One of the joys of being a man is that I can pack for vacation in 15 minutes. And that may be a stretch time wise. All I need is a duffle bag, a Walmart sack strategically stuffed with a few items, my Bible, and a nice shirt or two on hangers for when it’s time to get the family picture. Apparently the Johnson women don’t think it’s appropriate to wear a Metallica or Georgia Southern Football t-shirt in the required family photo.
But those Johnson women…. They pack. And pack. And pack some more. And then some more packing. To be followed up by packing. And packing in case they forgot to pack. And the First Lady asks, “Did you pack this? Did you pack that?”
“Yes, babe. I packed it.” Then I run go get it and sneak it into my bag.
Being that past vacation packing experiences required blueprints, a slide rule, protractor, and a logistics expert to pack my truck, I was preparing to write and make the following grievance with the union.
I am president and CEO of Johnson, Inc. and have the power to voice my grievance with the female team members at any given moment. But like a real man, I shamelessly take to the laptop so I can bravely express my opinion of our loading dock situation this morning. And yes, it should be called a loading dock given the amount of luggage and accessories this crew brought. Perhaps a commercial truck line would have been a better call or maybe I could have called the Army chief of staff and have him land a C-130 out at Bush Field airport to properly load.
As president, I issued mandates and an executive order earlier in the week. I quoted TSA laws and told them I would require bag scans for carry-ons. “DO NOT PACK THE ENTIRE HOUSE FOR THIS TRIP,” I boldly stated from a comfortable distance.
I prepped for the worst, but surprisingly they only packed half of enough supplies for the continent of Africa. And somehow I got it all to fit again this year. I stared a few seconds with pride at the eighth wonder of the world in the back of the car.
I came inside to brag to the girls about my packing skills, but Puff the cat greeted me with the brush against my leg and the militant demand meow. That means, “Feed me now, peasant. Can’t you see the almighty is hungry from her long night of running around in the dark while you sleep?”
She gobbled down her food bowl only to start the most vile heaving and wretching I’ve heard since my child had the swine flu a few years ago. She chundered juicy meat hunks all over the floor and then looked at me with a sense of feline pride.
‘There you go, Boss,” I heard through her sarcastic meow. “Have fun on your trip.”
When it’s 85 degrees at 8:30 AM and you’re loading the trunk sweating like a fat lady at the summer homecoming church picnic, the smell of cat vomit is not the most appealing thing.
Clean up cat vomit. Check.
We managed to get the cars rolling and edged our way out to the coast of Georgia. We stepped into the seventh side of eternal torment otherwise known as I-95.
Yankee car tags going slow in the passing lane. Cars weaving in and out like Dale Earnhardt to avoid them. Middle fingers waving from all six lanes. Every other exit staffed with Barney Fife and a laser-sighted radar gun. A bleary-eyed dad passed me in a Honda Odyssey with the back window cracked. The kids were pinching their nose and laughing. I feel your pain, brother. I, too, know that giggle and smell all too well.
We reached the Brunswick exit where the new Buc-ee’s is located! Our caravan pulled off for a bathroom break, and so I could score some chocolate covered goobers. The only problem is that everyone else on I-95 had the same idea. No parking. I creeped along in the parking lot until I could take no more. I began to scream like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes.
“IT’S A MADHOUSE !!”
That’s what Heston said and it was certainly applicable here. At least our bladders were relieved and the chocolate covered cashews were stupendous. I munched and crunched while we made the final leg of the journey to the Atlantic coast. I endured a few more slow-rolling Yankees and a man that flipped me the finger at the red light.
“I apologize, Reverend, for cutting you off like that. Here is my turn!”
We made it! And so we improvised, adapted, and overcame everything in our path to see the Atlantic Ocean from the beautiful coastline of Amelia Island, Florida. After unloading my beautiful packing job and making a family grocery run, I wandered out to the beach by myself.
I looked as far as I could to the south. I looked as far as I could to the north. The waves kept rolling. The wind whistled over my hair-follicle challenged head and I could smell the salt water spray in the air. Work problems seem distant. My blessings seem abundant.
It was so worth the packing. And yes, the drive, too.
Thank you, God, for making places like this.
