There’s not much you can do about a storm raining on your parade when you’ve worn your bikini under your skirt in the hopes of floating down a river air lifted by the same style raft that carries the cold brews floating beside you.
Yesterday we drove an hour out to Helen, GA, and were halted in our tracks quicker than a radar could suspect foul play. Activity in the town affirmed the cogency our surprise as people scrambled about in their bathing suits, and though I attempted fruitlessly to peg commentary on the herds of young girls and confused mothers gawking skyward with such disbelief that I thought they themselves looked as silly as turkeys who drown themselves performing such a mindless act, I had fun trying.
The people watching remained as entertaining as any activity we could have engaged in otherwise as we attempted waiting out the storm, but eventually succumbed to shifting into another gear and heading west towards Clarksville.
I made note of the Tiger Drive In as we drove by, its happy hour double feature, dilapidated concession stand (which by my own experience always have the kind of processed cheese and bagged chips your mouth waters for at a place like this), and $1 off special if you arrive in your hot rod. Maybe Friday.
We pulled off the first Antique Mall that didn’t leave me with a funky taste just by the looks of it, and meandered the isles admiring the individual booths, their collections, and what their owners must live like, look like, talk like. Our repartee was interrupted by intermittent cracking coming from behind the adjacent walls, and I was shocked to find that somehow we had missed the attached bowling alley, glowing like an angel on the damp Georgian horizon.
Three pairs of socks, three sets of rentals shoes, three rounds, and three [nearly shamefully beers requested as we were still digesting breakfast] later, we got to rolling, and I don’t know that I’ve ever had a better time banging out gutter balls than with my parents that afternoon.
You could nearly count the number of pins pushed over by just the facial expressions of the person whipping around to indicate all or nothing, and we couldn’t help but giggle at every opportunity admiring the baby steps my dad twinkled towards before launching his overweight ball with undersized finger holes towards pins that appeared resistant to his touch.
I made a metaphor in my mind at the time, something about aiming towards your goal to knock out every one standing, just to watch it curve at the last moment and strike down one lonely pin, if that, and not even the one you were set on. But, I gave up and cashed in my thoughts for $3 worth of pool table time where we play fought cue swords, taunted talentless tries, and joked about the well spent turn of events.
My family may not be the best bowlers, but we’re a knockout fun time as far as I’m concerned.