The wheels on the bus, they look like sloppy joes

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Yesterday was the Critter's first day at her new school here in the U.S. She was remarkably calm about the whole thing. Me, I was a mess. After the whole ordeal of selecting a school, I still had (have) some amount of trepidation about where she is and where she's going into. This was not helped by the fact that she sat in my lap the night before, reading a book fluently and with inflection. All I could think about was how many of her classmates coming into first grade here will be still learning the sounds of the alphabet. I am sure that I am underestimating the local kindergarten system, but I remember being a bored kid in class. The Critter still loves school.. I'd really like her to keep that feeling. At least until she hits Trigonometry or something.
One of the things we've been trying to build up in the past weeks was Riding On The Bus. It's great to Ride On The Bus. Gee, I wish *I* got to Ride On The Bus. Aren't you a lucky girl, to get to Ride On The Bus to school? Excuse me while I stop the bus here to take thirty or so pictures of my little girl getting on, backing up morning commute traffic for an indeterminate length of time. This is important, you know. The truth is, I loathed riding the bus as a kid. And my Bride never rode the bus at all, but has to rely on media imposed images of giant testosterone-ingesting eighth graders smashing the littler kids into first-grade pancakes in rear most seats, unspeakably distant and out of sight from the senile/half-drunk/angry bus driver whose only desire in life is that those damned kids be quiet for once. Just for a minute. Just long enough for the voices to stop.
To keep our minds off the fact that we were voluntarily hurling our little girl into the waiting jaws of the schoolyard bully, we distracted ourselves by going shopping for school supplies. Which are, reassuringly, the same bunch of stuff that we needed as kids. Backpack. Notebooks. Pencils. Things to decorate your backpack/notebooks/pencils with. We also received a list of items required by the school. Most of which were expected (ruler, paper, etc.) Some of which were not. Rolls of paper towels, for example. OK, I went to private school for the first 9 years of my education, but I've seen our property tax bill. Really? Paper towels? This is considered an "extra" by the school district? Surely the school can get a better deal on an industrial sized order of paper towels than I and the other parents can in going and picking up a roll or two of the quicker-picker-upper. What else hasn't changed? The fact that kids end up carrying an insane amount of stuff in their backpack/otherwise. See this face? This is the face that says, "You want me to carry all of what?"
When she got off the bus at the end of the day, I pelted her with questions. How was it? Do you like your teacher? Were the other kids nice? How was the lunch room? Did you get recess? Did you read today? How was the bus? Did you sit with somebody? Where is your homework? When do you start on Calculus and the advanced robotics studies? She shrugged, and told me it was good, she sat with our neighbor on the bus (also a little girl in first grade) and that she liked her teacher, and the other kids she sat near, and that she forgot their names, but ask her tomorrow. Maybe she'll remember then. And Dad, they're going to have sloppy joes at the cafeteria tomorrow, so make sure to give me lunch money, OK, Dad? In fact, why don't you give it to me now, so you don't forget, and I'll put it here in my bag so that I have it for the sloppy joes. I love sloppy joes. That's our Critter. Never mind that learning stuff. Let's talk about the quality of what's on the menu.
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Success!

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On the last day before the Critter and I headed to Tennessee, I stole a few minutes away at lunchtime and gave a call to the guy with the truck to make sure we could come by and see it when we got there. 'The '60? I sold it.' Oh. Shit. Less than 24 hours until we hit Tennessee, and I had no truck lined up to look at. And I was still at work, and in meetings for the rest of the day. A furtive few minutes of Craig's List searching later and I had come up with a couple of what I hoped would be decent alternatives. But essentially, I was left with not much more than a couple of maybe-idea candidates, a pair of one-way tickets for me and my 6 year old daughter, and a pocket with some cash in it, waiting for a truck to spend it on. This was quickly turning out to be one of the least-well planned ventures I have undertaken in the past 10 years. My Bride had some choice words for me when I told her about the sold truck, but I re-assured her that everything should be fine. After all, I was headed to Nashville. Where there are more trucks than people. The state government issues them when you move there, or after the birth of your first child. If Fred Thompson had ever been elected President, Air Force One would have gotten mud flaps and a rifle rack. Tennessee - you know, where the only thing better than discount tobacco stores:
... were discount tobacco and firearms stores:
Seriously. I mean, I'd be able to find something. I hoped. Saturday, my step-father, his mechanically inclined buddy Mike and I drove two hours to see what I thought was the most likely candidate: a 1967 Ford F-100. It was beautiful. And in near-stock shape. An hour later, it was mine.
. It doesn't have power steering. Or power brakes. Or a radio. Or air conditioning. It's awesome. It's a three-on-a-tree, manual transmission, 6 cylinder beauty. Simple, understandable, I think even I can manage it. Within 24 hours of landing, I had found the perfect truck, that was pretty much ready to make the drive back to Massachusetts as is. Mike, mechanic-buddy, took it for a few hours before we headed out and made sure it was tuned for a long drive. And early this morning, we climbed in, set the TomTom, and headed out.
From Nashville, we headed east. Look! Virginia!
See the rain? It was like that almost all day. This was our view for most of the journey. Rain. Trucks. Wind. Sigh...
Hey! West Virginia! I've never been before. I suppose I should make hick jokes or snarky comments about rednecks. But let me point you back to the Discount Tobacco and Firearms store** from earlier.
And Maryland! I've been here, but I can't for the life of me remember why.
You'll have to pretend I snapped a shot of the Pennsylvania state line when we passed it, as I wasn't quick enough to get one after driving about 11 hours straight. Instead, let me show you another picture of my beautiful truck.
I've no idea why we were so fascinated with state lines, except as a way to communicate to my fresh-from-England daughter how very big a place the U.S.A. is. She was totally cool with the whole roadtrip idea - I don't know how I managed to get blessed with such a laid back kid, but she didn't say "I'm bored" or "I've got to go to the bathroom" or "are we there yet?" even once on the drive. She just enjoyed the ride, listening to her iPod or telling jokes together and absorbing the passing sites: the signs for Endless Caverns or Shenandoah Caverns or Ruby Caverns or Uncle Bubba's Super Special Rainbow Gnome Caverns And Gift Shop. Tonight, we're stopped a ways past Hershey, Pennsylvania, where every hotel room within 30 miles was full, in a sort of sad old Days Inn that has that slightly damp film on every flat surface in the room and smells of menthols and despair. A road trip rite of passage. Tomorrow, I'll introduce her to the perfect, spiced beef snack that is a Slim Jim.
**Note: I pulled in to the Discount Tobacco and Firearms store at about 7:30am to take that picture. It was already open, according to the neon sign in the window. One guy pulled up in another truck and got out while I was there in the parking lot. Another guy walked out of the store to meet him. They both looked at me as if I needed to give the secret sign or wave or whatever, or get out of there. I think the fact that my truck came equipped with both a rifle rack and an NRA sticker in the back window bought me a little credit while I pretended to re-arrange the suitcases in the back of the pickup. And then I drove to the gas station next door to take the photo from a safe distance. Who the hell needs discount tobacco and firearms at 7:30 in the morning? Why do I find this suspicious?
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One year young

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Dear Squirmy - One year ago today, in a oh-so-slightly gritty NHS hospital, you made me woozy. Since then, you've been doing your best to make sure I stay on my toes. People told me there was going to be a difference between having a girl and having a boy. Something that went beyond the differences in plumbing, I mean. I'm not sure if it's the Y chromosome, or just you exerting your individuality, but there are times that you couldn't be more different than your sister. She's always treasured her sleep, for example, even when she was only a few months old. You seem to be convinced that you're going to miss something incredible and fun if you close your eyes for one second more than you have to. It doesn't matter what time you fall asleep - which you fight long and hard enough to end up asleep in some of the most awkward positions - you're up shortly after The Crack Of Freaking Dawn. Which you definitely did not inherit from me, though my Father, The Surgeon would have been proud. Also, she had monkey-like fur from birth. You are still bald as an egg. I'm not sure it's related to the sleep thing, but it might be. You are, in some ways, the stereotype of Boy-dom. Rough-and-tumble, like getting dirty, complete with random bruises, snips, snails and puppy dog tails, etc. Your sister was always the quiet, serious, contemplative one (and still is). You're vocal, playful and stick-your-head-in-the-lion's-mouth inquisitive. This, son, you get from your mother. You'll learn to your future dismay that I refuse to put my hand in the Sea World touch tank to stroke the star fish, even though little Jenny from 2nd grade just showed me it was safe. Why? Not because it's gross. Gross I can do. I've seen worse things taking up space in your diaper than anything in the Sea World menagerie. No. It's because I just know that I'm going to be attacked by the first recorded man-eating star fish. And I don't want to go down in history as that guy. Also, a beach is like Shoney's Big Boy Buffet sampler for sharks. Don't expect me to go swimming in the ocean with you for more than five minutes at a time. You want brave, call your mother. Your sister and I are going to be the ones sitting on the beach, reading a book, with 911 on speed dial. But most of all, you're just happy. You smile more than any kid I've ever seen. Even when you're upset because I won't let you backwash into my beer (one time I gave you a taste, now I swear you can pick the sound of me getting the bottle opener out of the drawer out of all the household background noise. By the time I make it to the fridge, you're at my feet with an expectant look and a wedge of lime), all it takes is a quick toss in the air and a hug, or 5 minutes of steam-rolling over the dog and wrapping her ears into a pretzel-shaped hat, and you're all smiles. And every time I see you smile, it takes my breath away all over again. You bring joy into our lives. Thank you for being a Grady.
Happy Birthday. Love, Daddy
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