We held a family rummage sale Friday & Saturday. A week's worth of preparations, one day miserable in the damp cold, two days with the Blue Angels & other loud planes passing overhead from the local air show (I hated those planes; but hubby looked up -- mouth open -- for every one), and, because we don't have a garage, sore muscles form all the repeated set-up & take-down.
The results of all this was just enough money (after paying for the ad) to buy the family three large pizzas. (The combined funds raised by the kids equaled more than what we made; next year, they chip in on the ad.)
I consoled myself with the fact that only three boxes of crap would return to the basement. And that for two days we spent quality family time on the front porch. (Not much different from quality family time when you work from home.)
When the rummage sale was over, we packed all but those three small boxes of trinkets into the old conversion van to donate them to the closest thrift shop. There, while waiting for the family ahead of us to unload, I spotted a guitar in the back of their SUV and committed the cardinal sin of asking, "How much for the guitar?" The man brought it over, showed us where it needed repairs, but said we could have it.
The eyes of the 13 & 9 year olds bulged with delightful surprise.
From there, we decided to go to another thrift shop we had not been to in awhile. (The kids & I had just shopped this thrift store earlier in the week.)
A few blocks away, in the middle of construction, the old conversion van (named Ookla, after the the mok in Thundarr the Barbarian) made a few strange noises and then died. Hubby & I sprang out and, holding onto the door frames, began to push the van. We made the left turn through the intersection surprisingly well and, now trotting as much to keep up with the rolling vehicle as anything else, I could see a number of open angled parking spaces ahead on the right on Broadway, the main drag in the old downtown. I was thinking how lucky we were, good weather, close enough to home -- we walk to & from the old Fargo downtown rather regularly.
And then the dinging warnings of an approaching train on the train tracks just a feet ahead of us. Hubby flew into the van and used the brakes to stop us just before the bars lowered before us.
Hubby & I began to laugh hysterically. What else? Who else?
The kids, still buckled into their seats, had bulging wide eyes again -- this time because they were freaked. I talked them down from their panic while the train rolled by. But we grown-ups was still giggling.
The train passed, we rolled the van into one of the angled spots, locked her up, and began to walk towards home. More quality family time.
Just a few blocks to go and the 20 year old calls on my cell. "Hey mom, just passed you guys walking; we're going to eat at King Buffet."
I told you we walk a lot; it never occurred to her that there could be a problem associated with our walking. So I replied, "Wanna know why we're walking?" and then gave her the quick run-down of events since she's departed the rummage sale.
When we got back home, we ordered the pizzas (yummy Duane's!) and then busied ourselves with taking some pictures for blogging (yes, that's a tease). When the pizzas arrived, we paid the delivery girl with our meager rummage sale earnings and sat down to watch Rock-a-Doodle (review to at Kitsch Slapped soon).
'Round here, we call crazy days like these "Saturday."