I’ve decided that my quest in life to honor our sweet Spencer will be to be more present, appreciate being outdoors and the beauty of nature, and to cherish the moments spent with family and friends. All of which Spencer was such a great example of. I’d say I got my fair share of all three of those in this week. I spent nights sitting out on the deck reading, got to see a visiting pal and her beautiful family for a bit on Wednesday (what up, my pal, Alena… Road Trip Eating the States is ON!), and then spent Friday night visiting an old haunt with Kayla and Corbin.
I have fond memories of this old haunt from my childhood years. Logan Miniature Golf, back in its heyday, was quite the place to be in the summertime… especially for a frizzy-banged, nerdy, mullet wearer. I spent many a summer afternoon/evening trying to hit a ball through a moving windmill and trying to get the free golf game at the last pinball hole, but then the years happened… the repairs didn’t happen… the customers dried up… and now the place is a shell of its former self, all lonely-looking and in bad need of repair and a good old-fashioned lawn watering and weeding session. There’s a MUCH nicer miniature golf course on the other side of town. It’s newer, well-manicured, and has customers. We still went to the rundown place… because it had memories… and weeds… but it made me sad to remember the days when it was alive with the voices and laughter of hormoney pre-teens and children.
This would be the windmill attraction. Except back in the olden days it had an actual windmill that would go around in circles helped by a motorized component so that it would trip up your golf ball from making it through the slot. Now it’s basically a red triangle with a roof.
This one is called the Washington Monument… now after a terrorist attack?
This one was called the Brooklyn Bridge… more like the Broke-lyn Bridge.
The ancient crumbling totem pole… actual year probably 1775. Kayla and Corbin seemed to like it anyway… and actually requested it over the newer fancier course. There’s some things that can’t replace good memories… even if they’re broken down memories!
In the second part of the title of this blog post, I had a strange request a few weeks back. One evening the doorbell rang. Whitney doesn’t answer the door unless she’s sure the Publisher’s Clearinghouse has her check on the other side. But this night I happened to have just walked right in front of the door window on my way to pick up a water bottle… so I was stuck… unless the person on the other side was totally blind and partially deaf. You can’t miss this silhouette otherwise!
I peaked through the window before I opened it and saw a cowboy in full regalia… hat, boots, wranglers, westerny button down shirt, and one of those fancy mustaches that look like they’ve been super glued at the tips. My first thought was that one of my dad’s relations was here to visit, so I opened the door. He took his hat off in a howdy, ma’am manner and proceeded to introduce himself as a guy who lived up the street a few miles.
I reckon I pass this house near everyday and seen that there Buick. This may seem strange, but have you ever considered selling that Buick, ma’am?
That caught me off guard right there… ain’t no one in their right mind ever asked to buy Beulah the Broken-Down Buick… let alone called me ma’am like I’m 95 with a gout problem. Beulah’s air conditioning doesn’t work. She runs like a bull in Pamplona… and she was born in 1997. Not someone’s idea of a fabulous vehicle. I was curious so I asked him why. To which he replied that his grandma has one just like it and she wanted him to fix hers, but he couldn’t fix it, so he was fixin’ to find one that looked exactly like hers and tell her that he fixed it.
I should have asked him how much he was willing to offer… because I’m pretty sure if it was anything above 14 dollars, I’d have pounced all over that one! Instead, I told him it was my only car and I’d need it on account of the fact that I was born with a klutzy gene and two left feet plastered in cement blocks. I then told him that if he gave me his phone number I’d call him if ever I decided to sell it. I’m sure my asking for his phone number scared the poor dude to death and he quickly mounted his horse and rode off into the sunset. Kind of like John Wayne’s lesser known brother LeRoy Wayne… except with less Buicks.
That makes the second time in the last few years someone has offered to buy Beulah. I guess I should realize the gem of a vehicle I have on my hands more often. Bird doo and strange gas smells be durned!