Something new? What?

All righty, then. Summer 2010 vanished in the space of a few rather silly blog entries about vacation trips.

"Get some new material, man!" I hear a still, small voice urging somewhere in the distance.

"What new material?" says I. "There's nothing new under the sun. It's just the same old merry-go-round, day after day."

"Ah. You're not paying attention, then," replies the SSV.

So, your humble correspondent will now try to get back into the habit of taking more notice of what's going on around him.

Count on it. But don't bet the ranch -- yet.

End-of-Summer Wrap-Up, 2010

Anyone glancing from time to time at this electronic feuilleton could be forgiven for thinking I lead a hopelessly humdrum life, having reported on nothing in the entire summer of 2010 other than a three-day trip to various points north of here. Lazy? Maybe. Humdrum? No! For example, one stifling night in July we heard a loud snap and a crash in our front yard. The harsh light of day revealed this...

It may not look like much in the picture, but it was a HUGE limb from the aging sweet-gum tree in our front yard, and it missed my car by a couple of feet. It served as a neighborhood conversation piece for several days, before a tree specialist removed it.

Then, at the end of August, there was the Family Vacation From...uh...I mean, the Family Vacation to the Nether Regions -- namely Virginia. This epic adventure was the brainchild of my wife Eve and her daughter Taryn; I was informed in no uncertain terms that this trip was to orbit exclusively around Taryn's daughter Kyla, age 7, and I had no authority or responsibility whatsoever, but only the privilege of paying for gas and meals. I had certain reservations about this, but I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut and bring a good book to read.

First on the agenda was Virginia Beach. I have fond memories of Virginia Beach, having lived there in the winter of 1969, when it looked like this one cold night...

In late August 2010, it bore a much closer resemblance to a popular Atlantic beach resort town...

We shoe-horned five persons and all their gear into an average-sized motel room in one of the beach-front high-rise hotels. The grandparents spent three luxurious nights slumbering fitfully on a fold-out sofa-bed while the huge-screen TV flickered violently and soundlessly because one of our number (who shall remain nameless here) proved nocturnal, insomniac, and utterly oblivious to more traditional notions of allowing others a decent night's sleep.

On Friday of that weekend, after a frantic and fruitless search for my GPS device which had gone missing in the chaos of our living quarters, we set out in caravan, to proceed up the James River peninsula. Colonial Williamsburg was our focal point; but, lurking in the background like a black widow spider in a bad mood, was (ominous music) BUSCH GARDENS!! I would rather crawl on my belly through broken glass and plunge into a pool of isopropyl alcohol than go to Busch Gardens in the middle of summer with a seven-year-old child. Call me an old grouch if you want; I come by it honestly and I named this blog accordingly.

I remember Williamsburg from November 1960, when my parents and two brothers and I spent the Thanksgiving holiday there in one of the historic inns on Duke of Gloucester Street. It was good to get back and wander around for a couple of days. Here are a couple of images of the Governor's Palace...

I have great respect for the folks who put so much effort into maintaining Williamsburg as a faithful representation of the way things looked in that part of Virginia when it was still a British colony. I also have great respect for my son-in-law's father, who arranged for us to stay in one of the apartments at the Historic Powhatan Village, part of an international time-share resort empire whose name I've forgotten. Where the quarters in Virginia Beach were a bit too cozy for comfort, this place was a sheer delight.

It broke my heart when Eve told me we would not be able to join the kids at Busch Gardens on Sunday, because we had to drive home and be ready to rejoin the ratrace the following day. When I learned of this change of plans, I felt as if the governor had issued a pardon moments before the death-row warden could throw the switch.

And so, we hit the open road and made our leisurely way north, past Richmond, Washington, Baltimore, York and Lancaster, back to our home and our sweet-gum tree which mercifully had not dropped any more limbs. With only a modicum of shrill back-seat driving from somewhere on my right flank, I brought Eve's beloved PT Cruiser back to port unscathed. And then...

...peace reigned over the realm. And I found my GPS unit in my suicase, right where I'd left it several days before.