How to Tree a Boat

“Do you want to go fishing?” man-of-the-house asks.

Not really. I can do without a gazillion mosquitoes and humidity so thick it soaks through my everything. Welcome to the Deep South. I groan and try to think of an acceptable excuse: I’m sick; I have a deadline; I have someplace to go. Guilt overrides. You should spend time together. What if this is your last day? But I’m a Lucille Ball-type klutz.

To say I am not water savvy is an understatement. Our last jaunt, I tilted the boat within a fraction of dumping us into DeSoto Lake. I didn't hand him the right gear. I couldn't get over the seats without stumbling. And the list goes on. I was so inept I earned, “The most failures” award.

He keeps trying. “Bring your book. I’ll put in a lawn chair for you. Buckshot, let’s go." The guys are off to the truck. Buckshot follows two steps behind at the exact same pace. He’ll even wait to eat when he does, no matter how late in the day it is. They give and receive love and loyalty.

I did what I did not want to do. I got into the truck with that something-dreadful-will-happen-feeling. Buckshot rode shotgun while I clutched my coveted bag of mosquito repellent, reading material, paper, and pens. I prayed we had a sufficient balance in our “prayed ahead” account.

Scene 2: At a bar pit, small lake, the man-of-the-house says, “Mules were the muscle used to haul the earth out to build the dam. The MS River gladly filled it in."

There's green algae inches thick on the water. He backs the boat trailer into the lake, but the boat won’t float off. The rear wheels of the truck are submerged a good 18”. He wades in over his knees and shoves. The boat moves enough to float. “Don’t let it get away."

My stomach is traveling to my throat. My mouth is dry. I'm sweating bullets.

The 16 year-old Bravada eases up the bank. The stern turns toward the bank. I am powerless. "STOP!!!!” He can't hear me over the engine. The trailer wheel catches the boat and shoves it up on the bank. It will take two men to extract it from the trees and launch it.

My gut was right. We weren't prayed up.

He thinks he’s home free, gets out, and sees the damage. He turns his back on the situation and does a perfect and sincere Philo Bedo imitation, "Why me Lord."

Upset beyond words, he glares at me. “Why didn't you let go of the rope? I could have waded out and caught it.”

©2014 Red Convertible Travel Series

Thoughts for Fathers for Father's Day

Father's

Kinds of fathers 

loving, kind, 

happy, strong, 

weak, mean

Their childhood

molded them 

What will Baby be

The father holds his newborn

Speechless, overcome with joy

the responsibility seems staggering

I can't do this 

In his arms their bond is forged

deep, everlasting

Protectiveness rises in him

Gentleness flows from him

Baby trusts him

asleep in his arms

He memorizes baby's lashes,

the all-over scent of Johnson's

Child of my heart

You are the new and improved version

of your mother and I

Be all you can be

The process is subtle

Not just Father's words,

his thoughts, too

Baby believes he's right

Whatever is thought or said

by the bed of a sleeping child,

he or she will become

©2014 Red Convertible Travel Series

Buckshot's Sandcastle

Last weekend, Buckshot was initiated into the Mississippi River. Our trip up the river was the equivalent of a wild bronc ride. My visor flew off. I expected it to float. It didn't.

We pulled up to the sandbar where friends and family gather. Probably more so than in church. (I only mention that because it was Sunday.) The older the ladies, the more their bathing suits covered. I kept my jeans and long-sleeved denim shirt on. As fair as I am, I knew I'd pay for it Mon. I am. My forehead and the tops of my feet are on fire. Plus, I grew up with no more water to play in than the bathtub. I'm easing into this "Big Water" life.

Barges were busy moving up and down the River. The lapping of the wake startled Buckshot. He backed to higher ground. Before the afternoon was over, he waded to the boat and jumped in.

He had great fun digging in the sand. Whatever "soft" items he found, he ate, along with a little extra sand for his gizzard. Monday he pooped a sandcastle.

©2014 Red Convertible Travel Series

Memphis, TN VA

When the "Greetings" letter came, the recipient was expected to comply.
Did the VA take care of us after the stint of duty?
Yes, they did.
Recently, our family needed help at the Memphis, TN VA.
We were skeptical. And pleasantly surprised. They were efficient, organized, thorough, helpful, no matter what our need.
When appointments were lined up for two days, we were given a room in their Hoptel within the facility.
Our experience couldn't have been better.
Thank you Memphis, TN VA.

If you have had positive experience with a VA, please tell them.

©2014 Red Convertible Travel Series