Saturday we had plans to go buy my husband his Father’s Day gift, a new recliner. Ever since I threw his old one out a few months ago, he’s been pining for a replacement. I thought he would adjust without it. Learn to love chairs or couches, but he missed that lazy boy feeling.
That morning I noticed that the War Memorial Balloon Race was happening this weekend. I sent my husband a text something along the lines of how about we end up here. He’s not one for last minute plan changes or unfamiliar experiences, but it was something I really wanted to see and he said yes!
It would be a fun family adventure!
After our purchase was made and crammed in the back of our suburban (suburbans are great!), we followed the slow moving trail of cars to our destination. There was nothing to see. No balloons dotting the skyline, only crowds of people. But we followed the crowd and, like sheep, we plopped down on the grass and turned our faces the way everyone else was looking and waited.
And waited.
We heard that the wind was delaying them, but eventually they arrived and began unpacking.
But not before we had rolled on the ground with the kids, been kicked in the face a few times, been called “base” and slammed into, and in a last ditch effort to entertain, handed the camera off to small hands.
As the balloons went up, they provided some entertainment. But it wasn’t long before we were hearing cries of “I’m hungry,” and “I’m ready to go.”
Party poopers.
We didn’t get to see them lift off. By dark they were finally all blown up and some were drifting up, but still tied down. By then I was ready to call it quits. We drove through Burger King for a late night snack and headed home.
