Our knitting/e-mail group got together for a few days at Lulu’s house in Birmingham this summer. They’d needle me if I posted a photo of the group, so here’s Lulu’s dog, Sami, just to prove I was there.
Why yes, that IS a pink elephant on the table and since wine was consumed, I’m relieved that you can see it, too. (And yes, you purists, that’s crochet, not knitting.)
On the way back, I stopped to see our daughter and her family in Atlanta and attend one of Middle Grandson’s swim meets. His older brother had strep throat, so I volunteered to drive Middle Grandson to the meet, a 20-mile or so trek on Atlanta’s highways and toll roads in rush hour traffic.
No problem. The calm voice of Miz MapQuest anticipated my every question and took us right to the pool.
I set up camp in the last spot of shade to be had– just outside the men’s room door.
“How will I know when you’re swimming?” I asked Middle Grandson when he walked by later.
He stuck out his arm, which now sported a hodgepodge of Sharpie-tattooed tic-tac-toe lines and numbers.
“Take a picture of my arm,” he said. Genius.
I misread the arm photo for his first race. By the time I realized my error and made it poolside, all I saw was an empty lane. Grandson was probably out of the pool and off eating a popsicle somewhere.
In full-blown crazy grandmother mode, I bulldozed through the crowd of timers, coaches, and players for the next race. Squatting at pool edge, I aimed my camera to get a closeup of Grandson when he bobbed up at the touch pad. I wanted to send it to Dearly Beloved.
My camera honed in on the backstroker coming toward me, ready for the big finish.
What th’. . . ?
The kid that popped up, nose to camera lens with me, was a complete stranger. Wrong lane again! Grandson was already towelling off. I think that his time in the race was better than mine in trying to stand back up from that squat.
My son-in-law, who’d come directly from work, called out, “Did you SEE that? His best time yet!”
When persistent thunder delayed the meet for an hour or so, I decided to head back to the house. Son-in-law stuck around and, as it turned out, saw a few more heats before the match was called for the night.
Once in my car, I kicked off my shoes and told Miz MapQuest to reverse her directions and lead me back. At the toll entrance, I threw my quarters into the basket and started to drive forward. The gate didn’t lift. What now? Did I even HAVE any more quarters? Wasn’t an attendant supposed to be wandering around? Had the people lined up behind me never heard of patience???
And where the heck were my shoes?
I scrounged around and found more quarters–and, because I’d already driven past the basket in anticipation of being able to proceed, I now had to walk back to put the money into the basket.
I didn’t take time to look for my shoes, so I opened the door and put my bare feet down, cringing at the thought of what might await.
Want to take a guess what littered the pavement?
Pennies. Dozens and dozens and dozens of pennies. I’m don’t think my feet even touched the nasty asphalt.
Who throws pennies out at a toll booth? And why?
I usually pick up loose change I see in parking lots and on sidewalks, so it might have been difficult to walk away from all that loot, had not the honking serenade behind me insisted.
The toll gods accepted my coins this time and the gate raised. I jumped back in the car and screeched out of there.
I called Dearly Beloved. Son-in-law had been sending him excellent videos of the races, he told me. . . “But I’m sure watching the videos is nothing like actually being there.”
Yup. Nothing like it at all. I didn’t say so, though. He didn’t offer me a penny for my thoughts.