Lazy, Hateful Day

This morning, I went with my mom, dad and brother for a family outing. (I should have known better than to have went.)

My mother's family is situated in a rather rustic, yet scenic, area of Kentucky. There are people sporadically located on tops of mountains, hills, and valleys. You can go for miles and not see another human being. There are forests for as far as your eyes can see. Most of the roads are shady, gravel or even dirt. And they lead into isolated cul-de-sacs where houses are ancient, and even abandoned to time and the elements of nature.

My mother called to invite me to go with her to a cabin that her father owns. It is literally miles from civilization. You drive over the side of a mountain. It is so steep at times that only sheer hope keeps you from sliding over the edge. It's the type of place that someone could do terrible things to you and no one would ever find your body afterward.

Of course, I am no fool. She was just looking for someone to drive her to the cabin, so she could nose around. Even if it is a beautiful, out-of-the-way-place, where the sunlight dances through the autumnal trees, I am not taking my vehicle. It's new; it may have four-wheel drive, but it was never meant to traverse that kind of terrain. Luckily, my father became our patsy.

The closest my dad comes to being a stereotypical hillbilly is that one of the vehicles he owns is a Land Rover. Yes, these vehicles may have been tested on the harshest terrain the African savanna has to offer, however, they were never meant to go where Dad's went today.

Sufficed to say, there was a lot of hateful words exchanged between all involved. Dad is very particular about his things. He even stopped once to get out to pout. He was upset because a limb touched the side of the car. So, we had to stop often to beat back the foliage from the edge of the road to insure the integrity of his car. Then we had to ford a mudhole the size of a small pond, which was kind of exhilarating, I must confess.

Once we made it back to the main highway, we stopped to have a look at the car. It was covered in bold splashes of mud along the fenders, doors and windows. The wheels were caked with a dirty, unattractive brown. I told Dad that he should take a picture and send it in as a testimonial to Land Rover. That seemed to make him feel better.

My brother and I spent time looking around the hillsides. I found this type of bush that sticks things to your pants. It was weird. I had to pick them off. They were hard to get off, but I prevailed in the end. My brother and I also attempted to walk to a river that is close to the cabin. But half-way there, we were chastized like a couple of two-year-olds, when we heard Mom calling, "Boys, get yourselves back here!" When we got back to the cabin, she was concerned that we'd get lost. (I swear sometimes I still feel like such a little kid.)

By the time we returned home, Mom was upset about the whole trip, because of how Dad behaved mostly. I don't know if she will ever ask us to go back again. In a few years, though, I suspect that she will want to return.

It's just her way.