Glad They Growed-Up

Now that all my kids are all growed-up, I laugh as I drive on Interstate-5 during the holidays, school breaks, and vacation times, at all the young families traveling.  Their mommy-vans are all overflowing with luggage, jackets, pillows, presents, and/or various sporting or camping gear.  As I pass them on the freeway, I notice dad’s driving, mom’s dispensing snacks, drinks, napkins, crayons, paper, and assorted entertainments or figuring out where they are on the map.  The little TV screen is flickering in back where the young children are strapped in waiting impatiently, eating, screaming, throwing things, or blissfully sleeping.

At rest stops, I giggle watching the parents attempting to persuade and even bribe their children to “try” to use the restroom because “we won’t be stopping again for several hours and hundreds of miles.”  Then before they leave, the parents convince their children to run, tag, and count every tree quickly with their hand prints to burn off any lingering stowed-up excess energy.  They then all pack themselves back into their vehicles and off they go to the next fast-food restaurant or rest stop because the children re-filled immediately after reentering the vehicles because they were thirsty from running around.

Traveling with young children is an exhausting journey in itself.  I love my kids drearily, but all I can say is, “Been there, done that; glad I don’t have to do it anymore!”


Foreign Competition

The rain, plus the absence of radar, offered little encouragement for an early departure of our already delayed flight.  At the time of this adventure, many smaller Chinese airports still operated without the aid of radar.  This was the case today as we waited in the drab, damp departure room, for a break in the weather and our departure from one Chinese city to the next.  Fellow travelers in our tour complained and squirmed on the uncomfortable wooden benches.  Little did I foresee that some day I would be relating this interlude as one of my more memorable trip recalls.

In an attempt to pass time, I tried concentrating on a crossword puzzle.  Soon I sensed that I was being assessed by pair of piercing eyes.  Slowly I raised my head slightly and cautiously surveyed the room, attempting to locate the source of my discomfort.  I fleetingly engaged the unwavering eyes of a Chinese gentlemen who was sitting, stiffly erect, on the opposite bench.  I struggled to return my concentration to the puzzle before me but uneasiness mixed with curiosity, distracted me and I was definitely unnerved.  

The man was a tour book projection of the elderly Chinese scholar, dressed in loose fitting black trousers, a wide sleeved black satin tunic held closed by ornate braided “frogs,” and tiny, black satin slippers.  A tall brimmed black hat crowned a time-lined impassive face accented by those penetrating eyes and along white wispy goatee.  Hypnotized and intimidated by his impassiveness, I can’t recall how long he continued to study me before he silently shuffled across to the bench I occupied and sat down leaving one seat vacant between us.  Suddenly, noiseless and without looking up, he withdrew a flat square wrapped in black silk from the wide sleeve of his tunic, and a small black lacquered box from the folds of his trousers.  Now what?  My curiosity was to the point of explosion.

Now I was staring unabashed as he revealed the contents of his parcels, meticulously placing them on the empty seat between us.  Still expressionless he looked up at me, pointing his long sinewy hands alternately to me, himself, and the objects he had placed on the seat.  Looking down I saw an elaborately carved board, delicately highlighted with a golden dragon entwined around the six points of a star.  The small black lacquered box contained an equal number of small white and green jade spheres.  

Do they really play Chinese Checkers in China?  Whatever the intent, I was challenged.  Three games, using my rules (the only ones I knew), were played without a word passing between us.  At the end of the third game, my opponent looked into my eyes and with soft, exasperated sigh and a shrug, returned the equipment to his garments and without a backward glance, shuffled off…

Several moments later, the sun came out, our flight was announced, and we climbed aboard.  As I settled back into my seat, I couldn’t help but wonder if we had played the same game, if I’d been tolerated, or if he had lost face…should I have let him win one game in the name of international good will?
    


Traumatic Shake

Trauma tends to create lasting memories.  I must have been around seven or eight-years-old on one of our family trips traveling across the US to visit grandmother’s farm in my parents station wagon.  On this particular trip, like many before, my parents stopped to feed all three kids lunch at a drive-through fast food restaurant somewhere in Oklahoma or Texas panhandle.  Burgers, fries, and a strawberry milkshakes were the lunch of choice by the entire family.  I don’t remember much about the drive-through restaurant, the burger, or even the fries, but that milkshake was forever etched into memory.  I recall immensely enjoying the strawberry milkshake all the way down to the bottom of the open-topped cup until a three-inch belly-up black cockroach came into view through the pink ice.

Let’s just say, I learned at a very young age that confined spaces and close proximity to others combined with specific sights and smells, create involuntary chain reactions that produce unique combinations of three burgers, fires, and strawberry shakes to badly stain car upholstery and floor mats.