Move from Utah to Maine, Day 5–Road weary, tire weary, weary weary

Yesterday morning in New York demonstrated our growing weariness with the trip, because SOMEONE didn’t retrieve SOMEONE ELSE’S travel pillow even though SOMEONE was trying to help with other loading tasks, and even though SOMEONE ELSE went back to find a lost watch SOMEONE should have noticed a red pillow sitting among the white blankets! Pillow was retrieved, tensions are as thick as the rain-soaked air.

We drove to Palmyra, had tours of cozy farm houses that reminded Dave and I of a few houses we looked at in Maine (to us from Utah, anything older than 150 years is ancient; on the east coast, it isn’t worth noticing until it’s 300 years old) took a lovely walk through a grove of trees, some of us walked up a steep hill while others decided to run straight up it and roll back down it, then we continued on our way east.

I love the Finger Lakes region of New York and can’t wait to explore it more. I’m also looking forward to hipsters finally noticing that the Indian place names would make awesome names for their kids, and I really want to see a kindergartner try to write out Canandaigua.

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5 year-old in seat behind me wanted something from his 13-year-old brother. He said, “I want to see sumfink,” 15 times before his brother finally relented. It was likely more, but I lost count and patience after the last, “I want to see sumfink. Hey, I want to see sumfink . . .” LET HIM SEE IT!!!!

My 13-year-old has been making trash bottles, shoving all the garbage he can into our old Sunny D bottles. Good to have hobbies.

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Progress was good until outside of Troy, New York, when my son in the van behind us noticed a bulge in the back tire of my 15-passenger van which delayed us by us two hours because we had to find a place in the town to pull over, then we realized our old spare tire was cracked, then we had to track down a tire store willing to help us (“We’re closing in 10 minutes–it’s almost 6pm. Call us tomorrow.”), find a place still open for half an hour, pound on their doors and beg them to stop their employee training meeting to get us a new tire, haul it back to the Walmart where we had parked and the kids were retrieving dinner, get it put on, and finally get on our way hours later again.

It was getting dark and starting to rain by the time we hit Vermont, and state I’ve been looking forward to seeing, but will have to see another time.

But the roads also end in Vermont—there was a big sign: “Warning—road ends in 1500 feet.” What the heck does that mean?! I was picturing Shel Silverstein’s “Where the sidewalk ends,” and seeing a cavern opening ominously in 1500 feet. But, fortunately, there was a T and the roads continued only in different names. Note to Vermont: Everyone ELSE in the country would call that a “junction.” Please change your signs before I come back again so I don’t need to panic.

In Vermont there is a store with giant plastic cows on the roof. (Growing too dark to take a picture of it.) Also horses and moose painted like cows.  Maybe I don’t need to see that much of Vermont after all.

There was also a store with literally hundred of Adirondack chairs outside of it. I guess people in Vermont like to sit a lot?

Although we passed through what is likely the cutest town in all of America—a resort with darling inns and shops–I couldn’t pay attention to it in the dark and rain because 10 miles before my 13-year-old announced that he was nauseated and felt diarrhea coming on and all I could think was, “Do none of these cute places believe in gas stations with BATHROOMS?!”

Found one, filled up cars, and waited for son. And waited. He was sort of ok, but we stopped again an hour later for him, which means we didn’t get into New Hampshire until after 10pm, but still we did over our radios every routine we could remember from “What About Bob?”

My 20-year-old observed that the rumble strips in New Hampshire vibrate his seat. We’re calling them the New Hampshire butt massage.

The worst invention in the world is Gas Station TV.

Ill 13-year-old thinks the images on the NH signs look like faces. If the signs start talking to him, then he’s really sick.

I’ve been worried about my husband’s relationship with Siri, his electronic girlfriend who he trusts with directions more than he trusts me (I’m notoriously unreliable) until I heard him yelling at her when she, for the fourth time, failed to tell us how to get to the nearest Walmart. I think he’s just using her for this trip, and when it’s over, he’s going to dump her. Serves her right.

We got to our motel room in Concord, NH just before midnight, too weary to do anything else but flop onto our double-size beds (I worry about the boys’ in their room, who have trouble sharing queen-size beds) and decide we’re going to sleep in a bit this morning and make sure 13-year-old isn’t sick anymore. But he announced as he got to his room, “I could wake up early and go use the swimming pool, couldn’t I?” causing his 17-year-old brother to announce he thinks the sickness was all a ruse just to sit shotgun through the winding roads of Vermont and New Hampshire.

Just as we were drifting off to sleep early this morning, we heard, “Oh—OH! My tooth came out!” I hoped it was my 9-year-old, and I hoped it was a baby tooth. It was, I got her a wet washcloth, took a picture, then said, “Congratulations, but New Hampshire doesn’t have the Tooth Fairy.” (New York toll roads took all our cash). Mother of the year award goes to me.

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It’s raining this morning, so views aren’t too grand yet. But by this afternoon/tonight, depending how slow we are today, we should be official Maineiacs.  I’ll believe it when I see it. “I want to see sumfink!”

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