I’ve just spent over an hour trying to register for an absentee ballot on line : it is not working. Dad has offered to take me to down town Jasper on Monday to register.

I’ll try, but this must stand as the testimony as to just how much I dislike Bush : I’m willing to register myself as an Alabaman ( ?). Not that I have anything against Alabama, but I have always taken vain pride in being from Massachusetts.

But no sacrifice is too high….

Unable to make up my mind ( think : what else is new ?), I have ordered a small , John Kerry party pack .

While the three, fine euro- mummies from my beloved baby board shall have first dibs, if anyone else wants a button or balloon, or a chance for a sign, just let me know. On a first come, first serve basis, I will send something out to you, the only conditions being that you do not live in America, that you send me an address via my email address ( sueatboevenbendedotcom), and that you accept that any American living abroad has priority status ( read : Bush shames us more).

I get one of the signs, to put in my window. Where all of the tourists can see it and approve with much vigor.

Now to cross my fingers and hope that it gets here in time…

Each summer, when we make our annual jaunt to America, I find myself with a singular craving : last year, I simply couldn’t scarf down enough Cheeze- its crackers. This year, the same thing has occurred : I hide packages of the secret munchie here in the fridge upstairs and scarf down insane amounts of the secret feed.

I spoon it up like the most luscious(spell check, where are you ? There is a c there somewhere…) of ice -creams, wallow in it’s divine texture.

I simply can’t get enough of small curd cottage cheese. Oh, yum.

I now spend as much time nagging my father as I do the kids, who are all rather annoying at the moment : The Girl demanding attention every nano- second of the day ( look at me ! look at me !- I then ask her when I can regain custody of my eyes, the freedom to look at what I choose to-).

The Boy, well, is ok, except that every other day he has a melt-down of some sort, perhaps simply to keep his uber- gargoyle imitation up to par. Although, to be honest, sometimes Dad and I do just push him over the edge- we get so weary of his sound effects. Dad says it’s like living with a PlayStation game walking next to you.

We did that yesterday. We did it last year as well : we were driving along some long and tree lined stretch between Alabama and Florida and some squabble in the back seat arose concerning the IQ of Stinky, The Boy’s ( yes, believe it or not) blanket. As Dad and I sat in the front, trying to keep our eyeballs from rolling up into their sockets from boredom, The Boy was countering – and getting quite het up about- The Girl’s comment that Stinky was stupid.

Tears rolled down The Boy’s cheeks, his voice quivered in anguish, his jaw dropped into the familiar gargoyle stance. ‘ Stinky’s not stupid’ he said. Dad and I looked at each other. Why, Stinky isn’t stupid at all, we said with much enthusiasm. Why, just last week, scouts from Harvard were here, trying to track down Stinky’s home address…

Didn’t help anything, really, but Dad and I had a good laugh.

I can’t quite recall what started it yesterday, perhaps when I poured some ice cold beer down his neck and shocked the shit out of him. Couldn’t very well beat him with a baseball bat, could I ? Modern times require modern methods. But he erupted- for whatever reason- after Dad made a comment about a (?) mini- mickey from an Austin Powers film followed by me making that popping sound that Donkey makes in Shrek 2, as we drove along. Telling myself I was being ‘ educational’- as all good mother’s should be- I demonstrated 3 ways to make that popping sound. Pop !

Pop!

Pop!

Sometimes, it just feels good to be as irritating asThe Boy, and in just the same manner.

And The Baby could teach the Wicked Step- Mother in Snow White a few lessons in rude and bossy behavior at the moment. Quite the nasty viper, today, our Baby.

And Dad keeps telling me how he has to exercise his leg. I put that fairy tale right to bed, each and every time he trundles it out. One would think – having gone to Harvard and all- that he would catch on, realize that I’m not buying that pipe- dream at all.

He is going to loose his stinkin’ leg. And he wonders were the kids get their pig- headed behavior from.

Reading one of wicked step- mother’s books : memoirs of a geisha..

What a chick book- love it.

…sitting here at this fool laptop- whatever- a thing without a mouse, trying to check in on people, the fool TV flips on, out of nowhere : where do you think yer goin’ ta go, after ya die, it asks me. I turn the volume down, it was at blast, and then turn the TV off once again.

I’m a rather high strung person : TV’s suddenly turning on make me…jump up, two feet from my chair.

I have taken exactly one photo during this trip. Oh, The Girl and The Boy and The Father have snapped away, but I’ve never been big on vacation snaps. In fact, as I have pawed through old family photos to send off to my distant cousin, I have realized that there is something about photos- photos of people- that really bothers me. It is hard to explain and not sound too melodramatic, but sometimes, when I look at old photos – of, say, my Great Grandmother at 15- I feel like a voyeur. As they smile into a camera, not knowing what life will hold for them, I look at the photo and know what life gave them. In a way, I can understand why other cultures find the taking of photos to be a capturing of the soul.

I took one picture and I hope that it shows what I saw. It was at the Viet Nam memorial.

And I do believe that 2 million people have taken just that same photo that I did.

I have always found it to be both remarkable and a source of pride, just how common I am.

The Father left today. We drove him off to the airport, ate hamburgers together and then wished him well.

When we came home, The Girl pulled out one of our 1000 piece puzzles and we set it up on the table in our T.V. room.

That is what we do, in phase two, once The Father is gone : we shift gears and move to a slower speed.

And on a lighter note, today Dad’s leg showed a dramatic improvement: the best in months. I have two more weeks with him, and he seems to listen to me: I dangle next year’s road trip before his eyes and he remains seated. Let’s make sure that this is a temporary thing, I tell him, not a permanent one.

The magic and power of a road trip.

Isn’t a road trip just too American ?

The Father, Dad and the kids went out to the lake today, again. But today was a bit different, as Uncle Jimmy took them out on the boat and to a special gas station, just for boats.

As well as being able to fill up the tank, one can buy sodas, ice cream and candy at the store. And bottle feed catfish.

One…rents- I suppose is the correct term- a baby bottle filled with crunched crackers. You dip the bottles in the lake and squeeze a little water into the bottle and huge catfish come up and actually bottle feed. The Boy and The Girl loved it- holding a bottle while a large fish sucked on it.

Wicked Step- Mother made us a Thanksgiving dinner tonight. I have requested meatloaf for my last meal, The Girl , a 12 course dinner composed entirely of potatoes ( The Girl : never met a potato that she didn’t like).

I help The Father to take The Baby’s bike apart after dinner- it actually fits back into the box it came in. He is packed. He leaves tomorrow. I wish he was staying.

As we drive along the road past Dad’s house and admire the new houses which have popped up since our last visit, The Father day- dreams about moving to the States, as he always has, since the day that I met him. And- as I have since the day that I met him- I squash that puppy, the Netherlands is a better place for our children, a safer place, a more affordable place.

But The Father would move in a flash.

As an aside, anybody know of any truly tasteless Bush campaign articles ? I have been looking around here , but seem to be at a bit of a loss.

In the elections of 2000, I spent a long and emotional evening / morning watching the elections and sharing both joy and horror with a friend of mine. I’m guessing that we shall be doing much the same thing once more, this November. I should very much like to have some tasteless thing to give her for this election- the flashing Bush pin ? The nodding refrigerator magnet ?

And, tell me, election friend, does the Jedi Knight have a …uh…laser ? sword ? Does he covet some small relic ? I shall, in any case, look about.

Last Tuesday was one of those days which probably could have been better spent by simply staying in bed, by sleeping through the whole thing.

The planning was simple enough : I would accompany Dad to Eglin Air Force Base, 5 miles away from the hotel, so that he could stock up on booze, pick up a case of gin for himself and a case of Grand Marnier for my wicked Step-Mother. I would come along to help him tote that barge, lift that bale.

Because he would be driving and his pain medication makes him tired, Dad didn’t take any of his pain medication that morning. After all, we would be back at the hotel within two hours, max. Piece of cake. He is a Ranger, after all, talks about pussy and road trips all in the same breath.

Four hours and many adventures later- adventures of the sort which can only be classified as adventures by spoiled housewives with a tendency towards melodrama- we headed for the West Gate of Eglin Airforce Base. I, for one, would breath easier once this little adventure was over, once those fences were behind us. Once Eglin Air Force Base had no power over us, a spoiled housewife and her father, a Ranger. Once odd little fellows wearing Security Officer badges were behind us, men redolent and evocative of the S.A., the S.S. in fact , were behind us. A parallel military, as it were-

As we neared the exit, the West Gate of Eglin Air force Base, we joined a long line of cars, about a quarter of a mile from the gate and then extending ahead as far as the eye could see. It was about 1 o’clock.

We would remain in this unmoving line for the next 45 minutes. No, that is not quite true: the line of cars did move, but only when a car somewhere, far in front of us- driven by a local, no doubt- would cross that green strip between the lanes and turn around and head back into base, perhaps to an alternate route.

As we waited, Dad and I made that sort of small talk that one makes when caught in an unmoving line of traffic : imagine, the line behind us must be tremendous. The accident ahead must be terrible. Perhaps he- as well- imagined heroic EMT’s, struggling to save small children, children much like The Baby. We could have patience for that, understand that perhaps we must wait so that lives could be saved.

After a half an hour, Dad broke down and dry swallowed one of his mega- doses of codeine. The pain in his leg is a grinding one, I know. Shortly after he took his pill, lights flashing on the road curving up and behind the left side of the car caught my attention. I pointed out the motorcycle- drivers wearing lemon yellow and acid green singlets- he turned his head- and as the bikers zoomed by, commented that it must indeed be quite an accident up ahead of us.

10, 20, 30 perhaps even 40 motorcycles passed that road curving around to the left and above and behind us. Then a caravan of sheriff’s cars, a few ambulances, and then it became clear to us : we weren’t waiting for the victims of some dreadful wreck to be treated. No, as the bus bearing the slogan Bush- Cheney ’04 swung around over our left shoulders and entered our field of vision, we realized that traffic had been stopped, totally, for between 30 and 45 minutes so that George W. Bush could hit the campaign trail, get some votes, visit the town of Niceville, Florida.

Yes, we caught George Bush as he was truckin’ out to Niceville. Now, coming down to Florida from Alabama, or making that very same trip back up, one must pass through Niceville : there isn’t any choice. I’ve passed through Niceville many a time. But what sort of reporter am I ? A self- proclaimed New England snob ? For all I know, people down in Miami lull themselves into sleep at night, imagining the day on which they win the Florida State Lottery and can buy a spread in Niceville, retire.

But as I sat in that car, a really beastly day ( for me) behind me, all that I could think was that Niceville sounded like something out of a Dr.Seus book, like Whoville. That some second rate speech writer, knowing that George W. would be hitting Pensacola, saw Niceville on the map and came up with some speech that The Boy- or perhaps even The Baby- could dream up.

I’m proud today to be in Niceville. I’ve looked around here and I see nice people all ‘ round me. Nice people, people who make up the backbone of this great country, America. People who believe in…yadda, yadda, yadda, add a turn the corner somewhere along the line.

Later in the evening, as Dad and I sat on the balcony of my favorite hotel room in this whole wide world ( although the rest of the hotel sucks, sucks, sucks) and sip iced gin, I tell him that after mulling over it, that Security Officer was indeed way out of line.

He agrees. He could write a letter and get the guy fired, but as we enjoy the most beautiful view that this earth can give, we agree that living well is the best revenge.

I try to forget a man threatening- within one minute- to put my father in handcuffs, to forget three cars filled with MP’s surrounding us as a Master Sargent got the details of the case, to forget the small gun – licensed- that I had to slip into the pocket of my shorts as we waited on the side of the road.

All of the snappy salutes, the way that the Security Officer had to scuttle about, arranging Dad’s passes, can’t erase that burning memory of that gun in my pocket. I grew up with guns in our home and I hate them. It burned like a scorpion in my pocket.

Niceville. A nice place, filled with nice people, the backbone of America.