There’s a Grenade Under My Bed

It’s decided.  5:40 a.m. is early no matter what time zone you’re sleeping.

I think it’s a bit easier to take now that we’re earlier than we were before the move but I’m still resistant to being awake to watch the sun peek over the horizon.  Yeah, I’ll get over it.

Yesterday we drove to our mountaintop town to see about getting our little trailer ready for habitation.  (Because moving from a house that’s gajillion square feet into a 27′ 5th wheel travel trailer is an exciting move for any family.)

We started the day off at McDonald’s drive thru lane where my father leaned completely out of the window, held up two fingers while ordering his two coffees, and shook his finger at the speaker when they repeated his order and didn’t get it quite right.

Going through drive thrus has always been a challenge for my father.  He has a deep Southern accent and somehow 85% of the time his order of coffee ends up being interpreted as an order for Coke.  No correlation, not the same number of syllables in the words, but it is a true fact.

Cokes and coffees in hand, we drove up the mountain and arrived at the mini storage to survey the damage caused by a travel trailer that hadn’t been winterized yet sat through the elements of 7,000 feet for the season.

My dear Lizard, being the skinny soul he is, was able to twist, turn and maneuver to replace leaks in the tubing system.  They went to the RV repair store four times.  And then, when success was close enough to taste, a leak sprang in the base of the flooring.

The underbelly of the trailer will be professionally removed Monday.

It was a sad day.

Somewhere in the mix we added a grenade, however.  Apparently my dad found a smoke grenade somewhere and stored it under the bed in the trailer.  Because that’s where you store incendiary devices.  UNDER THE BED.  IN AN RV.

Better yet, when I learned of its presence it was with an off-hand comment: “I sure hope they get that bottom dried up so I can put my WWII hand grenade back under the bed.”

Maybe it’s a sign of my gullibility, but I could see my dad having a WWII hand grenade in his possession – Lord knows stranger things have turned up in his presence over the years and he does have a pretty intense military background.

Visions of my curious and nimble-fingered children pulling the pin in said hand grenade and blowing us and our humble abode into smithereens began to dance through my head.

My blood pressure elevated precipitously.  Much conversation ensued.

Turns out it’s a smoke grenade whose origins may or may not be WWII (most likely not.  He just said that to get a rise out of me.  Which worked.).  Regardless of it’s original purpose, the grenade will not be located anywhere around my sweet ruffians any time soon.

And that was the story of yesterday.  I can only imagine what today will hold.

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