Christmas In July

 

  Driving past Dollywood, the Maze of Mirrors, Beyond the Lens, Pirate Cruise Dinner Show, Dolly’s Stampede, Pit Stop Go Carts, Ice Cream Palace, Crave Miniature Golf, live sharks, live alligators, amusement parks, and bumper boats…

We ignored them all.

Why? Because we had one mission. One very serious, very festive goal:

The sign said it plain as day: “Santa is in for pictures today.”

Well, you can’t come to Christmas Square and NOT see Santa. It’s like going to Paris and skipping the Eiffel Tower.

I plopped down next to him and—ouch! I’d sat on a set of really long, old-fashioned keys. I shifted, laughed, and said:

The Professional Tourist

The Professional Tourist (and the Back Seat Bellyacher)

I’ve only met Pam and her family a few times over the years. She and I actually started out as pen pals — a mutual friend asked if I’d write to a girl in Indiana. Pam had asthma so bad, they didn’t think she would live very long.

“Sure, why not?” I said.

Well, here we are 50 years later — and she’s still living. (Miracles are alive.)

When her kids heard the story, they instantly nicknamed her “the pity friend.” Can you believe that? Fifty years of letters, laughter, and friendship, and she’s still the pity friend.

We tossed all our bags into the back of a pickup. The tonneau cover had blown off previously, so everything was riding naked in the open air. Our stuff had better hang on for dear life. John, ever the planner, brought along trash bags in case it rained. (Classy luggage covers, right?)

Calvin climbed behind the wheel, John took shotgun, and announced, “I’ll be the back seat bellyacher.”

Shouldn’t he be in the back seat if that’s his role? Just sayin’.

Not to be mistaken for anything other than what I am—a total tagalong—I chimed in: “I’m the professional tourist.” Translation: I bear no responsibility on this trip. I’m not the planner. I’m not the driver. I’m simply along for the ride wherever we may land.

Pam rolled her eyes. Calvin grinned. (I think he knew exactly what kind of trip this was going to be.)

Somewhere on a back road in Kentucky, Pam leaned over and said, “You do know we are virtually strangers.”

Which, honestly, was true. Can you take me to the nearest bus station? 

  I realized—she was right. This trip could go two ways:

Jacob and the Watermelon

  

   Mom said “No more watermelon for Jacob. He’s had watermelon the past three days and it will give him diarrhea,” (or maybe he already had a bad case of it, I wasn’t paying much attention. You know how young mom’s can be slightly overprotective of their young.)

   Two year old Jacob had a bowl full of cut up watermelon. I went to take it away when I looked at this kid's face. His eyes are closed in ectasy, his head is swaying back and forth gently as he enjoys the sweet watermelon juice sliding down his throat, his fingers strumming an imaginary guitar or whatever it was that went along with his pure enjoyment of watermelon.

   I grabbed my camera, looked around for mom to pounce and jerk the fruit of happiness from the child. No mom in sight. Camera rolling.

   He popped another piece of watermelon into his mouth, eyes closed, hand strumming as he chewed slowly head swaying to imaginary music.  Chewed swallowed.  No mom. Camera still rolling.

   Third piece, would the joy be less with this  piece of treasured fruit? Nope. Eyes closed, head swayed hand strummed. 

   I am a chocolaholic. I have to say, I have never closed my eyes and savored chocolate the way this kid thoroughly enjoyed his watermelon. 

  As for mom? She was in the house. She’ll never be the wiser we could have stopped the onslaught of whatever she is going to have to deal with when he gets home.