April #3, Less Wind

Now a teenager, I'm finally old enough to drive. It's just a Ford Tempo, but it has air conditioning. On trips to the Mississippi, air conditioning is a must-have. The river is only miles away now. What will this new place look like? I don't know what to expect.

My viral distaste for the incessant Idaho wind led me to complain about every other aspect of Idaho life. The sage brush stinks, the cows are dumb, the houses are ugly, the farm equipment is rusty, and so on. I suppose Dad has had enough because he arranged this service vacation for me and my brother.

So far I'm surprised to learn that every other town between Idaho and the Mississippi looks exactly the same, minus the sage brush. Cows, paint-needy houses, and farm equipment weren't unique after all.

I'm excited to see the Mississippi River. Stories of Tom Sawyer grow thick in my memory the closer we get.

Then we arrive at our service site to find a stack of wood siding waiting to get nailed to a horse barn. A service vacation inconveniently includes service.

It's hot outside, and humid. Horse manure never had so many airborne flavors. I can't remember my nose ever feeling so warm and wet. The morning sun is still behind the trees, but I'm sweating already. When the sun finally peaks, it pays special attention to my black hat and black shoes by giving them extra heat. My wet skin attracts every insect in the county. This feels like work. Where's the vacation? I miss my paper route.

Hours go by, then days. At every heartbeat I swat a fly, the spare time is filled with smashing mosquitoes, but always too late. Their red mark is painful after scratching through my moist skin. They're buzzing in my ear, in my nose, in my eye. What happened to the adventure?

In desperate irritation I exclaim my profound annoyance.

Dad stops. He smiles. Then he says "makes you wish for a little wind."

I agree. With his seven calculated words he successfully ceases a lifetime of weather complaints.