A weekend scatter: Planes, cars, trucks and a trailer full of trees

A radical reassignment of tasks took place last weekend as Kristin assumed the role of navigator and auxiliary driver to our once-again relocating vagabond child Sylvia. This move sees her trading up from an intern’s post at a national monument in the high and lonesome desert of New Mexico to the “real deal” of working as an interpretive ranger for the National Park Service at one of the most visited parks in the nation.

True to the theme of chasing the dream, the need to pack everything she owns into her travel-weary Toyota and drive the width of the country came right along with the opportunity. For those keeping track, Sylvia’s trail has led from Ohio to Virginia, California, back to Ohio, Utah, back to Ohio, New Mexico and now, finally, to Virginia.

Shenandoah National Park is where the seed of the dream was first planted on a high school field trip, so it seems fitting, if not utterly poetic, that this is where she’ll finally don the official “Smokey Bear” hat for the first time.

Back to the business of traversing the continent with a cat and a co-pilot. Kristin got the ride-along gig by default this time, as I was already committed to a weekend of driving in an entirely different direction for my own job.

The first week of April has for years seen me towing a trailer of baby trees back to Ohio for our annual conservation district seedling sale. This year would be no different, but for the fact my own co-pilot — typically a pleasant woman with dark hair, brown eyes, and a strong preference for black coffee and the music of the Rolling Stones — would be replaced by a young fellow with a tendency to drink puddle water, drool over the very thought of peanut butter, and poop in the most conspicuous grassy location possible at each and every roadside rest area.

So after driving Kristin to Cleveland to catch a one-way flight to Denver, where Sylvia would swing by the airport to pick her up on her way through, I returned home to pick up the shop truck and trailer along with our mutt Frank. From there, the dog and I red-eyed on carrot sticks, coffee and puddle water to a motel seven hours away near the shore of Lake Michigan.

My motel reservation included a room with two queen-sized beds, the cheapest option available. Kristin and I had speculated about Frank’s reaction to this sleeping arrangement even before she was written out of the trip. Given the option, would the hound sprawl out on his own quilted queen, or would he, in the name of kinship and loyalty, do as he’s always done and crowd into the human-occupied mattress?

Interestingly, before I’d even made a move toward one bed or the other, Frank set up camp on the bed furthest from the restroom, always my own last preference. Once I’d settled into the opposite bed, the dog, curled comfortably, tail covering his eyes, appeared to have no interest in relocating to join me.

I turned out the light in a tinge of sadness and disappointment.

“Geez, Frank,” I whimpered. “And here I thought you loved me.”

Before the words had fully landed, I was clobbered by a 60-pound carcass of fur and paws that flew in one ungraceful leap from one bed to the other in total darkness to land squarely on top of me.

“The case is closed,” I messaged Kristin. “Frankie’s loyalty knows no bounds.”

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.