Last night Vince and I were talking about funny things from our earlier years.
One thing that wasn’t really funny but we do laugh about it know . . you all know how precise Vince is about everything and how scatterbrain I am about everything . . one night he flew into the George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston and I was going to pick him up. He lived in GA and I lived in southwest Louisiana. It was easier for him to fly into Houston or Baton Rouge so that’s what he usually did.
I got there just fine – before my days of not being able to drive over bridges. I got out of the car and wrote down where I had parked the car. Don’t ask me how it happened but maybe I wrote it down wrong but I think there are two different terminals (maybe more) and I went in one, and came out the other and the lots were numbered the same but people with half a brain would have known which terminal they were parked near.
His flight was pretty late . . arriving after 10 p.m. I think. We came out and could not find the car. It took several hours to find it. Can you believe he didn’t dump me right then? We walked and walked and walked and neither of us can remember how we finally found the car.
Another thing was that we were driving my car once . . not even sure where we were going but we were driving across Texas. It may have been the same trip for all I know. A rock hit the windshield and made one of those little bull’s eye type cracks. Vince stopped at an automotive supply place and got the kit to stop it from spreading. It was like a hypodermic needle and you injected the stuff into the crack, and let it sit for some amount of time . . longer than he wanted to sit and wait so we were driving down the road with that needle thing attached to the windshield. We left it on there so long that we had to buy a razor blade to get it loose from the glass. People would pass us and look at like . . those people are nuts!
One thing we still laugh at – Texas has Farm to Market roads and they’ll be FM (which stands for Farm to Market) and then a number. Vince asked me “what does FM mean?” I told him Farm to Market and he didn’t believe me so we looked it up and I showed him that’s really what it means. He thought it was a crazy name for a road and there are so many of them.
Now .. we live on a Farm to Market road. Often when I have to give our address to someone on the phone, I’ll say FM XXXX and they say “What?” and I say “FM – Farm to Market Road”. I tell Vince that’s what he gets for not believing me when I told him . . now he lives on one.
We do have some funny memories.