French Fry War

 Driving at night with tired kids can create some very interesting story material. That's what I tell myself when I'm in the middle of an episode. "If you don't stop that, I'm going to write about you in my next article!" This works on one of the kids. "Mom, you wouldn't!!!" She declares, as if I'm about to broadcast her bra size. "Oh, you know I will!"
 This change in conversation is usually enough to diffuse the situation, no matter how grave it might be. Well, something happened on our last trip, and I was so tired that I forgot about my secret weapon...
      To start things off, I just need to give a little background. A very dear friend offered to be my driver. I'm certain that he had NO idea what he was getting himself in to, or he would not have so eagerly arrived at my house Friday morning. I had casually mentioned that I needed a truck, forgetting that he had one.
Sometimes you say things without thinking. (That is pretty much 99 percent of the time with me.) And that was definately one of those times.
My grandparents had a house full of amazing treasures that had been in storage for several years. My aunt and uncle sent me an invitation a few weeks back. "All grandchildren are invited to come and select from the items." This meant that I'd need a vehicle large enough for my kids and some material items. I don't own a vehicle that meets that criteria. Being that I talk freely about my challenges in life, I mentioned this to someone who wanted to solve this problem for me. "Hey, I can drive you."
"Are you sure you want to do that. I still have three kids."
"Oh, it'll be fun. I'd like to get to know your kids better anyway."
Four hours, with 3 kids, in a vehicle, the day after Thanksgiving. Fun? That's not the word I'd use.

Early Friday morning, I packed my 3 children in the backseat of this truck, and we headed up north. The girls slept for about the first twenty minutes. This was not planned. Although I had considered adding Benadryl to their cereal at breakfast. But that didn't work. "We're not hungry." was thrown out at me. This, of course, meant that some time during the two hour drive we'd be hearing, "I'm starving. When are we gonna be there? Can we stop and get something to eat?"  Luckily, they were tired from being up late the previous night; so at 9am, when we piled in the truck, they reached for a pillow and gladly closed their eyes.
However, I was prepared for thier pleas with a few responses....
"No, we are not stopping for food."
"We are going to eat with our family."
"Your aunt and uncle have lunch waiting for us."
"I've made my famous sweet potato souflee which, incidentally, my feet are resting in right now."

I must say I was disappointed that I never got to use any of my pre-planned responses because my friend had packed some homemade Cracker Jacks, which he tossed to the backseat before any one could start whining.

The party was great. We ate. We played. We visited. Then we packed everyone back into the truck, along with enough heirloom items to furnish an 1,800 square foot apartment, and headed out of the neighborhood and turned onto Georgia 400-south.

The kids were tired and quickly folded themselves into the backseat, each of them looking for a place to lay their head down.

Once the vehicle started down the dark highway, my body began to relax as I reflected on the day. The hum of the tires on the road, combined with some nice background music lulled me into a trance-like state, which by the way, is one of my favorite states of being.

"Can you please STOP moving your legs!" came from the back seat, in a shrill tone, sharp enough to shatter the lenses in my glasses.

I took a deep breath, hoping that the situation would resolve itself. I watched a multitude of golden lights flicker outside the window, sighed and relaxed into my seat.

"Get your feet off of me!"
"My feet aren't on you, I was just re-arranging myself. Chill out!"

I waited, prayed, and shoved my feet further into the left over sweet-potato souflee.

"Who's hungry?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"I am!"came in perfect unison, as if it was scripted.

"We're going through the drive-through. Go ahead and think about what you want. You have two options: a burger or chicken sandwich, I'm not ordering drinks cause we've got water."

Soft whispers floated up towards the cab of the truck which told me they were seriously hungry. As well pulled up to the drive-thru window, I called out each of my kid's names followed by, "Whadda want, chicken or a burger?" Once I got an answer, I added, "What do you want on it?"

The first one, "Lettuce, tomato, pickles, ketchup, mayo."
Second kid, "Lettuce and mayo. No pickles."
"Please don't list off what you DON"T want, just tell me what you DO want."
Third kid, "Chicken with maynaisse and lettuce."

"Let's add one large fry, they can share 'em." Little did I know I was ordering a box of weapons.

The driver opened up the first sandwich, called out the ingredients, "Lettuce, pickle, ketchup....." And waited for someone to say, "Mine. That's mine!" before passing it back. The first sandwich got passed to the back, the second one went, and then we came to the third one, "Chicken and lettuce."

A giant hush came over the truck as if someone had died.

"I ordered mayonnaise." She said, which sounded a whole lot like something Moses might have said to a crowd of non-believers.

The driver looked at me, I looked back at him, then we both looked at the kid holding the mayonaissless sandwich.

"I'll go back in. Does anybody need anything else?"
"Ketchup. For the fries."

"Ketchup and mayonnaise. Be right back."

We pulled out of the parking lot, kids chewing, everyone with the right condiments. It was all very good. I patted the driver on the arm and thanked him for his sympathetic gesture towards a child in need of mayonnaise.

We turned up the music and settled in to the amazing voices of the Brother's Gibbs.

"The seat is hurting my back. Can you turn down the music." I cringed. How can a kid want the music turned down? This is just wrong.

"The music cannot be hurting your back." I insisted.

"I do have speakers just behind the seat, and they vibrate quite a bit. I'll turn it down."
"Thank you." I stated, hoping that my appreciation would come through in my tone.

"Would you please stop squirming. I'm trying to sleep."

Bulbs and Bricks

Bulbs and Bricks by Kathy T. Camp

Bold bricks, made from mixture

Of moist earth

Formed, shaped for strength

To hold out the cold and keep in the heat

To shelter shivering souls

And wrap them in its protection.

While still moist, yet firm to the touch,

Strong hands gently moved the bricks

Clasping both sides, with thumb

And three fingers,

A seemingly insignificant impression

Is left on the surface.

The aged bricks, worn by wind, rain

Falling branches, hail and maybe even gunfire

Still have strength remaining.

Stack two,

Side by side,

And they will shelter

Lavender, yellow and red

Blooms

In their later years.

The fingerprints

From years past

Are revealed to the builders.

The brick radiates a warmth

And proudly displays the small

Round shapes left by

The man who touched

Her in her youth.

As the printmaker

Reaches for the brick

The tips of his fingers

Rest perfectly

Around the waist

Of the weathered brick.

He gently lifts her,

Dusts her off, notices

A few chips on the edges

But states, “The mixture used

For this brick is the strongest type.

It will withstand many more years

Of pressure. Placed with another strong

Brick, it will make a home

For these six beautiful bulbs.”

The rain falls.

The bulbs soak

And slumber

Till spring.