Summer vacation memories
By PAUL GIANNAMOREWhat did I do on my summer vacation?
Not too much, and that was just enough.
The Home Office in Wichita came for a weeklong visit. Originally, I planned for a nice drive to Wichita to check on the operation of my Midwest Research Division, otherwise known as Big Brother, even though he only occasionally watches over me, at least that I know of.
But, given the price of gasoline and the lack of alternative-fueled vehicles in my fleet, we resorted to the good-old standby, which usually includes the following conversation with minor variants:
Me: "You comin' in for the Fourth?"
Home Office in Wichita: "Yep."
Me: "When's yer flight?"
HOW: "I dunno. I gotta go make the reservations."
Me: "It's already June 20th."
HOW: "Yep."
Eventually, a notice from one airline or another arrives in the e-mail, noting that a Mr. Giannamore will be flying from Wichita on a flight to St.Louis/Chicago/Memphis/Cincinnati (any one or all will do) and thence to Pittsburgh on a given date at a given time.
Like clockwork, or at least for United States domestic airlines, HOW got here a mere half hour late, but his luggage was intact and the week began.
We did the trip to Amish Country, including a stop for beef jerky that actually ended up with a trunkload of fresh nuts of many varieties and some of the best frozen custard in history, but no jerky purchase. There also was the requisite wine stop (a half-dozen bottles, two and a half of which remain standing on the kitchen counter at this writing), and the purchase of a bazillion kinds of cheese. Smoked, sharp, aged, mild, strong, just not stinky, please. Yum.
Ahh, and if you're a bit girth challenged and hate commercial belt buying, go to Amish country. They make really good, American-sized belts. And my pants no longer threaten to fall down.
It was all followed by a way too good dinner at a way too Amish restaurant where the waitress apparently thought The Drummer was worth extra glasses of lemonade (he had eight lined up in front of him before dinner came, and she just kept bringing more).
Other than trying to consume as much of the cheese and nuts and snacks as possible daily, washed down with a bit of wine before dinner, we didn't do too much.
We did take advantage of good weather (a day without rain is like a day from another summer) to enjoy one of Jefferson County's gems: Jefferson Lake State Park.
No, it's not Salt Fork. It's not Punderson. It's not even Guilford. But it's quiet. It's pretty. It's a good place to just sit and do nothing except maybe drown a worm or two or take a walk or pet your dog or enjoy watching the young families with the kids having a good time and remembering what it was like when you were the family with the young kids - or your parents were the family and you were the young kid.
The folks who work at and maintain Jefferson Lake State Park deserve a word of thanks once in awhile. It's just a nice place. So, thanks.
And that was pretty much that. We did what we usually do. Smoke a couple cigars, eat too much of The Boss' fine cooking, crack jokes at the worthless movies on the TV, eat Steubenville-style pizza, lament the decline of mankind (which apparently has been declining for about 35 years yet we still have something to lament) and try to stay up past 1 a.m. every day. It's not as easy as it was in the 1970s, I will tell you that.
After sending The Home Office back to Wichita, it occurred to me that the price of plane tickets keeps on rising and they're cutting flights to Pittsburgh.
Which means the next time the Home Office decides to leave Wichita for the Ohio Valley, I could be driving to somewhere other than Pittsburgh to get him. Like maybe Columbus, or Canton or Cleveland, assuming jets still connect from Wichita through Memphis/Chicago/St. Louis/Cincinnati/Rancho Cucamonga and Points East to get there.
Of course, it could be really ironic. They could connect through Pittsburgh, eh?
The Home Office left before the Toronto fireworks last Saturday. A shame, because the folks who put on that show and all the related events remind us of what counts: God, country, thanking those who keep us safe at home and abroad, and just generally what it means to enjoy life in a small town in the middle of the United States of America, sagging economy and dragging war notwithstanding. Hats off, never mind my shiny bald spot, to Slim Neal and the committee for another show that bettered anything they broadcast out of New York on July 4.
We're still fortunate and it's good to remember all of that, and Toronto manages to balance joy, gratitude and remembrance in equal measures every July 4. Slim's stepping down after this year and there's no way to say thanks for all the memories and hard work, except to just say the community is grateful. And the best way to be grateful is to, somehow, keep the event going in the future.
(Giannamore, a resident of Toronto, is business editor of the Herald-Star. His e-mail address is pgiannamore@heraldstaronline.com. Be sure to check out his blog, "Backfire," at www.heraldstaronline.com.)
