CO-NE-IA: 6-20-11

The rain was sputtering when we went to bed. The ‘water resistant’ roof carrier could surely repel a few measly raindrops, right?

Fast-forward to 5 a.m. I awake to my ten year old standing next to my bed.

“I had a bad dream.”

I lift my bedcovers in the universal ‘come in to the safe parent space’ gesture, and she crawls in. Taylor is tall, and all angles—elbows and knees quickly end up in my back and neck. I try to get comfortable, knowing I’ll need the sleep when it’s my turn to drive, but my gangly colt of a child and massive grizzly bear of a husband have me sandwiched in some demented Animal Planet episode. I finally sigh dramatically, and heave myself out of the wilderness. As my feet hit the floor, I notice my young colt is playing Brick Breaker on my phone. Before I can puzzle out how she bent herself into the origami torture device that ended my sleep WHILE playing Brick Breaker, I hear splashing. The gutter outside the kitchen sink is pouring water, presumably from the now torrential downpour.

I try to rest for another half an hour, hoping and praying that somehow the $40 roof carrier that is strapped to the roof of my minivan resisted the deluge. I finally give up on sleep, and head to the kitchen. Coffee, ice in the cooler, gathering of necessities for the cross-country voyage. The grizzly bear lumbers out from the cave.

“It’s raining, huh?”

I send him out to check the canvas bags bulging with tightly packed clothing.

Note to reader: Water resistant is NOT the same as waterproof.

“They’re damp,” is the verdict.

I sigh dramatically.

Everything is ready. I find the two sheets of postcard stamps I bought. I remember to print something very necessary. I kiss my puppies goodbye, feeling sad about not seeing them until August.

And then we’re driving.

Driving through Nebraska and Iowa follows a fun pattern: Cow-Corn-Farmhouse-Granary. A large wind farm in Iowa broke the monotony. The weather was really windy, with scattered rain. It wasn’t until close to Iowa that I stuck my hand into the roof carrier. The bags aren’t ‘damp.’
They are drenched, soaked, sopping wet. I sigh dramatically.

Iowa has stretches of pretty—parts of it remind me of southwest Germany…rolling hills, green-green-green, but with miles of corn rather than vineyards.

And then we’re in Des Moines. I ask the front desk about laundry facilities, and am shown to a dryer. For two bucks in quarters, I can have 35 minutes of pure dry air. In the bags go while we eat down the hall in the hotel restaurant. I finish up the laundry and the little critters go burn off inertia in the hotel pool with dad. As I fold I turn on my third favorite channel,The Weather Channel. Unbeknownst to us, tornadoes chased us along our drive. Makes some wet laundry seem like no big deal.

I sigh with relief.