Letters From The Loft

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That morning, we commenced our journey.  For the first time in years, Sam and Ben had enough room in the van to flail at each other.  Every few seconds, Sue would glance nervously at the side mirrors, trying to see if our carrier was about to go airborne, and every few seconds I would lovingly scoff at her.  All was right with the world.

What happened next happened in the space of a few seconds, but every detail is indelibly etched in my brain, probably obliterating some other more important memory.

There was an unearthly sound from the top of the van, something akin to the ripping of the space-time continuum.  The front wheels of the van seemed to levitate slightly from the ground.  Sue’s fingers found their way through my flesh and straight to the bone as she gripped my arm and stared at the rear-view mirror.  I followed her stare just in time to see the carrier, still fully intact, make a solid landing on the highway behind us, amid a cloud of dust and bungee cords.

Later, local papers would report how nearby radar stations had briefly encountered a strange blip on their screens, matching no know aircraft signature.  This incident would remain an open X-file.

I immediately negotiated a tight U-turn and made my way back to the landing site. Fortunately, there was no traffic on the highway in either direction, and so there was no unfortunate motorist present to wonder what piece of the Hubbell telescope had found its way onto his car.

I quickly pulled the carrier to the shoulder and inspected it.  Aside from a minor dent, the carrier and its contents were remarkably undamaged.  Except for the first-stage separation, it had fulfilled its promise of keeping my wife’s undergarments hermetically sealed.  Freed of that concern, I was now left to ponder my next course of action.

Well, what choice did I have, really? Enlisting the help of my sons, I put this gravity-defying jet-pack wannabe back on top of the van and secured it as best I could with the remains of my valiant bungee cords.  Then I proceeded down the highway at a prudent speed (about one rpm above idle).  We inched our way into the next small town, whose city limit sign happened to be at the entrance to the parking lot of another super-mega-giant-discount-retailer.  So we parked and hired a local guide to take us to the front doors.

Of course, it was too late to return a rooftop carrier which had clocked as many air-miles as ours.  Our purpose now was to find something more reliable to secure our restless container. While we were browsing through the restraint section, Sue idly picked up a package of bungee cords and read these instructions (only Sue would read the instructions for a product that consists of a rubberband with a hook on each end): 

"Do not use to secure any object which may be exposed to an updraft."

To her credit, she exercised the same degree of restraint and discretion that I would have if our roles had been reversed, which is to say those instructions were quoted to me hourly for the rest of our vacation.

At any rate, we eventually found some sturdy, seatbelt-like straps with a ratchet mechanism that soon proved to be the solution to our levitating luggage problem.  These straps have since found a place in my heart formerly occupied by bungee cords.  You can be assured that, if I ever have the desire to experience the thrill of jumping from a high place, these straps will be tied to my ankles instead of those unreliable elastic cords.

The rest of the trip was uneventful (except for the Case of the Missing Briquette, the fishing trip at the water treatment plant, and the locusts, all of which been dutifully recorded in the family history). But the rooftop carrier incident was a lesson that would prove very valuable to me, if I were inclined to learn from my mistakes.  As it is, the only thing I really took away from the experience was the realization that, anything I do in front of my children, I'm doomed to relive endlessly as they share the anecdote with anyone who will listen.

But now you, the humble reader, have an accurate history of the event to which you can refer, rather than relying on an oral tradition that elevates the incident to some mythical level of stupidity.  I’ve asked my family to study this in the hopes that maybe the next time they feel the need to tell this story, they’ll exercise a little restraint.

I'm kidding myself, aren't I?