Nothing says vacation like beer for breakfast. If that’s followed by a beer with lunch, hey, we’re not going anywhere. But that’s not today’s topic, though – today, we’re talking trucks!
The first part of our trip was to Pennsylvania, where SOBUMD’s father was busy having a birthday. SOBUMD’s brother, the Very Industrious Uncle, had gotten him a framed picture of a 1968 International Scout. It was yellow and white, part of an old advertising campaign for International – cute picture. We then found reasons for Opa to check on something downstairs while the rest of us stepped outside; he joined us in a few minutes to find an immaculately restored yellow and white 1968 International Scout in his driveway, with a big Happy Birthday balloon attached to one of the wipers.
To say that Opa was speechless would be to court understatement. The Very Industrious Uncle had spent the past 6 months restoring the Scout, finishing just in time for the birthday presentation. I don’t know about you, but the last time anyone gave me a car for my birthday, I was maybe seven, and it was an International Hot Wheels. I mentioned this to Opa as he took me for a spin in the Scout; he said “Yeah, me too!” He may have slept in it that night; not sure. For the record, we got him a tee-shirt, which we managed to forget to bring with us.
The next day dawning bright and clear, we made our fond farewells to Oma, Opa, and the Scout, which the three lunatic children believe is their new cousin, and headed East to the Jersey Shore and the shore house of the Very Industrious Uncle. The trip was only a few hours, not as long as the drive up, but we still had time to continue listening to our eclectic playlist and trading verbal banter and witty repartee. The Human Tape Recorder noted the lyrics to a Sheryl Crow song, which included the phrase: “maybe there’s something wrong with you.” The HTR declared that she could tell the song wasn’t written by a teenybopper, since a pop-teen type would have written it as “maybe there’s something wrong with ME.” SOBUMD and I mentally high-fived each other, considering this a sign that we’re raising confidant kids, or at least damned observant ones.
Number One Son influenced our song selection as well, asking me what Reno was and why one would shoot a man in it. (Having killed any number of six packs just to watch them die, I felt compelled to play him the Folsom Prison Blues, with the Man in Black himself, along with yours truly singing base.) Number One Son also used the time in the car to expound on several of his many of his points of view. For example, the topic of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder came up (as it so often will in our family). Talking about OCD, Number One Son had this to say: “It should really be called OCS. I view it less as a disorder than a syndrome.” If you know a more certain sign that you have OCD than arguing about what it should really be called, I’d love to hear it. Meanwhile, the RQoP – who received a full sized upright vacuum cleaner for her birthday a while ago, so she could better clean her usually immaculate room - could not be reached for comment.
But we were headed to the beach, down the shore, where all these concerns would melt away. We needed no further proof that we were well away from the Washington DC craziness than driving past a sign for a business called “Hell Yeah Watersports.” Within a 100 mile radius of the DC area, that same company would have incorporated under the name “Safe-n-Legal Watersports.” Luckily, we were north of Atlantic City, where you can still call ‘em as you see ‘em.
From here, on to the beach! I’ll leave you with Johnny again, with those Folsom Prison Blues.