”Hey!  Anyone know how old this Easter egg is?” my brother hollered in from the kitchen in my grandmother’s small apartment.

We all turned to look at each other…it was February, only days since Grandma passed away, but it meant that any Easter Egg had to be at least nine months old, or maybe longer, we rushed to the kitchen.

There it sat, an egg, dyed green, and sitting in her egg tray in her refrigerator.  It had a shrink wrapped scene on it, one of the “Dear God” kid’s scenes popular in the late 1980′s, the one that had the angelic kids saying something witty to one another.

This one seemed very apt, especially for Grandma Rose.  Two kids were standing side by side, sweet and innocent, and one said the other, “God loved us so much that he gave us Grandmothers.”

I think that summed up our feelings of Grandma Rose to a tee.

The egg was the scary thing.  All of us had seen movies like Charlotte’s Web, that showed the dangers of what an old, rotten egg could do.  We had seen the impact of rotten eggs in Mom’s kitchen.  This one…well, this one was there for a very long time…

“I don’t remember you kids doing that to eggs last year?”  Dad said with a slightly confused look.

“It wasn’t last year Dad.”  I replied.  I remembered that egg.  I dyed it.  I loved the color green.  I remembered when Mom and I conspired to create this very egg.  I had picked the color for the egg, Mom had picked out the transparency – the outside film with the scene on it that depicted those two kids extolling the virtues of grandparents.

“I think this is about ten years old.” I said, with some wonder in my voice.

“No!”  Dad said mockingly, “She must have gotten it from someone else.  She wouldn’t have kept an egg for ten years!”

“Maybe she liked it.” I said matter of factly.

My eldest brother Tom, with a look of concern on his face, reached in and gently lifted the egg, worried about what damage a ten year old egg could inflict if broken open…in his mind, he could picture the newspaper headlines the would announce the family overcome by toxic fumes from a ten year old Easter Egg.

The egg was light to the touch, much lighter than an egg should be.  Carefully, and with a look of terror on all of our faces, he gently shook it…

It rattled.  Not a soft, liquid sort of rattle, but a dry, loud rattle.  The egg had dehydrated in the refrigerator.  The insides had shrunken into a hard core, but the outside remained unblemished, and more importantly, the message remained the same “God loved us so much that he gave us Grandmothers.”

I pictured that every day for ten years, Grandma would go to the refrigerator to make her breakfast, and there, sitting with her staples, was the brightly colored Easter egg that greeted her every morning, letting her know that she was appreciated and loved.

That is what I call an egg that aged well.

 Eggs were a staple growing up.  You could find them at breakfast (bacon and eggs, French toast, waffles, pancakes), you could find them at lunch or dinner (breaded round steak, chicken, fish, poached eggs, egg sandwiches), and for deserts (cakes, cookies, various fried delicacies).

It wasn’t unusual to have a dozen or two eggs sitting in the refrigerator.

A sure sign of Easter was the day that the carton of eggs turned into three or four.  Usually on Good Friday, we would work outside until we broke for a little lunch about 11:30, by that time, Mom was scrambling around the kitchen working to get our lunch on the table before she left to join the choir before the 1:00pm Good Friday Service.

We would join her at church about 12:30, and we would sit reverently through the readings, psalms, prayers, and petitions before quietly leaving the church.  We left church with an emptiness, reflecting on the tomb…but we knew the joy of Easter was only days away.

After the service, we went home, were we boys would find something to occupy our time until evening chores.

But Mom would go right to work…boiling eggs.

By the time we were done with chores and milking for the evening, Mom would have supper ready (usually creamed eggs on toast), and waiting on the counter, short glasses of vinegar water.

Once the table was clean and dishes were done (one of the few times she didn’t have to chide us to get them done….ok, one of the few days of the year when we kids actually did the dishes), we covered the table with newspaper.

We carried the glasses of water to the table, were when I was young, Mom would mix food coloring into the water mix until they were the right color, in later years, it was little Paz egg coloring tablets which brought the colors to the clear water.

For the next couple of hours, regardless the age, we would be kids – dipping the hard boiled eggs into the colored water, adjusting the length of time in the water based on the depth that we wanted the egg to reflect.  Some came out robin’s egg blue, some came out emerald green, some Illini orange, others crimson red, some a light pink, some half one color, half another, like a…well…like an Easter Egg.

As we dyed the eggs, Mom would take a dozen aside and in her careful script, would carefully write the name of every family member, and everyone that would be coming over for Easter dinner – which would be a hodge-podge of extended family and friends.  If Mom knew they were coming, there would be an egg waiting for them, usually in an Easter basket that somehow, the clever Easter Bunny always managed to fix up with the right egg in the right baskets.

When we got to the last couple of eggs, we boys, being boys, would start to mix and match the colors like it was Doctor Frankenstein’s Laboratory.  Mixing a little red with a little green.  Mixing a little blue with a little yellow.  Mixing a little of this and a little of that.

Then dumping it all together.

Inevitably, we would end up with a hand full of, lets call them ‘chocolate’ brown colored eggs…

They were a tasty treat on Easter morning with a little salt and pepper, they made a great devilled egg for the Easter buffet, and they were a powerful symbol of new life and redemption.

A perfect treat for Easter.

By the time we had reached the gate of the 2011 Australian Grand Prix, we had managed to only lose one of the group in the process (one wanted bleacher seating, the rest of us – access to the beer gardens).We bought our ticket at the gate ($110 Australian) and headed in for a day of racing.  The hawkers were everywhere.  Programs, newspapers, sunscreen, earplugs, sunglasses, and Panadol (Australian aspirin) – everything that one should have (so says a sunburnt deaf spectator) for a day at the races was on sale.

Everyone had the race that they wanted to see, or section of the course, or exhibit that they wanted to see.  The actual Formula 1 Race was only about a two hour event that took place in the late afternoon – there was a whole series of races and events that took place during the day.  There were the four cylinder cars, the celebrity races, the V-8′s, the modified, and a few other events thrown in for good luck.

There were also the things like the Qantas fly by, when one of the big superliners does an earth shaking fly by and the Blackhawk aerial demonstration.

Mix in were a huge number of classic cars and enough food and beverage tents to choke a horse…or your average race fan.

We started by walking the track, or rather the park.  The place was big, and for forty-nine weeks out of the year, it is one of the nicest parks in Melbourne, complete with large manmade lake with crew teams and sailing clubs, and a nine hole golf course.  Mix in running tracks, aquatics center, and a host of other venues, and you had one of the nicest parks in Australia…with some strangley placed paved sections.

It was during these three weeks of March that those seemingly random stretches of concrete met the roads and a Formula 1 Track was born.

After grabbing a beverage or two, we made our way to a small hillside to watch the V-8 race, the closest thing to NASCAR that we would see today.

There were some comments in our small group of Americans about the difference between the average Formula 1 race fan, and what you think of when you think NASCAR.  The Formula 1 fans have a reputations for being well bred and wealthy, and, well, snobbish.  NASCAR fans are known for being Southern US beer swilling rednecks.

In truth, neither of those stereotypes are correct.  Having been to both events, the differences were not as stark as you might expect.  The cloths were a little different, but that was more a function of culture (let’s face – they do dress differently in Milan, Italy then Jackson, Mississippi).  The people, the people at both were respectful, were helpful, didn’t jostle, didn’t pressure, and were generally quite polite.  NASCAR loves America, Mom and Apple Pie.  Formula One, well, they might like Champagne, Rochford, and the Marseilles…

We grabbed a sandwich and some chips (read French fries) and sat to watch the V-8′s.  The weather, which had dawned on us at 9am being overcast, cool, and a hint of mist, had given way to a brilliant late Autumn day (the gum tree’s don’t lose their leaves…don’t call this season Fall).  The jackets that of our small group of Americans were shed on the grass, the sunglasses came out of hiding.  It was a good day.

Once the NASCAR fans were happy, which co-incited with the V-8 race being over, we pulled up stakes and hit the road again.  First to find a bathroom, then to find the rows of classic cars and racers.

Happy Race Fans

Herding cats would be an apt description, and poor Kevin put himself in the middle of it.  Everyone wanted to go to the 2011 Grand Prix, but no one wanted to organize it, so Kevin, gallantly, foolishly, stepped up to organize the event.And it was like herding cats.

Some people wanted to go early, some wanted to go late.  Some wanted to get bleacher seats, some wanted to walk around.  In short, everyone had their own idea of what they wanted out of the event.

And the truth is, most of us didn’t care – it was about going out with friends, seeing a good event, and enjoying the fine Melbourne autumn.

While it was like herding cats, we were amicable cats.  We decided on an early start and gathered together on the south bank of the Yarra River at 9am, ready for a little brekky before the start of the racing day.

The Australian Grand Prix is part of the world wide Formula One series.  It is one of fifty events held throughout the year.  It has been a staple in Melbourne since 1996, when the race moved from Adelaide to Melbourne.

Or as the people of South Australia would say, before the race was stolen by the miscreants of Victoria.

You might say there was some controversy.  I’m not saying that there were any secret deals involving substantial amounts of cash and promises that changed hands to move the Grand Prix…I wasn’t there, but there are allegations that substantial sums of money traded hands and promises were made…

Australia has had some form of Grand Prix since 1927, the first one held at the still functioning race track (though completely modernized track) at Phillip Island.  The race moved through the years, and ebbed and waned, before becoming a staple of the F1 circuit back in the 1980′s.

Even a fair number of locals aren’t happy with the F1 race, mainly because of its location.  For three weeks a year, they turn the Victorian park (Albert Park), and block off the streets and trails, rope off the greens and tee boxes of the golf course, and set up bleachers, seating, beer tents, and souvenir stands.

It doesn’t do wonders for the park.  

Having worked on a ground crew at a golf course, I can tell you that the last thing you want is 100,000 people walking, standing, and living on your golf course for a weekend.  Not triple that number and add a race track.

But it lies in the shadow of Melbourne and is a great central location for the bus and tram network.

After a hearty breakfast at one of the many restaurants along the lumbering Yarra, we grabbed a bus and proceeded to the gate.

View of the track as the V-8′s do warm up laps

View inside the track looking at the city

 It was a classic high school conundrum, an issue of priorities.  As a Sophomore, it seemed like there were more and more of these competitive pressures coming to bear.  This one the stakes seemed very high indeed.

On the one hand was a requirement for confirmation in our little church.  Confirmation was a rite of passage for people of both of the major faiths (Catholics and Lutherans) in our little community.  St. Michael’s had a requirement that students preparing for confirmation had to go to the annual Chrism Mass at the Cathedral in Crookston.  This happened on the Monday before Easter.

On the other hand, I was being inducted into the National Honor Society, the first class to be inducted in our school – it was a new organization, and the program read like a who’s who in our little school, and indeed in the community.  This event too happened to be on the Monday before Easter.

Approaching our religious education coordinator with my dilemma, the response was quite clear, a requirement is a requirement.  If I didn’t like the requirement or if there were other priorities, then I could just retake the entire class again the following year. 

“But what of other students that had to work or miss for other reasons?” I inquired.

“Well, they would have to have a make-up session that Wednesday night, when everyone else had the night off.” Came the reply.

“Then can’t I just do that?” I asked.

“Well,” she replied, in a bit of a huff, “You could if you believed that was the right thing to do.”

There were four of us in this same situation.  What to do.  The other three seemed pretty clear in their intent.  They would go to Crookston – though most cited the idea of having to come back to religious education classes on Wednesday as being the primary driver.

I took the issue to my closest advisors, Mom and Dad.

“Well, you only get into the National Honor Society once in your life.” Mom said, and Dad concurred.

“You could go to the Chrism Mass next year.” Dad intoned.

By the next day, they had settled it.  Mom appealed to a higher authority.

“I talked to Father John today and said that you had to choose between the Chrism Mass or your induction into the National Honor Society.” Mom said nonchalantly.

“Well, what did he say?” I asked, somewhat nervously.

“He said that it wasn’t really a choice.  You had to go to the induction ceremony.” Mom said.

That Wednesday at religious education, the four of us made our way up to instructor.  “Well, what are you going to do?” she asked solemnly.

“I’m going to the National Honor Society event.” I replied.

“We’re going to Crookston.” The other three said.

“Well, I’m glad that most of you have your priorities right.” Came the sharp rebuke.

Yup, I thought.  Sure am glad that Father is teaching on Wednesday.

 ”You’re moving the Docklands?  Really?”

That was the common response seventeen months ago when my search for a place to live lead me throughout the city of Melbourne and the surrounding suburbs.  Melbourne is in the middle of housing crunch, where the price of housing continues to escalate.  A typical family home in Melbourne is now one of the most expensive in the world.

Which didn’t make finding an apartment that much fun.

But people were genuinely surprised that I’d rested on the Docklands.  Located where the old harbor was carved out of the river, the slips for the ships and some of the giant warehouses still sit in plain view.  A year and a half ago, Docklands was, while not a new suburb, certainly it was considered a sleepy one.  It was hard to find a good pub.  The restaurants were highly rated, but sparsely frequented.  The frontage along the old harbour, the street, “Harbour Esplanade” – was a bit of a clunky old street, with concrete and tar lining both sides and tram tracks running through the blacktop separating the street and the water.

In some ways it resembled an old industrial site, only partially converted.

In short, I got a good deal on my apartment, even though it has one wall of glass that opens up to the old Victoria Harbour and a balcony that runs the length of the apartment.  On weekends and even walking to work, the place felt like a bit of a ghost town.

What a difference eighteen months makes.

The sleepy little pizzeria on the main floor of my building is a happening place.  The old warehouses in the middle of the harbour are happening bars and restaurants – some of which you now need a reservation to get into.

Three banks have opened up headquarters on the old waterfront, as well as a one of the big department stores.  There are grocery stores, coffee shops, and cafés.  Two of the three television stations have relocated.  Cranes continue to work, putting up more housing, and also rebuilding the giant ferris wheel that is to rival London’s Eye.  The Icehouse, Australia’s home for their winter Olympic Team, and the home of two of Australia’s professional hockey teams, opened for business less than a year ago. Two old Sydney Harbour Ferries take party goers out into Port Phillip Bay each night.  The big building next to mine, “The Watergate” has a base filled with businesses (including, ironically enough – a high class dining venue called, “The Nixon.”)

And the street, well the street has turned from an urban eyesore into a cobblestoned street with tram tracks raised down the middle and proper tram stops on each end of the esplanade.  Lining the thoroughfare are rows of pine trees, selected due to their beauty, ambiance, and ability to put up with the windy and salty conditions of the spray from the harbour.

The work isn’t done.  The street work continues.  The cranes continue to work.  A new bistro opened up in another corner of my building.  Now behind my building, between my building and the Southern Cross Train Station, two more buildings are going up, out of areas that were once muddy patches of earth.

Amongst the people, the construction and it signs, it hit me walking to work the other day, sometime, somewhere, somehow, the Docklands have gone from being a bit of a ghost town to a living, breathing suburb with life and spirit.

Amazing what eighteen months can do.

View of my building from the waterfront

Construction on the tram tracks

Newly planted pines along Harbour Esplanade

Sunset on Victoria Harbour

Sunlight shining on Docklands

 I grew up in a pretty black and white world.  Things were good or bad.  People did their best.  You hoped for rain for the crops, not a lot of mud on the cows, and a girl to go to the movies with on Saturday night.  People treated each other with respect, education was the way forward, and neighbors where there to help you out.

Maybe that’s why I struggle with Palm Sunday.  Don’t get me wrong, I like it, I enjoy it, and I’ve read the story.  I know what the week brings, both in the form of worship, as well as the story.  I struggle with the paradox.

Here is Jesus, the King of kings, making his triumphant entrance into the seat of the Temple of the Living God – Jerusalem.  He is met on this journey into the city by thousands of people, meeting him with shouts of joy and singing.  They spread out palm branches in His path.

By the end of the week, this cheering crowd would abandon Him, or worse, would turn on Him.  The triumphant entrance into the city would fall into the horrific exit only five days later as He left the city a condemned man.

Here is a man going through the heights of glory, being cheered on by the masses, and yet four days later he would be going through the Agony of the Garden, sweating blood due to the pain and the guilt.

Here is God, Creator, come to earth and crucified.

The week is about paradox.

But in a larger sense, the week is about us, it is about human frailties, it is about the paradox of our human existence.  The idyllic community that grew up in wasn’t so idyllic.  There was pain, and loneliness, and loss, and betrayal.

The thousands that met Him on his way into Jerusalem cheering were the same ones cheering for his crucifixion only five days later.  Most wished Him to be something He wasn’t; an earthly king, a political leader, and first rate magician, and their idea of what the Messiah should be.

In the Agony of the Garden, was it His knowing what he was going to face during the next few days, or was it the weight of our sins – our sins – humanities sins – that hit Him.  The unbelievable guilt of uncountable of wrongs, generations of spiritual decay, the sins of the our small town, of our state, of our country, of our world, of our history and our future.  Our consciences suffer under the weight of one – how much pain, emotional and physical, must come from all.  It is amazing that the weight of it all didn’t kill Him there, which proves His divinity.

We have an advantage in that we know how the story ends.  With light and trembling earth, the sins of our fathers – and our children – are redeemed and the gates of heaven opened on Easter.  The triumphant entrance into Jerusalem must have been a pittance compared to what greeted Him as He lead, and continues to lead, that triumphant procession into the New Jerusalem.

 There was a strong wind.  Living on the 27^th floor of an apartment building that faces the west, the breeze that evening was refreshing.  As a result, the two patio doors that open up to the balcony were open, only about six inches, but enough to let the wind in.

It was about one o’clock in the morning when I heard it, over the din of the wind, the pitter-patter of rain drops hitting the glass on my balcony, and even, so it seemed, the glass of the big patio windows.  Opening my eyes, I could see through the dark of night, the cloudy haze covering the lights of Melbourne Harbour.  This meant rain. Hearing the intensity of it hitting the windows, it sounded like something that back home, we would call a real gully washer.

Throughout the night, I would wake and continue to hear the sound of the rain following outside of my windows. Though the wind had lessened, the unmistakable sound of rain continued unabated.

I took little note of it, even as I woke the next morning and looked out at the foggy mist and showers that continued across the landscape.

But it had rained hard all night.

It had rained not just in Melbourne, but up the Yarra Valley, up through the hills and mountains that make up the Great Dividing Range.  The rain, at least this year, didn’t seem out of the ordinary.  After ten years of being below rainfall, the southeastern part of Australia finally had a year that was well above average. It had been one of the wettest summers in twenty years, and near the tenth wettest in one hundred and fifty years of record keeping.

The rain still fell as I made my way out of my building.

I was shocked to see the street corner near my building under a good foot of water.  I hadn’t seen that before, not in my eighteen months of living in this building.  Caulking it up to the road construction, I walk around the morass and headed merrily on my way to work.

It was then that I noticed the Yarra River, the major river that cut through the heart of Melbourne.

From the pedestrian bridge, I could see the flotsam and jetsam of the city, in various shapes and sizes rolled along with it.  That wasn’t unusual, but what was unusual was just the size of some of the items.  Big branches, sometimes whole trees rolled through the murky brown water.

But it was more than debris in the river, in was the intensity of the river.

I had seen rivers in flood before, rivers bigger and stronger then the Yarra.  I had helped on several occasions contain the might Red River of the North.  This was different.

The Yarra is a tidal river.  Each day, the river through Melbourne rises and falls as the Great Southern Ocean’s tides oscillates on their daily schedules.  Today, the brown water of the Yarra was churning like a washing machine.

The power of the rushing water flowing through the mountains, the valleys, and finally through the city were met with the rising power of the tidal forces.  You could see the waves of the rising ocean meet the current of the raging river.

Never had I seen the river rise this high.  Along the shops and stores that line the Crown Casino Complex at Southbank, handfuls of men in official looking suits looked with concentrated eyes towards the water’s edge.  They looked intently at the churning waters to see if there would be collateral damage to this tug of war between these duelling forces of gravity.

Though there were some reports of the river breaching some paths along the river, no damage was done and the she stayed her course.

But it made for a pretty impressive walk into work.

 I don’t often complain about living on the far side of the world.  I wax poetically about the wonders of the people, the cities, the landscape, and the experience.  And I do so because they are amazing.

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t miss home.  It doesn’t mean that I don’t miss the people, the landscape, and the places that I know and love.

I do.

But sometimes, you get those little surprises that pull you back.

For me, it was a Diet Mountain Dew.  The syrupy sweetness, chock full of sugary, caffeine, and bubbly delight that is unheard of in this Coca-Cola dominated landscape that is Australia.  If the US is viewed as a McDonald’s society, the global community is fuelled on Coca-Cola.  That holds true for Australia as well.

Those of us in the upper Midwest were never ones to conform, which might explain why Pepsi products outsell Coca-Cola products.  Why Fargo ND has the largest Pepsi distribution center in the world.  But it isn’t fuelled on cola taste, it is the clear, refreshing flavor of Mountain Dew and it’s no calorie cousin, Diet Mountain Dew. 

The stuff is addicting.

I digress.

Walking into the office, the receptionist said, “You got a package from the States today!”

Picking it up, the little box surprised me by how heavy it was.

“Such a little box, it is very heavy!” said the receptionist, “There must be something special in there!”

She didn’t know the half of it!

Taking it back to my desk, I carefully cut it open…ok, I ripped the box apart like a four year old on Christmas morning.

At the top of the box was a card, addressed to me and another American in the office, Erik.  This was from a joint friend and the instructions told us to share the goodies inside.  I handed over to Erik as I pulled them out of the box.

First, a couple of magazines that gave the preview of the baseball season.  When you’ve seen nothing but Cricket for six months, the old round bat looks pretty good.  There were some corn nuts, some wild rice, and good Ole and Lena joke book.  Tucked along one side was a big bag of M & M’s, pretzel not less!

But none of that explained the weight.

It was then that I realized that the plastic bags at the bottom of the box, those things that seemed to be simple grocery bags that were used for padding, well, that held the greatest treasure in the box.

Wrapped up in that wad of plastic were eight, count them eight, miniature bottles of Diet Mountain Dew.

Both of us about went nuts.

It had been four months since I’ve that syrupy sweetness.  It had been over a month for Erik.  We each took four.  And the plan was to hoard them.  I swear I saw Erik sitting at his desk, petting a bottle and speaking to it, continually referring to it as, “his precious.”

But we aren’t the only hardy Midwesterners in the office.  Later in the day, I asked one of them, Kevin, if they liked Diet Mountain Dew. 

“Absolutely!” Kevin replied, “My wife really misses it.”

Well, I just knew what I had to do.  I took half of my stash, two whole miniature bottles, and quietly placed them on his desk, one for him, one for his wife.

“Wow.”  Kevin said, “That is just so nice.  I really appreciate it.”

We talked a little, before I turned to go back to my desk.

“Hold it. I really can’t take this.” Kevin said, as he lifted one of the bottles and handed it to me.

“Go ahead!” I replied, “One for you, one for your wife.”

“Yeah, I know…but Erik gave me one of his about ten minutes ago, now I’ve got two….” Kevin replied a little sheepishly….

“Thanks for your honesty.” I said, as I took the bottle from his hand….precious…..

 There are pieces that I remember.  Snippets in time.  It was scary at the time.  It is a little funny today.

Baling hay, shovelling barley, cutting grass, working farm chemicals, surrounded by dust on the farm, cutting thistles by hand, never had I suffered from the ravages of hay fever and allergies.  My body was a fortress, or probably more apt for allergies, a multicultural cross roads with very few defensive reactions.

But something changed my senior year in college.

It was in a Crop and Weed Science class that I first noticed the funky angle that my glasses were hanging on my face, paying little attention, I continued to take notes, as my eyesight slowly blurred.  Walking out of class, one of my fraternity brothers, looked at me and asked, “Dude!  What the heck happened to your face!”

My eye had almost swelled shut.

I walked back to our fraternity on College Street and proceeded to take a nap…for the next eighteen hours or so.

I woke the middle of the next day. Feeling fine, I had a little lunch and made it to my next class, pondering why I’d slept so soundly for the longest time in my life.

Off and on over the next week, my eye would swell shut, I’d sleep, and I’d be fine again.

Day ten was a Friday.  I went to my campus job, only to have my darn eye sell up yet again. I finished work in a bit of a blur, and went back to the fraternity house.  I had committed to going back to the farm that weekend, partly because that is what I always did, partly because I had an appointment for an oil change that weekend.

My good friend Jed found me the next morning, sleeping on a couch in the room dubbed, “Middlewest,” still in my clothes from the day before.  When they tried to wake me, I mumbled incoherently.

My next memory was being firmly talked to by a nurse, asking my name and address.  They managed to get it off my driver’s license.

Jed tells me that the doctor took one look at me and declared that it was a case of allergies, brought on by spring and the trees budding.  They gave me some over the counter allergy medicine and sent me on my way with the advice to get some rest.

I’m not sure how I made it to bed, but I remember being woken up only hours later.  Dad was on the phone.

“Are you ok!”  Dad asked with some urgency.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  I replied, “The doctor said I’d be fine.  They gave me some simple over the counter medicine.”

“Doctor?  What are you talking about?”  Dad asked.

“I had to go to the emergency room.” I replied.  “Allergies.”

“You missed your car appointment.”  Dad said matter of factly.

“Dad.  I was in the emergency room.”  I said with a bit of pleading.

“I asked them to fit you in special you know.” Dad said.

“Dad.  I was in the emergency room.”  I said, a bit in disbelief.

“That fine this time.  But what about next time you miss an appointment?”  Dad replied.

“Dad.  Have I ever missed a car appointment before?”  I asked.

“Well, yes.  The one today.”  Dad replied.

“Dad, I was in the emergency room this morning.  I had an allergy attack!”  I implored.

“Are you ok?”  He asked.

“Yes.” I replied.

“Good.  You still missed your car appointment.”