Everything was going great, or so I thought, and right there is where I should have realized there was a problem.

I got out of work right on time. I didn’t have to make any stops on the way home since Dave and I had made a beer-run the day before and we decided to forego our usual pizza supper.

When I got home, Dave started loading the Jeep and our Beagle Boy Cletus cooperated for once by cooling his heels in the backseat.

With no arguing between Dave and the dog, I was free to get my jobs done — closing blinds upstairs and down, and turning on nightlights.

I even remembered to grab Cletus’ leash before I locked the door. That only happens about three times a summer so I really should have known there was a rip in the fabric of time. We rolled out in a record 20 minutes after I got home, ready to start our weekend at the camper. 

We had our sweet potato casserole for the Thanksgiving dinner potluck on Saturday afternoon and Dave had checked everything off the "to pack" list. Life is good. Cletus was bounding back and forth from window to window in the backseat of the Jeep, which struck me as odd, but I couldn’t seem to understand why just then. 

We were crossing the causeway at the front of the campground when it occurred to me that we had forgotten something pretty important to our weekend plans. The only beer in the Jeep was the one in my hand. That explains all that extra room Cletus had in the backseat. 

OMG. We forgot the beer. How in the world does that happen? Dave was madder than a hornet when I said we had to turn this rig around. 

The return trip to the house and back to the camper went really fast. And slightly scary. Those were some serious angry laps Dave was posting. 

Finally, we were on the hill and unpacking our stuff only about 20 minutes later than usual. No harm, no foul. But then I couldn’t find the English muffins I planned to go with the sausage gravy for breakfast the next morning. And where are Cletus’ Bob Marley pills?

What did Dave do with the stuff I packed in the big "Go Green" bag from the grocery store. "What bag?" he said. This can’t be good. We have to go back to the house again. 

We could live without the muffins and pills, but who knows what else was in that bag. We literally start packing that bag on Sunday evenings when we get home from the camper. During the weekend, I make a list of the things we need out there. Once the bag is unpacked from the weekend, we start filling it with things we’ll need when Friday comes again. 

Dave told me to have a nice ride, he and Cletus were staying put. If I wanted that bag so bad, I could get it myself. 

The potluck went well, Cletus didn’t lose his mind while we were gone and nobody seemed to notice I used a little can of Mango-Rita to keep our sweet potato casserole from drying out. 

The next morning, we had a leisurely breakfast and started planning our lunch menu. We’ve been staying later on Sundays lately. It’s nice not being shot out of a cannon the minute we wake up on Sundays. 

Then I got a frantic call from our new daughter. The jist of that was that she couldn’t get a hold of her husband, our No. 1 son, after 20 phone calls to him. Her nephew’s first birthday party was in a couple of hours and our son was probably sound asleep. 

Halfway to their house, I got a text instructing me to knock on their bedroom window as he most likely wouldn’t hear me at the door. And to watch out for the doggie-provided "land mines" in the yard.

I gave the window one good smack with my fist. The sound I heard could only have come from him jumping clear out of his jammies. Even the dogs were stunned into silence for a second. There was some rustling around behind the curtains, like at a play put on by third-graders. 

Then our granddog, Roscoe, poked his face through the split in the curtains, followed by our other granddog, Bo, and eventually our No. 1 son. I went to the door and waited to be let in. 

While the boys climbed all over me, excited by the impromptu visit from Grandma, I was chastised for my behavior. "Dude, I could’ve shot you. What’re you doing banging on my bedroom window?!"

I was doing what I was told to. I gave him a quick summary of what she said, while he checked his phone and discovered his wife had indeed called him 23 times. 

He said I should have used my key and come in and woke him. Seriously? That would have gotten me shot. Using my key (which I totally forgot I even had), walking into a very dark house and startling the dogs and their daddy. No way.

Besides, every time I think back to the response to my one hit on the window, I get a pretty good chuckle. He got to the birthday party on time, and our weekend ended on a high note, despite it taking us three tries to get it started. 

Copyright 2018 Laura Nethken