Yesterday, you and the Gingerbreads hopped in the car and drove south. You had plans of traipsing through a museum and introducing the gingerbread boys to the famous Russian Faberge eggs.
Which you did.
It was lovely, and the eggs were magical.
And then it was time to leave, which is when the fun began.
Rain, rain, and more rain. Heavy rain. There was a strange sound coming from the rear passenger tire, like something was caught in the treads. The Gingerbread Man checked it, but saw nothing. Ten minutes later, you'd got yourself a certified flat tire. The Gingerbread Man pulled off the highway, and as every good father should, made the gingerbread boys participate in the act of changing the tire.
Except the tire won't be changed. Car jacked up, lug nuts off, donut at the ready...but the tire won't budge. The Gingerbread Man hammered at it with the wrench. He tugged. He lowered the jack. He hand-tightened the lug nuts and drove on the flat, hoping the weight of the car would take the tire off.
Not a bit.
You looked up at the sky, grey clouds lowering. It had stopped raining, but thunder threatened. You looked at the side of the road under the trees: poison ivy. You hoped for a stray policeman or a wandering mechanic to come to your aid. A truck stopped on the other side of the road, then moved on. A car pulled up behind you, but too far away for them to be interested in your woes. They, too, have car problems. A pick-up truck with a trailer pulled over in front of you. And then they left, too.
The Gingerbread Man continued to pummel the tire. The tire continued to defy him. The gingerbread boys wandered up and down.
Then came the sweet and surprising sound of an air wrench. It was a surprising sound because it came from the direction of a state forest. You walked towards the sound. Where there is an air wrench, there must be a proper hammer.
Indeed there is. There is a whole shop full of tools, tools used in rebuilding a 1906 wooden sloop. Men who rebuild 1906 wooden sloops are heroes in your book--and not just because they loan you hammers.
Armed with a hammer worthy of Thor himself, you all trudged back to the stubborn vehicle. The Gingerbread Man began hammering. And hammering. And hammering. He hammered for a good twenty minutes before the tire relinquished.
Just as the rain returned.
The Gingerbread Man finished changing the tire, while you and the boys took shelter in that car. Then you returned the Thor hammer to the Boatman. He gave you a tour of his sloop, and you continued on your way home.
All was well until the oldest gingerbread boy informed you that he had a migraine. O, happy day. This, of course, meant that you would be holding the bucket for him in the wee hours while listening to his agonized cries.
Which you do. 3:30 am to be exact.
And then you get up at 6:15 for a 7:00 am meeting at the school.
Rota Fortuna, I can only laugh. But it is time that you swing the other direction.
Which you did.
It was lovely, and the eggs were magical.
And then it was time to leave, which is when the fun began.
Rain, rain, and more rain. Heavy rain. There was a strange sound coming from the rear passenger tire, like something was caught in the treads. The Gingerbread Man checked it, but saw nothing. Ten minutes later, you'd got yourself a certified flat tire. The Gingerbread Man pulled off the highway, and as every good father should, made the gingerbread boys participate in the act of changing the tire.
Except the tire won't be changed. Car jacked up, lug nuts off, donut at the ready...but the tire won't budge. The Gingerbread Man hammered at it with the wrench. He tugged. He lowered the jack. He hand-tightened the lug nuts and drove on the flat, hoping the weight of the car would take the tire off.
Not a bit.
You looked up at the sky, grey clouds lowering. It had stopped raining, but thunder threatened. You looked at the side of the road under the trees: poison ivy. You hoped for a stray policeman or a wandering mechanic to come to your aid. A truck stopped on the other side of the road, then moved on. A car pulled up behind you, but too far away for them to be interested in your woes. They, too, have car problems. A pick-up truck with a trailer pulled over in front of you. And then they left, too.
The Gingerbread Man continued to pummel the tire. The tire continued to defy him. The gingerbread boys wandered up and down.
Then came the sweet and surprising sound of an air wrench. It was a surprising sound because it came from the direction of a state forest. You walked towards the sound. Where there is an air wrench, there must be a proper hammer.
Indeed there is. There is a whole shop full of tools, tools used in rebuilding a 1906 wooden sloop. Men who rebuild 1906 wooden sloops are heroes in your book--and not just because they loan you hammers.
Armed with a hammer worthy of Thor himself, you all trudged back to the stubborn vehicle. The Gingerbread Man began hammering. And hammering. And hammering. He hammered for a good twenty minutes before the tire relinquished.
Just as the rain returned.
The Gingerbread Man finished changing the tire, while you and the boys took shelter in that car. Then you returned the Thor hammer to the Boatman. He gave you a tour of his sloop, and you continued on your way home.
All was well until the oldest gingerbread boy informed you that he had a migraine. O, happy day. This, of course, meant that you would be holding the bucket for him in the wee hours while listening to his agonized cries.
Which you do. 3:30 am to be exact.
And then you get up at 6:15 for a 7:00 am meeting at the school.
Rota Fortuna, I can only laugh. But it is time that you swing the other direction.
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