Adventures on the Interstate

Friday Night: Alexander City, Alabama:

“Alright, I’m sleepin’ in the bathtub. I need something to catch the drips from the faucet though.”

“Just rubber band a plastic bag around it.”

“What if I put a coffee cup inside the bag, too?”

“If anyone hears any gurgling in the night, do not be alarmed. It’s just my hernia.”

These five Persian princesses by bloodline descent continued to prepare for the evening. Then one of these nameless princesses belched like a sailor after Mexican take-out.

So we found ourselves at Saturday morning and an eight o’clock departure.

The most exciting event of the first eight hours was the mini pecan pie Rose bought for Carrie somewhere racing through Georgia’s woods: magnolias, evergreens packed with pinecones, Spanish moss, and red-leafed trees.

Paused a few hours later where Rose and Irish grubbed up a half-ton of snacks according to each passenger’s preference: pork rinds for Mom, Lorna Doones for Carrie, Reeses minis for me, beef jerky for Rose, and mini chocolate donuts for Irish. But suddenly, Muddy Buddies Chex Mix was forgotten because:

“Hmmm … those two buses up there, they say Team Transport. You don’t suppose …”

We supposed, and we were right. Granted, given the people involved in this particular Honda Fit, we had to first put all the pieces together before we allowed ourselves to flip out.

“It’s them! It’s really the Cardinals! They’re all on those buses!”

“Okay, guys, we’ve got to flap our arms out the windows now when we pass them again.”

“Rose and Irish, you have to do it!”

They did. And although I can’t say the execution was an A+, (our various interpretations of wing flaps vary from person to person) the bus drivers did wave to us twice (noting the red bird emblem I had loaned Mom’s car), and we were moderately satisfied with the results. Chapter 2 was, needless to say, pretty exciting.

When Carrie finally had to pull off the road to trade out driving with Rose, paid the toll, slammed into a McDonald’s parking lot, and Rose zoomed us back on the interstate, we knew we were probably too far behind to catch up. Although we were also probably the only car in Florida that day to pen distance-rate-time math problems on the back of a gas receipt to find out if it was truly possible.

It wasn’t. But we had a week to experience more such adventures.

Our motel, smothered in palms and tropical flowers, was waiting for us, something akin to 1950’s-cowboy-ranch-vacation-home-bathroom-door-wouldn’t-lock-style. Pizza for an eight forty-five dinner, a few crown braids, Rose trying to fix the deadbolt on the door, and we crashed.