Summer, A Sailboat and Lilies-of-the-Valley
I have recently returned from a week's vacation, and I am going to resist, temporarily, a request to address the issue of "quality" in favor of a lighter alternative; that is to say, "What I did on my summer vacation." Quality will always be a hot topic; summer is fleeting.
First, a little background. About a decade ago, my sister and her husband, and my wife and I, were, urn, enticed into acquiring an old wooden sailboat from our cousin, who shall remain nameless (but to whom the mailroom occasionally misdirects my mail, and vice-versa). The price was a pittance if one were to ignore the subsequent man-years of reconstructive surgery necessary to keep the thing, afloat. We sailed the antique around Harvey's Lake: for a few years until my son was born and the sister and her husband spent a summer in England, whereupon, we mothballed the relic on its trailer in my in-law's spare carport in the Newberry Estates, which, for you outlanders, is a fairly ritzy condo development in Dallas. The hulk has collected dust there for much longer than my in-laws bargained, and it recently began weighing on my conscience.
So, with the aid of an always willing brother-in-law from Vermont (we're now on my wife's side of the family), I replaced the rotted tires on the trailer in late May, and we agreed we'd make the big move during his next visit.
This amiable fellow is my wife's sister's second husband, the first having got fed up with the highly risky tasks I regularly undertook on their increasingly rare visits to the in-laws. Now, the only thing older than this boat is the trailer on which it sits, so Jim (the new brother-in-law) and I decided to make the seven-mile run from Dallas to my parents' home in Harvey's Lake in the dead of night via the back roads, to reduce the risk of exposure to traffic and the authorities, since the trailer has no lights or license. We set off shortly before 1 a.m., with Jim following in our car, and my seven- year-old son riding shotgun in the truck with me, spotting deer.
We arrived at my parents' place without major incident and left the carcass in the middle of the garden, figuring to return the next day to reposition the mess as per my father's instructions, as he is very particular about such things. I neglected to mention that since we had been at a Red Baron's game most of the night, I had not told my dad that this minor caravan would be traversing his rather lengthy driveway during the wee hours. Upon our arrival the next day, we learned that my niece, who had been rudely awakened by multiple headlights shining into her bedroom, had alerted her parents to the intrusion, and my sister (the partner in our maritime flirtation) had wisely concluded that "The Boat" had arrived, and shotguns were not necessary.
My father, whom I dearly love, wants the wreck positioned on a postage-stamp-sized plot of weeds directly behind the equally old Penn-Van outboard, which he is thinking of launching this summer if we can get the motor fixed before the lake freezes. This plot is bounded by a row of stately pine trees that hover over a bed of lilies-of- the-valley on one side and a row of peony bushes, spaced about the width of my pickup, on the other. I, who have never backed up a trailer in my life, am instructed to position this aircraft carrier without harm to any of the plant life, as it is highly prized by my mother.
An hour later, the site carefully reconnoitered, all options weighed, and a strategy carefully worked out, I hop in the pickup truck, throw her into four-wheel drive, and rev up the engine. Two hours later, the truck, trailer and boat are topologically entwined with the pine trees, lilies-of-the-valley, peony bushes and the runabout. We pause to consider.
My Vermont brother-in-law, who is perched on the arm of the trailer, leans over to the driver's side of the truck, where I have opened [he door for a better view of things. He informs me that my right rear wheel of the truck is perilously close to one of the prized peony bushes. I tell him, in very impolite terms, what he can do with the peony bush, and slam the door on his right ring finger.
Three hours later, the swelling under control, we reposition first the motor boat, then the sailboat, then the lilies-of-the-valley, in a series of intricate maneuvers. Not a single peony bush has been sacrificed, and they have nothing to worry about, since the boat will probably fossilize in its current position.My Vermont brother-in-law says he is looking forward to their Labor Day visit, and any reader can acquire for a song a beautiful old wooden 19-foot Lightning, F.O.B. Harvey's Lake, between the pine trees and the peony bushes.