Contributed by:
Kristin Morin/YourHub.com
Article Contributed on: 7/21/2009 3:33:14 PM
Ahhhhh, I'm officially rehydrated after a few days at the lake back home in Michigan for the Fourth of July.
To save some cash, The Boyfriend and I flew to Chicago and hopped a train to Michigan City, Indiana aka Escaped Convict Central.
My brother-in-law picked us up and we went straight to my folks' cottage on Gifford Lake, just outside of downtown Baldwin, population 5.
Gifford is tiny little puddle of a lake that doesn't allow motors. So we kayaked, paddle boated, fished and sailed our way around the water.
It was the perfect start to the weekend with only a few mishaps - like snagging/deflating a large octopus raft with a fishing hook and showing The Boyfriend I knew how to sail out to open sea. The problem arising when it came to actually navigating back into shore.
After 1.5 days of cram-as-much-fun-as-possible-into-36-hours we drove even further north near the tip of the Michigan glove, aka Charlevoix.
At the beach, after a very uneducated conversation of Marine Corps boot camp requirements, we decided to see if we had what it took in at least one category.
We proceeded to turn the family-friendly park into Muscle Beach, taking over the playground monkey bars to attempt our feats of strengths while the kids previously enjoying the jungle gym watched warily from the sidelines as we restricted their play area to only the slide and fireman's pole.
Results from The Self-Proposed Pull Up Challenge:
Me: 0
Mom: 0
Sister: 1.5
The Boyfriend: 10 (what a stud)
Uncle John: 10
Dad: 5.5
Uncle Pete: 11
Uncle Dave: 10
Note to self: Stop doing 12 oz. curls with the Coors Light can and pick up the dumbell currently being used as a doorstop.
The weekend continued with more high-energy hydro-fun - waterskiing, boating, jet ski riding ...
After a waterlogged weekend, a car trip, a few games of Catch Phrase, one BBQ and a round of bocce ball later, we dropped The Boyfriend off andstopped in to visit my grandpa and his girlfriend, Thelma.
Disclaimer: I've told tales of my grandpa in a previous blog and I'd like to note that I recount those and the following details of my visit with him over the Fourth with nothing but amused affection.
The scene of an old home movie, recently transferred to a DVD by Walmart or Walgreens or some such place, flashed to a setting I recognized as my grandparents' former residence. Although the video was so dated it didn't have sound, my grandpa provided the commentary.
"Dead. Dead, dead. He's dead. Dead, too ..." was his uplifting narration as the camera panned across the smiling faces in the scene.
The conversation then progressed to discussing Thelma's back problems. This seemed like a simple enough conversation until it brought to light memories of her previous back operation a few years ago and The Great Flower Fiasco.
The intentions were sweet. My grandpa sent Thelma some flowers to hopefully fill her room with recovery cheer. The problem arose when, whether due to 85-ish years of trying to remember things or a few days of not taking his insulin on time, my grandpa forgot he sent the flora. When he saw them in her room, complete with a card calling her his pet name, he thought his senior citizen girlfriend was dating someone else.
(Actually, I believe he used the word "lover," but as that brought visions to my mind that made me want to gouge my eyes out, I prefer "dating someone else.")
Most fortunately, the situation was sorted out when the bill for the flowers was delivered to his house a few days later. Most unfortunately, my grandpa will likely never live it down, Thelma called him a horse's arse just recalling the incident.
Note to self: Old people are awesome.
After what seemed like no time at all, it was time for me to pack up. On the way to the airport, we stopped by my other grandparents house and heard about their recent trip to Russia. It sounded pretty amazing.
Note to self: Go to Russia.
A slightly teary goodbye later I was in the airport, waiting on a delayed flight now scheduled to get us into Denver at 11:30 p.m., eating peanut stand cashews and calling the jury duty hotline.
Automated lady: "Numbers 543 through 2100 must report at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow morning."
As juror No. 2001, I sighed.
Note to self: Find out how become a dual-citizen in another country.