Starts with K

As we have aged, the vacations my husband and I take have changed, much to my dismay.

We spent two weeks in Hawaii for our honeymoon, which would set the tone for the next several years.

I love a tropical – or at least warm – climate, and frequently swear to my niece that we’ll visit Hawaii … soon. She lives there, poor dear.

But after Russ got two new knees for Christmas 2022, he mapped a big adventure for the entire family.

The next October, we would all travel to Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, where most of them – including our 3-month-old granddaughter – would hike portions of the Appalachian Trail. It was a resounding success that, sadly, changed the course of our vacations.

The next year, it was the Superior Hiking Trail in northern Minnesota.

It’s important to note that while family members are out hiking and camping, I am devouring books and snacks at a rapid pace in the house/hotel we have rented for the week.

But this year, the stars did not align. From a baby on the way to studying for medical boards to new jobs, Russ’s plans for several family hikes around the Wisconsin Dells area included … us. Well, him.

Because fully half of our children live in Wisconsin, though, I also made plans.

I would drive from the Dells to Milwaukee, spring the grandchildren from school a bit early, and we’d head to the fish store for new pets, because I am the irresponsible adult in their lives.

Less than one block away from their school, I approached what is called a speed “hump.” A cautionary sign suggested a 15-mph approach. I hit it at 10 – and my precious grandchildren and I heard an ominous scrape before we were launched to the other side.

It felt … bad.

We arrived at the fish store less than 10 minutes later.

Forty minutes after that, a man approached me as I fanned myself in the 80-degree store while the kids made impossibly difficult decisions about fish vs. snails vs. frogs vs. teeny shrimp.

“Are you driving the car with the Minnesota plates?” he asked.

Odd question. I feel like I could pass for a Wisconsinite, and we really all sound the same, right?

Anyway.

“Yes,” I told him. And before he opened his mouth, I knew.

“You’ve lost a lot of oil,” he said. “It’s all over the parking lot.”

I will spare you the sordid details but know this: It is possible to get two children, a vast array of water-dwellers in plastic bags, a new aquarium and its components and a Minnesotan into a tow truck for a trip across a large city, dragging an oil-less car behind.

It is not possible, however, to leave a rental agency at the airport with a vehicle you’ve already paid for if you don’t have a valid driver’s license because the DMV stamped VOID on your current one while you wait for your Real ID.

It is possible if you have the accompanying paperwork, but not possible if that paperwork is in the glove box of the oil-less car that is sitting at a repair shop on the other side of the large city.

Our daughter ended up with the rental car; I drove their minivan two hours back to the Dells, waited two days for my car to be repaired, then drove the two hours back to Milwaukee.

I scrolled my phone as I waited for my keys and my bill and saw that Alaska Airlines was offering roundtrip flights from Minnesota to Hawaii for less than $500 per person.

Of course it was.

For the price of the tow, repair and rental car fees, Russ and I could have returned to Oahu.

But I got close. I was surrounded by tropical fish in a hot, humid place, and people identified me as an out-of-place Minnesotan.

if I squint just right, it’s almost exactly like a Hawaiian vacation.