After driving through the back hills of Georgia Thursday, I've decided that God must have accidentally cut His finger while creating this part of the country. The red clay has an undeniable beauty and is mesmerizing to someone from the North who is surrounded by black soil, dirt, no, actually mud from all the rain that is still saturating central Illinois.
Is the ark done yet?
And why was I passing through the Georgia countryside? I dropped my husband Roger off at his model airplane contest near the Andersonville Civil War site and will pick him up Sunday evening after I've achieved and learned as much as I can concerning Alzheimer's, brain injuries and strokes.
A month ago, Roger decided he would "rough it" with a tent, sleeping bag and other such luxuries along with a million other model airplane enthusiasts. Now, Roger hasn't roughed it since his Boy Scouting days, other than the time he and our son Gordo slept in the van for an airplane contest and had to keep the windows closed because of all the bugs and run the air conditioner every two hours or so to keep from suffocating.
Now, as I write this from the comfort of my hotel room in Macon, I have to admit that I actually did feel sorry for Roger. God love him, but he's no nature boy. He bemoans the arrival of grass that has to be mowed and the raking of the leaves. And to watch him pitch his tent was amusing since he'd never put together this type before. However, the engineer in him refused to give up, and I was quite impressed that he figured it out as quickly as he did … as I sat watching from my foldable chair.
As we moved his belongings into the tent with his air mattress, I was already getting a headache from the whirly whine of the miniature airplanes flying nearby. I knew I would go mad if I listened to that much longer. On the way to the event, I had told Roger to hurry it up. He said, "What are you going to do, dump me off?"
"Yep. Gonna roll you right out the door as I drive by."
"I don't think they have a ramp to catch us."
"Well, too bad." Insert evil grin and laugh.
Now, I needed to tell you that so that you understand what happened when I left. He thought I was going to walk with him among all the flyers to look at the airplanes … even as I'm climbing into the driver's seat.
"Aren't you going to go with me?"
"No." I looked at the only man I've ever loved … all adorned in his Army green shorts with tons o' pockets, and camouflage hat to protect his shiny, bald head from sunburn, his glasses, and salt and pepper beard and mustache.
"Oh, I thought you were going to see the line of planes with me."
I sighed. "No, I've got more than an hour drive back to the hotel, and it's already 6:30. Remember, I'm working on this trip."
"Oh …" I think the reality finally hit him that I really was "dumping" him off despite the fact that a number of other pilots' wives were standing by their man … and ducking at the appropriate times to avoid the planes.
I sighed again. "If you really want me to, I will —"
"No, no, you go."
"You are here to have fun. Go do everything you want to do. If there's something you want to buy, go ahead, and we'll figure out how to pay for it later."
"Okay."
As I left my hubby with the puppy-dog eyes, I didn't feel guilty. It was like leaving a kid at camp that is a bit scared at first … until he joins the other kids and forgets who mom and dad are. I knew I'd have trouble prying him out of the place on Sunday evening.
I had insisted he keep the cooler and forced him to go through the boxes of food and supplies we had packed for the trip to make sure he had enough to eat and drink. He only took a few energy bars I pushed on him, and he reassured me that everything he would want to eat and drink would be available all weekend.
I'm a woman, and I knew better, but he's a man and he knows everything.
Ten minutes after I leave, my cell phone rings. It's Roger.
"Hi, just checking to make sure the phone worked from out here."
"Yep, I can hear you clearly …"
"The concessions closed at 6:30."
"Do you have enough to eat?"
"Yes, I have the bars …"
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