It's a call I start looking forward to in August. Once summer vacations are done, YMCA camp drop-offs are over, school is getting ready to start ... I wait for the phone to ring.
It'll be Dad on the other line. He'll make small talk, chat about weather and work, and then he'll get to the point.
"Getting ready to winterize the barn. Starting to think about packing for our trip. What kind of tools should I think about bringing?"
My parents spend the greater part of the cold months in my general vicinity. The last few years, they've landed in Yuma, AZ for several months. I can always count on their arrival by The Boy's birthday (always around Thanksgiving). I can plan on them heading back east to get their granddaughter fix around December or January. And I can bank on them heading back to the southwest and hanging out until the threat of snow is all but past.
My dad is a man's man. He knows something about everything. No offense to my husband, but I did not marry a tinkerer ... a builder ... a fixer. My dad is the guy who I call when my car is making a noise, I've got a door that sticks, or I need a cabinet built. And my husband's ok with that.
Getting "the call" gives me a little thrill that has nothing to do with putting my to-do list together for my dad. But it has everything to do with knowing that my folks will be here next month.
Can. Not. Wait.
