Sometimes the pace of living in the big city just gets to you. It seems like you never get a chance to slow down and you take your life in your hands doing the most mundane things.
You know the city I’m talking about. It’s Rockdale.
Once a month some of us from the RHS Class of 1968 get together at an area restaurant.
It’s a lot of fun. I’ve been taking my wife with me because although Sue managed to attend school in every state except Texas she has a lot in common with my classmates. Namely, making fun of me. Go figure.
Last Wednesday was our mini-reunion day. It was a busy one for both of us and my plan was to pick up Sue a half-block away, get out to the restaurant quickly, visit, eat and both of us needed to be back by 1 p.m.
First, I was late. When I finally got there she was busy and couldn’t get away. We headed south down Main Street forgetting about the red light at Main and Cameron that’s timed to only turn green when Main Street drivers’ blood pressure reaches 180 over 150.
It finally did and we zipped down across the railroad tracks to find they were black-topping the road, complete with flaggers and pilot cars maneuvering traffic through the construction zone.
But, hey, this is my town. I’ve always got a Plan B.
I did a U-turn, went east to Pecan Street and followed it to its intersection with FM 908 at the south city limits. That’s where Main Street goes.
I was so proud of myself, not a vehicle in sight, I turned left....
And found I was going the wrong way in the only open lane of traffic. On one lane was the hot mix work and coming toward me, from the US 77 side, was a long string of vehicles led by the pilot car, the driver of which did not take kindly to my chosen route.
Fortunately, I had just taken a photo out that way a couple of weeks ago and knew I wasn’t far from a driveway. I hung a right there and hung on until the parade passed.
It took a while.
Then I had to drive very slowly along the hot mix remains to get by the construction area. We arrived at the restaurant.
There was not a single parking space. It was the busiest we’ve ever seen it. It was now 12:35.
I regretfully calculated by the time we found a parking place, got inside, sat down and ordered that would leave me about five minutes to pretend my 68-year-old ears could hear the conversation.
“If we are going to get back by one, we need to return to town and find something to eat quickly,” I said.
We did. Just made it.
But my editor instincts had kicked in, figuring that road project would make a good photo.
So I dropped off my wife—it’s close to an hour later now—went back out my Pecan shortcut, parked and gingerly tiptoed through the asphalt overflow.
I had gotten my photos and was walking back to my car when the pilot vehicle came up behind me. I stepped to the side to let the cars by. But one big pickup made a beeline for me. It was coming on pretty good. I stepped back to avoid it, finding a puddle.
Down went the window. It was my 1968 classmate, and friend, Glen Chmelar.
“We missed you,” he said. “What happened?” I explained it and we visited for a bit, much to the displeasure of everyone between us and US 77.
After the line went by, with some glaring glances, I thought I would do something for my long-suffering, and infinitely patient, wife who had hopefully mentioned ice cream.
I stopped and got her a scoop, came back to her place of work and parked at the side of US 79 downtown.
Dessert delivered, and Hubby Brownie Points earned, I went back to my car, opened the door, heard a vehicle screech to a halt and a window scroll down.
It was Glen. Again.
This big-city life is hectic.
- Log in or Subscribe to post comments.