Now would that be Pennsylvania or Pa (as in Father)? Well, both, actually. Recently I flew East to spend a week with my father. It rained, or at least drizzled, every day I was there, but at least it wasn't too cold. I always have a nice time when I visit and I hope he does too. We made the rounds catching up with my relatives and my father's wonderful neighbors.
Between the raindrops, I helped him change the oil in his car and cut and split some wood. And this is a man who complains that he can't do anything any more. At nearly 92, I think he's amazing. Before you picture Paul Bunyan, he did use a chain saw to cut and a mechanical splitter to split the wood, but that image of him sliding under the car to remove the oil pan plug is accurate. I functioned as the gofer.
Everything was perfect until I was on my way home. My flight out of Harrisburg to Atlanta was delayed and I would have missed my flight home out of Atlanta. That was when the fun began. I had to fly to Detroit, then Minneapolis, then home to Phoenix. Somehow I was assigned a seat in first class for the second flight. I kept waiting for somebody to kick me back to coach or worse. I swear the rest of the first class passengers were looking at me oddly. My seatmate was very sweet though and even pointed out the choicest snacks.
Somehow I never took any pictures. (And I especially wish I had gotten a shot of my father's feet sticking out from under the car.)