In the last century, ragamuffins and vagabonds had an easier time of it. Just make certain your big coat had all its buttons and hit the road.
Before we could get on the highway, I had to make 22 – count ‘em—22 phone calls for change-of-address routines. Yes. I made a number of on-line changes but I was not happy about it. The logic of geeks and the logic of geezers often clash. Half the time, I couldn’t find where they had hidden the on-line form. Little bastards.
The Mystery Woman, formerly the audio-visual lady in public schools, had no trouble negotiating the e-maze to change her address.
And 86-year-old Virginia completed her changes via a rotary dial telephone.
Uh-oh. The minute we got in the mini-van, my gout returned. And the Mystery Woman’s bad knee got cranky. Days later, Virginia discovered her hip-pointer was caused by sitting on the seat belt clip. Only Bella, the uber dachshund, voiced no complaints.
We were lame – but game.
Fortunately, we like each other and shared equal amounts of curiosity about the highway ahead. I did note, however, that we seemed to have more to talk about the first three days than on the fourth. Road weary. At our age, we are a rolling billboard for all things old. Our combined age is 244 years. Counting the dog, mebbe 250. Note: I never have appreciated the usefulness of that kind of stat. Still don’t.
When we left Texas, the temperature was in the 80s and people had been enjoying the swimming pools for days, if not weeks.
The weekend Minneapolis forecast includes the possibility of snow flurries.
We drove too fast!