Tag: family

Vacation Was a Gas

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2005Leave a comment

Dear Will:

A couple of weeks ago my family and I returned from a vacation in southern Colorado. We enjoyed a week of rafting, horseback riding, soaking in hot springs, hiking, exploring ancient ruins, and lots of driving—2,300 miles worth. We had a marvelous time, but as you would guess, by the time we finally pointed the car toward Orange, I was ready to be back in my own home.

So it was that we found ourselves, rolling down I-40, trying to take our minds off of the road. As we approached Havasu City, I remember noticing a Pilot station selling gas for “only” $2.39 per gallon. “Pretty good deal,” I thought—which will tell you all you need to know about what I was paying in and around Durango. As I drove past that exit—the last before we crossed into California—I discovered that I was running low on gas and would need to stop.

(Those of you familiar with that stretch of I-40 can probably anticipate the rest of this story. Having never traveled that stretch of road before, I was not so fortunate.)

When we got to Needles, I took the first exit and pulled into a Union 76 station that was charging $3.09 for a gallon of low-grade unleaded. “I’m not paying 3 bucks for a gallon of gas!” I exclaimed as I drove right through the station without stopping. Assuming that the first exit would offer the most expensive gas, I got back on the freeway and tried the next exit instead.

“Three-nineteen! I’m not paying $3.19 a gallon. This is ridiculous. We can get gas in the next town.” Once again I got back on the freeway without refueling. I looked at the gauge and concluded that I would have plenty in the tank to get me to Fenner—only 38 miles away.

Not far down the road the low-fuel indicator came on. I was averaging 17-18 miles to the gallon, so now I was worried. I had my whole family in the car and the in-dash thermometer indicated that it was 122 degrees outside. I imagined my wife and children baking in the unrelenting heat while I shuffled up the road, gas can in hand, in an ever-growing state of delirium. The desert stretched before me, blank and unforgiving, and the word hubris pounded over and over in my head. Somewhere nearby a lizard laughed. Hysterically.

We came over a rise, pushed onward by the last few drops of fuel in the tank, and finally saw in the distance evidence of what we thought must certainly be Fenner, California. As we drew nearer, however, the highway was pinched down to a single lane. Road construction. “Just watch,” my wife said. “With our luck the exit will be closed.”

It was like some kind of sick joke. The exit was closed. As we drove past the exit and saw the gas station—tantalizingly close, but unattainable—I gnashed my teeth and berated myself for my pride and stupidity. If I were a swearing man, I’d probably have felt a little better right about then, but not much. The next town was almost 60 miles further west.

Quickly I saw what I must do: At the first opportunity, I broke several traffic laws by driving across the median so that we could head back the other direction (there was no construction activity westbound) so that I could get to Fenner. We limped into that gas station, hot and relieved . . . and gladly paid $3.59 for a few gallons of gas.

PW

The Virtuous Banana Split

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2005Leave a comment

Dear Will:

Today Seth and I were tooling around in the family Camry when we passed an ice cream shop. “Dad,” he said, “I think we should go get some ice cream at Baskin 31 Robbins.” So I wasn’t surprised when I got home from work to discover that he had charmed his mom into having the whole family pick up Bryn from her class at the ballet studio—with a detour on the way home.

It’s actually a good idea—and not just because a family outing to 31 Flavors makes eating a banana split seem, well, virtuous somehow. I don’t know about you, but I can tell you that around here we spend way too much time getting things done and not nearly enough goofing off together. And we’re trying to do something about it.

So tomorrow we’re going to occupy five really bad seats near the upper reaches of Angels Stadium. More bonus points for our side. We’ll stop at In-N-Out on the way there (an inspired family tradition if you ask me) and spend much of the evening fending off requests for cotton candy. Part of the time we may even watch the game. It will be great. Good for us for sure.

We’re not always this good and messing around, of course. Earlier this week I sent my wife an email suggesting that we go to the theater next week. (I know what you’re thinking: “Nothing’s more romantic than being asked out by email!”) What ensued was the following exchange:

Dana: I’m pooped. I don’t want anything else on my schedule.

Peter: I’m pooped too. How about a date on which we simply go upstairs and take a nap?

Dana: You’re on.

So you see, my kids are fighting an uphill battle in their quest to lighten up Mom and Dad and inject a little more silliness into our day-to-day. Perhaps as a measure of how things are going we should install some sort of Giggle-o-meter somewhere in the family room that measures how often and how intensely we’re having fun. If it doesn’t record enough giggles in a given week it automatically rents a movie and hides the vacuum cleaner. If I could figure out how to make such a contraption work, I could make a killing. I’m guessing it would be a huge gift item on Fathers’ Day.

So let me ask you: What are you doing to goof off this weekend? Will it involve more giggling than vacuuming? If not, may I suggest ice cream and a trip to Blockbuster.

But enough of this. Seth is challenging me to play Animal Rummy with him. Sounds like an offer I can’t—or at least shouldn’t—refuse.

PW

One of the Greatest Gifts Ever

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2005Leave a comment

Dear Will:

My family is going through some nervousness as my sister and her husband (and their five small children) prepare to move to Turkey, where my brother-in-law has accepted a position working as a civilian contractor on a military base. We hope that it will turn out to be a great adventure for them, but we can’t help but feel anxious about their welfare.

Most anxious of all are my parents. My father will be 82 in a couple of weeks, and his body is really starting to show some wear and tear. Just this last week, in fact, he was in the emergency room with a slight case of pneumonia, a frightening condition for someone his age. It gave me a jolt, and when I saw him in his awkward gown and heard his scratchy voice, I could see clearly what I rarely see in full light: he has become an old man.

My sister’s imminent departure has caused my parents to consider the stark and upsetting possibility that after they kiss my sister and her children good-bye, they quite possibly could be doing so for the last time. Three years—the theoretical minimum length of my brother-in-law’s contract—is a really long time when you’re 82. Thus it was perhaps not surprising—even if it was disconcerting—when my dad called me to his home to “go over some things.”

My wife Dana and I were given a brief list of items my parents thought we might consider valuable: paintings mostly, the chair built by my great-grandfather, the clock that my grandparents used to have on their mantle—stuff like that. They said they wanted each of their children (there are seven of us) to pick the top two things we would most like to have once my parents are gone. Dana and I wandered through their house “shopping.” And it felt . . . really . . . strange.

They do have several pieces of art that I like quite a lot, but to be honest they mean nothing to me. The ones with the greatest apparent value are not valuable to me. And asking for any of them seemed trite and cold. I didn’t really want to play along. Nevertheless, I dutifully filled out my “order form,” but I felt like I didn’t really care whether I got the bronze or it went to one of my sisters.

When we were finished, my father showed me the location of his important papers: the will, the trust, the durable power of attorney. We stood in his office and discussed insurance policies and safe deposit boxes and burial arrangements. There was no sense of sadness as he did this, no woe-is-me, I’m-about-to-die melancholy. It was just matter-of-fact and business-like—something that had to be done.

That’s when I spied it: a tiny, 4-inch replica of a red Radio Flyer wagon. My father has had it on his desk my entire life. I can remember visiting his business when I was maybe five and playing with it in his office. He always used to keep a navy blue Superball in it. Just looking at it filled me with tenderness—and that’s when I knew. I reclaimed my form, crossed out my original choices and indicated instead that I wanted only that wagon. To have that symbol of my father on my own desk, for my own children to play with when they come to my office, would be a lot more valuable to me than any work of art ever could be.

Of course, I’m hoping that wagon remains on my father’s desk for many years to come, and that my parents stick around long after we hold a big Welcome Home Party for my sister.  Until then, I’m determined to spend a little more time in my parents’ home, looking at the paintings, listening to the chime of that old clock, and enjoying my mom and dad, one of the greatest gifts God has ever given me.

PW