"I'm late! I'm late! I'm late for a very important date!"
Why is it that when I really need to be somewhere at a certain time the universe conspires against me? It wasn't lack of planning: I'd filled the gas tank in the truck, I'd gotten directions from the computer, I'd bagged up those things I was to take along and set them where I couldn't forget them. I was ready! And I was late again.
I'd been invited to a party to celebrate my son-in-law's parents' 50th wedding anniversary and no way was I going to miss it. Craig is one of the dearest men I know, and his parents, Terry and Arvin, are absolutely just as special to me. Think of every nice superlative and that would be them. Fifty years together says a lot about their relationship. I think they're an inspiration.
The fire in the wood stove had gone out overnight. I thought about just leaving it, but then Bessie Anne and the cats would be left in a freezing cold house all day. It took forever for the wood to light. It takes a lot of fiddling with the vents (open one, close another, open them all, close all but one) to get a good hot fire going so the chimney will draw. Time crept by and I was late getting down to the barn.
Inga was darned near banging on the door to be let into the milking room. Her udder was so full it was stretched to shiny. We'd had the conversation before about cause and effect and the fact that it was her own danged fault. I had more sympathy for me than for her. Those tiny teats of hers were impossible to grab and milk was squirting out to both sides, little to none going in the bucket until enough tension had been released. Yes, I'd wanted to get a shower, but hadn't planned on a milk bath. Because it was undoubtedly painful for her, she'd lift a back leg in protest, leaving me to keep a foot from going in the bucket or kicking it over. Twice as much milk in Inga's case takes more than twice as long to milk out. Late, late, and later.
Rain when I finally got on the road meant ice going over Buck's Bar. It's not a road that allows speed on the best days, and only slow driving on the worst. Getting off the freeway to pick up Dave, I hit every single red light in the small town of West Sacramento. Back on the road again, high wind warnings were posted and the truck was buffeted all the way to Vacaville. Dave was the navigator and got us right to the restaurant. Almost. We could see it just across the intersection. "Turn left here, Mom, and we can pull right into the parking lot." I did, but we couldn't. No driveway. Every turn I made to get us back in range put us farther away; meridians, no U-turn signs, no left turn signs. Arrrgh!
Of course we were the last guests to arrive in a crowd of more than fifty family members and friends, some of whom had been in the original wedding party. Deb and Craig had done much of the organization and planning for this event and they outdid themselves. Smiling faces everywhere,
I made it home just as darkness was descending. The chickens had given up hope and tucked themselves in for the night. Poppy and the goats were a little worried and beat me down to the barn. Bessie Anne got her cookie for being left alone all day. Frank and Pearl only wanted to go outside. I was just a little late. It's the White Rabbit syndrome.