Wilder by Far

A look at life with the Wilder family. Updated most weekends and some vacation days. You can contact me at movingnorth@gmail.com..

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Location: United States

Sunday, June 22, 2008

"You know, evil comes in many forms, be it a man-eating cow or Joseph Stalin. Evil is just plain bad." - The Tick, The Tick


Why does NASA have a tracked front end loader? Because they have it on the back of a NASA flatbed. I peeked under the blue tarp covering the object on the front. It was gold-colored, and had a bazillion wheels. I (just happened) to see a link to what the heck it was two days later. It’s on the Youtube link below, and shows up best about 1:10 into the clip. I know this still doesn’t answer why NASA has a front end loader, but if it were my guess? They had the budget money, and wanted to play with one, which is exactly what I would do if I were NASA.

The only night we stayed in the hotel, Pugsley was happier than a pig in mud. Since we had forgotten our duct tape at home, we had few other choices than to let him sleep between me and The Mrs., since The Boy had claimed the couch for his own.

Pugsley has attempted sleeping with The Mrs. and I many times. After his nightly scrubbing, he’d jump up on the bed and begin to rub around on the sheets like a cat, then claw at the sheets when we pulled him off. My own take on this was that he had decided that he’d prefer to sleep with The Mrs. and I, thank you very much, and leave that room with the doors he cannot open for somebody else, say, his brother. Our answer is always a firm “no.” The last thing we want is our camel to have his nose under the tent. Pretty soon the camel is looking for the remote and wanting to borrow the keys for the car.

The Mrs. and I talked late into the night, about politics, science, the weather, and any subject that flew through the transom as Pugsley reveled on our bed, then finally slept. A wonderful evening. We went to sleep about two AM. The Mrs. indicates that Pugsley slept well, until I started snoring. Then The Mrs. indicated that I woke Pugsley up, and that kept her up all night. Fortunately, I slept pretty darn well, which in the end is all that counts.

The next morning our suite was family central as The In Laws converged. Given that Holiday Inn Distress® has a free banquet, The Mrs. took The Boy and Pugsley down to feed them. I showered, and was walking down the hallway when I ran into an obviously irritated (her nose flares when she’s angry, and by flare I mean that blinding light shoots out) The Mrs. coming back down the hall.

“What’s up?” I ask, knowing that maybe I shouldn’t ask.

“It’s them, the bovine people.”

The Mrs. was referring to the people that were making rounds at the free buffet downstairs. She described a people, not by girth or hairiness, that acted (more or less) exactly like cows.

“When there was no more sausage, they just stood there, expecting more sausage to magically grow from the tray!”

“Moo?” I rejoindered?

“Exactly! And then, when I had to cross in front of them in line to get Pugsley a fork, they stared at me menacingly.”

“Moo!” I replied.

“Exactly! And then, when they circled the line, filling their plates, at the end, they had been eating, so their plates were empty, they got right back in line.”


I had to have some coffee. I went downstairs and got in line, and saw first hand the behavior that had driven The Mrs. mad. Moo!, I thought.

We then left for the family reunion. The Mrs. had met nearly none of these people before, although when you looked around the room, you could certainly see lots of people that had been kicked by the same genetic mule.

Me? I didn’t know anyone there, ‘ceptin’ The Mrs., The Boy, Pugsley, and the In-Laws. I took it upon myself to make sure that The Boy and Pugsley didn’t crush all the dainty and delicate ceramic looking things around the house back into dry clay.

The first thing The Boy found on his explorations was one of those Wurlitzer® organs from 1970’s. The Boy powered it up and began playing “And The Cradle Will Rock” from Van Halen, but I convinced him (with a slap to the nugget) that was a bit advanced for the crowd this afternoon.

Instead, I took them into the backyard where the relatives had a veritable cornucopia of child-ride-upon toys for their own grandspawn. Immediately, The Boy and Pugsley began to fight over the same one. After knocking their heads gently together, they began to dimly grasp the concept of sharing, or, perhaps, don’t irritate dad. Either one works.

Two hours later, as the rich aroma of barbequed brisket began to permeate the deck, and The Mrs. indicated it was time to leave.

Time to leave? I think, “The barbeque (full of luscious, sweet, grease-dripping meat!) is almost done! How could we leave now??? I’ve snooped and found no beer, but, that might mean they’re just hiding it!”

It was her family. Instead, I said, “Sure.”

We drove home, missing our turnoff, but Texas is a big state with lotsa roads, and Pugsley was asleep in the back seat. A good day, a good trip, and the only worry that I had lingering was that Sam Houston might come and kill me in my sleep for mocking his hugeness. Perhaps, just perhaps, I could pretend to be a cow - that might fool him.

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