Family visits leave you too pooped to pucker

It has been good. My daughter and her family have been visiting from up Canada way. It has become a yearly event and it happens on, or about, the Fourth of July. They love going to the parade in Sandpoint and the family get-together afterward. There is always a powerful amount of hugging and kissing at these because it has to last for another year. I join in the hugging events but as for the kissing, I am too pooped to pucker. 

They left this morning and I will miss them. I will miss the adventure of walking through the house at night trying not to step on one of the many bodies strewn on the floor. I will miss the delicate hints that it would be nice if I cooked a Southern roast, or barbecue some ribs, or an Italian meal, or grits and gravy with home made biscuits, or maybe you could … I will miss the chorus of voices saying, “Where is the sugar? Where are the napkins? Are we out of toilet paper? Where do you keep the sheets? There are ants in the washroom. Do you have any Advil? Dad, are you getting enough rest? You look tired.”

They are gone and the house is so quiet. I miss hearing, “Pop-Pop I love you” but I think the thing I will miss the most is the joy of telling them how proud I am of them and how much I love them.

I have been sittin’ here thinkin’ and I mentally turned back the clock to a few years ago when my late wife Cille and I took a trip to Canada. It was a Thursday night and we were talking about how much we missed our daughter and her family. Cille said, “Why don’t we take a few days and go see them?” We packed a few duds and half of the canned goods in the house and on Friday morning, we set out. Now our daughter lives in St. Paul, Alberta, Canada, and that’s about 800 miles from Sandpoint. We were excited and drove straight through to Canmore, which is about halfway. We stopped at our favorite motel and pulled into a parking place.

I was the chosen one to go in and register. My brain told me to get out of the car and go in but my body just sat there. My brain said, “Move your legs,” but my legs decided otherwise. After a few fervent prayers and some brisk massage, I got one leg working. It was enough to pull myself out from under the wheel and stand up. I noticed a group of young people standing in the parking lot and it seemed that they all were looking my way. I knew that if I tried to walk, I would fall flat on my face. After a little furtive shaking of the dead leg I finally got enough feeling back to move it. I threw my shoulders back and headed for the motel door. I must have looked like John Wayne with advanced rheumatism.

The next morning as we drove along we discussed how nice it would be if there were designated towns that catered just to old folk — a place where people walk slower and breathe a little heavier. A place where people say, “You’re welcome instead of `no problem.’” A place where gray is the official color of all hair. A place where there is a law that states a story must be told at least five times.

As if by magic, a sign appeared on the highway saying that we were 45 kilometers from Olds, Canada. So off we went to the land of promise. I pulled into a small filling station and it was there that we had one of the most frightening experiences of our lives. Four black-haired young people attacked us. One grabbed the keys to the car out of my hand and started opening the gas tank. Another splashed water all over the windshield while the third jerked up the hood of the car. I couldn’t see the fourth attacker but he had to be letting the air out of the tires because we heard repeated “psssst” from under the auto. The one from under the hood came to my window and said, “You’re a little low.” I said, “I am as tall as you are when I stand up but I prefer to sit, thank you.”

Finally, the key snatcher came to the window and said, “That will be $19.95, sir, and I hope we gave you good service.” They all smiled and waved as we drove off and I knew we were getting old when I could not remember what it was like to go into a real service station. It had been a long time since I had actually seen a person where I get my gas. All I ever see are machines that are willing to take my money without so much as a “thank you.”

Folks, before you go, I want to say a few more words about when my young’uns visit. I always have two overpowering moments of gratitude. The first comes when I see the front of their car pull into my driveway. The second comes when I see the back of their car pulling out of the driveway and they are on their way home. Yes, they are gone, and I will spend a lot of time over the next few days asking, “Where did they put my can opener, my water glasses, cups, sheets, broom, towels, knives, pots and pans, jelly, etc., etc.”

I am already looking forward to next year’s visit.