to you when you keep yelling to STAY OFF THE MAT and keep stepping all over it and rolling their bicycles over it. “But my tires need air in them, Daddy!”

Oh, well, by all means, tromple all over whatever you find in the driveway, dear.

I took a break and aired her tires up while Rebecca zoomed around. “Daddy?”

“Yessssss?”

“Could you take my training wheels off so I could ride like Rebecca?”

Oh, my--quite a big step, you know. She’s the last one with training wheels (which, truth be told, are the wrong thing to teach balance with, but whatever) and she was ready to make the move to the big time.

“Well, I can take ‘em off, but now remember, you’ll have to actually balance and not make the wheels hold you up.”

“I know!”

No she didn’t. But, if she was game, so was I. Grabbed the wrench and took the wheels off and put them in the take away box. “Goodbye, training wheels!” I said. “Yay!” said she.

We rolled back out to the end of the driveway, where I walked around a bit with her and got her to roll a few feet before falling. She was actually doing okay, so I left her with big sister and went back to my cleaning, which had moved over to the other fender well, that was coated with an odd orangey film. Seems the fuel filler overflow spigots itself down through a small tube and out the bottom of the car, but some of it must have leaked, leaving a trail of varnish. Repeat cleaning procedure, and in no time, I had yet another spiffy clean trunk well on the passenger side. (Again, as if anyone cares but me.)

”WHAAAAAAA! RE-BEC-CA!”

Oh, good grief. “SHE’S NOT HELPING ME!”

Acrimony and recriminations, and Rebecca decided she had better things to do. Which left a crying Catherine in my care. So, we got a drink, then decided after we’d go back out and try it again. “If the ice cream truck comes by, can we get some?”

One thing after another.

“Cat, we’ve GOT ice cream in the freezer!”

“I knowwww.”

Winsome little turdmurkle--“Tell you what, after you get through riding, you can have some of that later.”

SO, she rode some. At some point in our perambulations, Reba went with Boy and Middle Girl to the store to look for herself some clothing, giving Tiny Girl and I a bit more room to roll. Which we did for about fifteen minutes.

“Okay! I’m finished! Let’s eat ice cream, Daddy!”

Which we did. And then it was time for the super terrific fun zone time!

“Hey, Catherine--how would you like to ride with me up to Sam’s and get gas in the Volvo, and then get some windshield wiper blades for it?”

“Can I get some balloons? Not the tiny kinds you make animals with, but the big ones--the big round ones?”

::sigh::

Guys, you’re going to have your hands full with this one when she comes of age.

I didn’t promise anything, because I really didn’t want to traipse through the store looking the way I did--sunburnt, disheveled, dirty torn jeans, and a black tee-shirt with a big round tie-die looking ring of dried salt on the front and back from where I had sweated on it.

And she didn’t look any better--sweaty, with helmet hair, a pair of dirty shorts, an oversized stained white tee-shirt, and her mother’ white beach sandals that were about six sizes too big for her. And she stank to high heavens--little girl, hot sun, much sweat, and a perpetual bicycle seat wedgie do not a pleasant combination make.

But, whatever. It’s not like anyone will know who we are. Unless, you know, they do.

Off to Sam’s, and calculate that with my rough estimation of miles driven since I bought the Volvo that it has returned a highly respectable 27 mpg. It’ll be interesting to see how accurate that is now that the odometer actually works, but I think it’s probably pretty close.

ON TO WALLY WORLD!

I parked in the back by the oil change place so as not to stink up the place walking through from the front. Found myself some Tripledge blades, which purport to be guaranteed for the life of the car. We’ll see which one wears out first, I suppose.

“Balloons?”

I thought she had forgotten. So the dirty little waif and her big dirty oaf father walked over to the toy aisle. Plenty of everything except regular old balloons. Skinny ones, giant ones, but none plain. “Hmmm--I do seem to remember that there might be some over there,” she pointed, “over there in where the stuff for parties is.”

“Ohhhohoho, no way, kid! We look and smell too bad to go over there, we’ll just have to get them another time.”

“Tomorrow?”

Persistent little cuss. “We’ll see.”

I felt like Pigpen from the “Charlie Brown” comic strip, and we had to stand in line forever waiting for a highly trained sales associate to check us out. And, of course, it was my luck to be in line behind one of the horde of perfectly toned and tanned fashionable young blonde things who populate my hometown. Not that it mattered, but I usually do clean up a bit more to go to fancy stores like Wal-Mart--really, I do!

Paid, and to home, started putting on my wipers, greeted the return of Reba and the middle children, and then adjusted the spray nozzles atop the hood so that they were at precisely the right angle to deliver their precious essence to the windshield. (Not than anyone would care but me.)

Supper, bathe kids, laundry, shower, collapse on bed while Reba was working on her schoolwork for tonight, and woke up again Sunday, which was…

VBS KICKOFF DAY!

Next--Sunday!

Posted by Terry Oglesby at June 6, 2005 02:30 PM