This morning we had flurries and sunshine with an abundance of wind: March has arrived.
Yesterday we took Buckshot to the woods to run and check on our motorhome. We want to keep him in shape. He recently outran a pit bull.
I reached from the side and carefully opened the door of the motorhome. Nothing came racing out. The house was quiet. For the first time in years, Asian beetles, ladybug look alikes, were nowhere to be seen. I kind of missed their football huddles in the corners of the ceiling. Sniff! Sniff! Nothing dead, even though traps were sprung and bait was missing. The drapes were still closed across the windshield. Four-footed attempts to take the house for a joy-ride were abandoned. They probably couldn't get it started. It is tricky. The rest of the windows were still covered with their heavy, fabric over slatted blinds, and the bed wasn't lumpy.
The aftermath of their activity reminded me of a NASCAR campground the day after the race. Crap everywhere! Anything paper was shredded: paper towels I forgot to store in an overhead, inaccessible cupboard; a single kleenex; the cardboard back of a small tablet, and the motor vehicle title in the glove box. In the glove box! Do they think we won't sell it, if we can't transfer the title? Oh, oh, I get it. This is their play house. Babies learned to shuck sunflower seeds left in their sleeve on the dryer. Twenty-foot races were run from the dash to the back wall of the kitchen. I'll bet they got a kick out of watching their size increase the closer they got to the full-length mirror.
We're bringing the house to town for cleanup soon. I'm hoping the shake, rattle and roll will pop all creatures out into the woods rather than our in town yard.
2013 Red Convertible Travel Series
Showing posts with label NASCAR. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NASCAR. Show all posts
Saturday, March 02, 2013
Sunday, June 10, 2012
My friend, The Head,
is a quadraplegic I met when I volunteered to read to residents of a Nursing Home. I admit tears got away when I first saw him and thought of all he couldn't do. I can't imagine such limitation.
Over a few weeks of reading and visiting, I discovered my new friend is interested in everything; he has no distrations. He is warm, funny and kind and can talk on any subject. I've learned about fishing, sports and travel, to name a few areas.
He wanted to hear Stephen King books. I shuddered. The director said I'd only be reading in the daylight. I was thrilled to discover someone donated three books on tapes to the library, and the home bought him a tape player. My next visit I didn't interrupt his listening. He was aglow with pure delight.
My friend likes NASCAR stories, too. When I read about Dale Earnhardt's frustration over a losing streak, I asked him what he did with his frustration.
He didn't hesitate. "I don't have any."
I was stunned. I have a lot to learn from this man.
2012 Red Convertible Travel Series
Over a few weeks of reading and visiting, I discovered my new friend is interested in everything; he has no distrations. He is warm, funny and kind and can talk on any subject. I've learned about fishing, sports and travel, to name a few areas.
He wanted to hear Stephen King books. I shuddered. The director said I'd only be reading in the daylight. I was thrilled to discover someone donated three books on tapes to the library, and the home bought him a tape player. My next visit I didn't interrupt his listening. He was aglow with pure delight.
My friend likes NASCAR stories, too. When I read about Dale Earnhardt's frustration over a losing streak, I asked him what he did with his frustration.
He didn't hesitate. "I don't have any."
I was stunned. I have a lot to learn from this man.
2012 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
NASCAR & the woman from MARS
"Baby, we're only 140 miles from Atlanta Motor Speedway, want to go to the race?"
"You bet!"
Within minutes we had tickets and a parking place for the motorhome St. Patrick's weekend. Pack, plan and invite friends; it's more fun when shared.
There's the race and then there's all the other stuff that happens. On St. Patrick's day we parked in Legends Campground behind a rented RV from Canada. Visiting with the lady of the group we learned that she was from MARS - a slim, trim, blue-eyed blonde that sounded Mid-western. We know NASCAR is the fastest growing sport among women, but Mars? How many rocks from the sun is that?
To our delight, two of our house guests were adolescent boys who found it more interesting to exit the motorhome's two steps sliding on their bellies. JB flipped a coin for them to claim which set of earplugs. We gathered coolers and coats and headed for the "Rebuilt Real Fast" stands. It was a mountain climb to our seats in the 69th row of the Champion's.
The boys watched the Craftsman Truck Race until the need for food, or a diversion, took over. Just once Mr. G. showed them the way down. Thereafter, they navigated on their own returning with a funnel cake one time, and space ice cream others. I liked the mint chocolate best. Todd Bodine won.
Back at camp we set our little grill on the grass to similate a campfire. It didn't take the boys long to discover they could make flames by adding dry grass. JB cut a metal coat hanger in half for roasting marshmallows. We put the slightly dark ones between mint patties. The blackened ones dropped on the hot coals and swelled up - a science experiment.
Before Saturday's Nicorette 300 Busch race we put our small charcoal grill on our plastic table to cook hotdogs and polish sausage. We didn't notice it was melting through. The indentation resembles a large butterfly hurled hard and fast, or are those Martian footprints? Mr. G autographed our "less table, more conversation piece." Jeff Burton won.
Sunday just JB and I treked the half-mile to the track in our rain-gear with coolers and sandwiches, took our seats in the Champion stands, and waited. Spits of rain. National Anthem. Drivers in their cars. Drivers out. Trucks busy drying the track. Drizzle. Real rain. Race delayed until Monday at eleven. Close together and fast drops parted the sea of spectators into stayers and leavers. We stayed. It was our seventh race, and the first that was a rain delay.
Ms. MARS came by happily saying, "It was an eighteen hour drive from north of Toronto. We;re staying. It's my first race." Her husband had been to Talladega, and came home with a smile. No doubt. We've been to that Red Neck Mardi Gras: beads, boobs and painted on bikinis.
Mon. we heard, "Gentlemen....start your engines!" I soooo want to say that. The race was on. We were up and down, intrigued by each caution, and thankful no one was seriously hurt. Kasey Kahne won.
The crowd was thin. Our Canadian friend came to say bye. I overheard her admit she had worked at the MARS candy factory, but I never saw a trace of chocolate on her face or any samples.
It didn't seem like such a big deal to leave after the race with fewer spectators, but it took us five hours to go 140 miles. Stop and go to Atlanta. It was so slow, guys who needed relief dashed out to the ditch, and lined up like a busload of French school kids.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
"You bet!"
Within minutes we had tickets and a parking place for the motorhome St. Patrick's weekend. Pack, plan and invite friends; it's more fun when shared.
There's the race and then there's all the other stuff that happens. On St. Patrick's day we parked in Legends Campground behind a rented RV from Canada. Visiting with the lady of the group we learned that she was from MARS - a slim, trim, blue-eyed blonde that sounded Mid-western. We know NASCAR is the fastest growing sport among women, but Mars? How many rocks from the sun is that?
To our delight, two of our house guests were adolescent boys who found it more interesting to exit the motorhome's two steps sliding on their bellies. JB flipped a coin for them to claim which set of earplugs. We gathered coolers and coats and headed for the "Rebuilt Real Fast" stands. It was a mountain climb to our seats in the 69th row of the Champion's.
The boys watched the Craftsman Truck Race until the need for food, or a diversion, took over. Just once Mr. G. showed them the way down. Thereafter, they navigated on their own returning with a funnel cake one time, and space ice cream others. I liked the mint chocolate best. Todd Bodine won.
Back at camp we set our little grill on the grass to similate a campfire. It didn't take the boys long to discover they could make flames by adding dry grass. JB cut a metal coat hanger in half for roasting marshmallows. We put the slightly dark ones between mint patties. The blackened ones dropped on the hot coals and swelled up - a science experiment.
Before Saturday's Nicorette 300 Busch race we put our small charcoal grill on our plastic table to cook hotdogs and polish sausage. We didn't notice it was melting through. The indentation resembles a large butterfly hurled hard and fast, or are those Martian footprints? Mr. G autographed our "less table, more conversation piece." Jeff Burton won.
Sunday just JB and I treked the half-mile to the track in our rain-gear with coolers and sandwiches, took our seats in the Champion stands, and waited. Spits of rain. National Anthem. Drivers in their cars. Drivers out. Trucks busy drying the track. Drizzle. Real rain. Race delayed until Monday at eleven. Close together and fast drops parted the sea of spectators into stayers and leavers. We stayed. It was our seventh race, and the first that was a rain delay.
Ms. MARS came by happily saying, "It was an eighteen hour drive from north of Toronto. We;re staying. It's my first race." Her husband had been to Talladega, and came home with a smile. No doubt. We've been to that Red Neck Mardi Gras: beads, boobs and painted on bikinis.
Mon. we heard, "Gentlemen....start your engines!" I soooo want to say that. The race was on. We were up and down, intrigued by each caution, and thankful no one was seriously hurt. Kasey Kahne won.
The crowd was thin. Our Canadian friend came to say bye. I overheard her admit she had worked at the MARS candy factory, but I never saw a trace of chocolate on her face or any samples.
It didn't seem like such a big deal to leave after the race with fewer spectators, but it took us five hours to go 140 miles. Stop and go to Atlanta. It was so slow, guys who needed relief dashed out to the ditch, and lined up like a busload of French school kids.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, July 15, 2005
I raced "The Big Brown Truck!"
UPS is the sponsor for NASCAR driver Dale Jarrett, #88.
Picture this: Tucson, Arizona, 6:30 P.M. I stopped at a red light with my window down. "The Big Brown Truck" pulls to a stop at my left. The driver looks at me. I look at him. Would he? Could he? I mouth, "Do you want to race?" He nods. On the left means he's on the pole, the fastest, but I know I can beat him. I feel wild and wreckless reving my engine.
Green light. Muscles tensed, and my mind fixed on the start-finish line, I peel off in my Bravada. At 109 degrees I don't need to warm my tires. Like the tortoise, he steadily gains. I lead by a block - the first lap counts. I lead by two blocks when somebody pulls out in front of me - obviously a lap down. In the third block he passes me laughing - all the way to the finish line - the next red light. He wins the checkered flag. I come in second, but I got to race "The Big Brown Truck." Come on Dale, pleeeeeeease race "The Big Brown Truck."
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Picture this: Tucson, Arizona, 6:30 P.M. I stopped at a red light with my window down. "The Big Brown Truck" pulls to a stop at my left. The driver looks at me. I look at him. Would he? Could he? I mouth, "Do you want to race?" He nods. On the left means he's on the pole, the fastest, but I know I can beat him. I feel wild and wreckless reving my engine.
Green light. Muscles tensed, and my mind fixed on the start-finish line, I peel off in my Bravada. At 109 degrees I don't need to warm my tires. Like the tortoise, he steadily gains. I lead by a block - the first lap counts. I lead by two blocks when somebody pulls out in front of me - obviously a lap down. In the third block he passes me laughing - all the way to the finish line - the next red light. He wins the checkered flag. I come in second, but I got to race "The Big Brown Truck." Come on Dale, pleeeeeeease race "The Big Brown Truck."
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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