Heading south no easy task

Heading south for the winter is quite an involved task.
Packing (or should I say stuffing) the vehicle with every conceivable item requires not only strength, but quick reflexes to slam the hatch without the mound tumbling out.
It takes a full day.
This is further complicated by our detour to eastern Ontario to visit the gene pool, so the whole process has to be repeated before leaving there. By then we are more or less proficient at it.
The first leg of the trip itself went without incident in spite of a thousand miles of icy, yucky roads and Bambi taking a dash at the vehicle. If Pickle had been with us, we would have hit it, for sure.
We were closer to an animal with horns than Pickle probably was this year—not counting Holsteins.
The little blizzard between Sarnia and London was our final farewell to snow. We left behind a collection of ditched cars and jackknifed trucks.
Any visit to the east requires at least one trip to Trawna—highway purgatory. You can understand why Mayor Ford may appear a little unhinged. To drive on the 400 series highways (or should I say parking lots), one must have their wing nuts over-torqued.
It is a simple but plausible explanation for the insanity so evident in that area. Bumper-to-bumper whether completely stopped or hitting about 85 m.p.h.
Made it across the Ambassador Bridge after navigating a series of construction pits where the new 401 heads for the DRIC (Detroit River International Crossing). This is Canada’s multi-billion-dollar contribution to the U.S. government’s financial stability (they can’t afford to put forth a share).
Then made it through Detroit without a single gunshot striking our vehicle. This, I guess, reflects a recent 36-hour period without a single murder in that city—a multi-decade record.
As a multi-state and province blizzard roared in from the west, we scooted south just ahead of the storm, arriving to brilliant sunshine, the occasional shower, and 85 F temperatures.
It took a day to pick up the scattered contents that exploded out of the van when I unlatched the rear hatch. I loaded the carts and with my wife, the Pearl of the Orient, holding open doors and directing traffic, we made it to the condo.
Unpacking was an adventure. “Why did we bring that?” and “You forgot what?” were asked repeatedly as we stowed the booty away—much not to be looked at until we pack to head north in March.
Trips to the supermarket to stock up on food and spirits, as well as a couple of garage sales to refurbish the condo kitchen, and lay in a supply of toilet paper, and we are ready to crack open the wine and relax.
All that’s left to do now is find the beach shorts and retire the long underwear.

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