A Grand Day Out — Or So They Thought

30 October 2026

2033

R. Linda:

For the last couple of years, me Mam and me wife, Tonya, have made an annual autumn pilgrimage to Vermont to visit what I call "the old persons' store" — otherwise known as the Vermont Country Store.

This, apparently, is their official kickoff to Christmas shopping.

Now, I don't quite understand how spending a small fortune on kitchen gadgets for themselves constitutes Christmas shopping, but I've learned not to question these things. Whatever makes them happy, right?

Every autumn, they look forward to this little expedition. There's the scenery, of course: brilliant foliage on both sides of the Connecticut River, quaint shops, and the promise of discovering some old-fashioned kitchen implement they never knew they couldn't live without.

But I suspect the real attraction is eating out.

This year, other commitments had delayed their trip, and by the time they finally set off, the foliage was well past its peak. The trees had largely given up their autumn finery, but the ladies were determined. A few bare branches weren't going to interfere with their annual spending spree.

Unfortunately, the day seemed equally determined to interfere with them.

The first little hiccup came when Tonya realised she'd forgotten to put petrol in the vehicle. Halfway there, they had to stop and fill up. No great tragedy, just a minor inconvenience.

Little did they know it was merely the opening act.

Their next stop was the Christmas Shop on the way to Walpole, New Hampshire, where they traditionally pick up ornaments for the kiddos. Only this year, the shop apparently had no heat.

None.

Now, wandering about admiring Christmas decorations is one thing. Doing it while slowly turning into an icicle is quite another. To make matters worse, the selection was disappointing. So, after grabbing a couple of ornaments, they left before frostbite set in.

Back on the road, Tonya had the GPS running. Why, I couldn't tell you. They've made this journey often enough to know the way, but for some reason, Siri had been invited along.

And Siri, it seems, had ideas of her own.

Rather than taking them along their familiar route, she decided to give the ladies an unscheduled tour of the countryside, depositing them some five miles from where they ought to have been.

I suspect Siri was hoping they'd appreciate a scenic excursion through the Green Mountains. Mam and Tonya were less enthusiastic.

Eventually, they found their way back to the proper road, no thanks to their electronic tour guide, and arrived at the Vermont Country Store.

Inside was the usual assortment of what Mam affectionately calls "Q-tips" — elderly shoppers with white hair, wandering about at a pace suggesting they had nowhere particular to be before Thursday.

Mam, mind you, is no spring chicken herself, but she doesn't consider herself part of that demographic. Oh, no. She and Tonya are two spry chicks, darting between the oldsters and gathering kitchen treasures while the Q-tips meander through the aisles.

After a thorough inspection of the merchandise, they managed to accumulate over $300 worth of goodies.

Three hundred dollars!

And here's the part I don't understand. Both of them complained that the quality of the goods wasn't what it used to be.

Apparently, disappointment is no obstacle to spending.

With their purchases gathered, they headed towards the checkout. Tonya became distracted by a sweatshirt that caught her fancy, leaving Mam to join the queue.

Just as Mam approached, an elderly gentleman stepped directly in front of her.

Now, anyone who knows me Mam knows that queue-jumping is not an offence she takes lightly. Under normal circumstances, this fellow would have received a stern lecture on manners, possibly accompanied by a brief history of civilisation and where he'd gone wrong.

But Tonya was still engrossed in the sweatshirts, and Mam, perhaps too weary to engage in battle, merely sighed and stood behind him.

As it turned out, that ill-mannered old gentleman may have been their guardian angel.

Because shortly after leaving the store, they came upon a nasty three-car accident. There were injuries, and from the timing of it, they realised that had they left the store even a moment earlier, they might very well have been caught up in it.

Suddenly, that irritating little delay at the checkout didn't seem quite so irritating.

Mam said it gave her a new perspective on life's inconveniences. Perhaps, she mused, there are times when we're held up for a reason.

A rather profound thought for a woman who'd been ready to give an old fellow a piece of her mind only minutes before.

You'd think, after that, the day might have improved.

You'd be wrong.

Back in Walpole, the ladies stopped at their favourite chocolatier for their traditional treat: lattes and something deliciously decadent.

Now, most people eat lunch and then have dessert. Not these two. They prefer to start with dessert and worry about lunch afterwards. I've never understood the logic, but then, I wasn't consulted.

They ordered their lattes and some suitably gushy confections, anticipating a little reward for their shopping efforts.

The lattes arrived lukewarm.

The desserts were stale.

And the little chocolate ghosts they usually buy for the kiddos were now thirty dollars for five.

Thirty dollars! For five little chocolate ghosts!

At that price, I'd expect the ghosts to haunt the house, do the washing-up, and perhaps make themselves useful around Halloween.

Needless to say, the ghosts remained in the shop.

After picking half-heartedly at their disappointing sweets, the ladies gave up and headed towards Peterborough for what they hoped would be a proper gourmet lunch.

By now, they were looking a bit worse for wear.

Their hair was dishevelled, their enthusiasm was fading, and between the frozen Christmas shop, Siri's scenic detour, the disappointing purchases, the accident, and the stale desserts, they felt they'd already endured quite enough for one day.

All they wanted was a pleasant table beside the large window overlooking the water, a lovely lunch, and a chance to watch the river flow peacefully by.

Surely that wasn't too much to ask?

They entered the restaurant and approached the hostess.

The woman took one look at them.

Now, according to the ladies, this was a very particular look. The sort of look that suggests two bedraggled shoppers might not quite meet the establishment's standards.

The hostess announced that she'd have to check whether a table was available.

This struck them as odd, considering the car park was hardly overflowing. Still, they waited while she disappeared to investigate the apparently overwhelming demand for seating.

Eventually, she returned and led them through the pub.

Mam was already preparing to object. They hadn't come all this way for a pub lunch. They wanted the dining room, thank you very much.

But the hostess continued through to the dining room, where they discovered approximately three tables occupied.

Three.

Hardly the bustling lunchtime crowd they'd been led to expect.

The hostess showed them to a table one row back from the windows.

Tonya, eyeing the lovely view, politely asked whether they might sit at one of the two empty tables overlooking the water.

"No," came the answer. "Those tables are reserved."

And that, apparently, was that.

The ladies sat down, disappointed once again.

Tonya was quietly expressing her displeasure to Mam when their waiter appeared. He happened to notice the logo on Tonya's sweatshirt and struck up a conversation about their mutual fondness for the place it advertised.

A pleasant exchange followed, and then the waiter asked the question that would briefly restore their faith in humanity.

"Would you ladies like to sit by the window?"

"Why, yes!" Tonya exclaimed.

And just like that, they were whisked to the very table they'd been told was unavailable.

A small victory, but by this point in the day, they'd take whatever they could get.

A little later, the hostess came in to clear a table in the adjoining dining room and spotted the ladies comfortably installed by the window.

She gave Tonya a look that could have curdled milk.

Tonya, being Tonya, responded with a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat.

No words were exchanged.

None were necessary.

For one glorious moment, the ladies were triumphant.

Then they opened the menus.

Oh, dear.

The wonderful gourmet dishes and imaginative specials they'd been anticipating had disappeared, replaced by the sort of ordinary fare you could find in any number of restaurants.

All that fuss over the window, and there was barely anything on the menu worth looking at.

They ordered, ate, and tried not to dwell on yet another disappointment.

Now, when they'd first arrived, Tonya had noticed a rather attractive boutique nearby. She'd spotted some clothing in the window that appealed to her, and since lunch hadn't exactly lifted their spirits, they decided a little retail therapy might do the trick.

Into the boutique they went.

Unfortunately, the shop assistants appeared to take one look at their casual shopping attire and conclude that these two women were unlikely to be serious customers.

They kept their distance.

Perhaps the ladies were imagining it, but they certainly felt they'd been judged and found wanting.

Of course, once they examined the price tags, they understood why the assistants hadn't bothered.

The prices were astronomical.

They'd have needed to take out a second mortgage to purchase a blouse.

This prompted a discussion about Kelly Clarkson and her experience of being treated dismissively in an upscale art shop, apparently because she hadn't looked like someone with money to spend.

Mam and Tonya felt they understood the experience perfectly.

Although, in fairness to the boutique, the assistants had correctly predicted there would be no sale.

Not at those prices!

Thoroughly disenchanted, the ladies departed and made their way to another favourite shop on the route home, one where they could usually count on finding something unusual and irresistible.

Surely this place wouldn't disappoint them.

Except it was under new management.

And the wonderful, quirky merchandise that had always made the shop worth visiting had apparently vanished along with the previous owners.

Nothing.

Not one interesting thing worth buying.

By now, even Tonya's enthusiasm for shopping was beginning to falter.

As they neared home, they decided to make one final stop at their favourite coffee hub.

All they wanted was a decent, HOT latte.

Not lukewarm. Not tepid. HOT.

They went in, ready for a little consolation in a cup.

The latte machine was broken.

Of course it was.

Defeated, they returned to the vehicle and headed home.

But the day's entertainment wasn't finished.

Oh, no.

While they were driving, Tonya received a call from our youngest, aged thirteen.

Could she come and collect him from school?

Why?

Because he'd got detention.

And what, you may ask, had this young scholar done to earn such an honour?

Well, apparently he'd gone into the boys' lavatory by the gym, gathered up a quantity of paper towels, soaked them in water, added soap, rolled the whole mess into snowball-sized projectiles, and hurled them at the walls.

An inspired bit of interior decoration, if you're into the abstract school of art.

When asked what on earth possessed him to do such a thing, he offered the perfectly reasonable explanation:

"I was bored."

Ah, well. That explains everything, doesn't it?

Apparently, when boredom strikes, the natural response is to redecorate the school lavatory with soggy paper towels.

Unfortunately for our budding artist, Tonya was nowhere near the school and couldn't collect him.

He'd have to serve his detention another day.

A little later, the lad rang again.

Could he carve his pumpkin when he got home?

Tonya said yes.

Mam immediately objected.

She wasn't convinced the boy should be trusted with a sharp knife unless someone was there to supervise him.

Now, you'd think a thirteen-year-old would have mastered the rudiments of knife handling by this point, but we have the Dragon Lady to thank for his lack of experience.

Every time the boy attempts to cut his meat at the dinner table, Dragon swoops in, takes possession of his plate, and cuts it up for him.

At this rate, he'll be thirty-five years old and still waiting for someone to slice his pork chop.

So Mam's concern wasn't entirely unfounded.

By the time the ladies finally reached home, they were absolutely knackered.

They'd been looking forward to a quiet evening, perhaps a nice cup of tea and a chance to put their feet up.

Instead, they walked into the kitchen and discovered pumpkin guts everywhere.

Everywhere.

Our young Michelangelo had apparently decided that permission to carve his pumpkin included permission to turn the kitchen into the aftermath of a vegetable massacre.

Seeds, stringy orange innards, bits of pumpkin — the works.

Yup, pumpkin guts everywhere!

And to add insult to injury, he wanted Tonya to make salted pumpkin seeds.

Oh, yes.

After a long day of disappointments, what could be more relaxing than rummaging through a heap of slimy pumpkin entrails, extracting the seeds, washing them, soaking them in salt water, and roasting them in the oven?

Just the sort of peaceful evening she'd been dreaming of.

Not.

They'd barely been home five minutes when the kiddo's telephone rang.

It was Dragon. Only she called the wee one, thinking she had dialled her daughter.

Now, Dragon was in a terrible state, and this time, I must admit, she had good reason.

Two dogs next door had attacked her two Chihuahuas, leaving the poor little creatures badly injured. Her son Bruno had rushed them to the vet, and she hadn't heard anything from him.

Naturally, she was frantic with worry.

And naturally, she needed to tell Tonya every grisly detail. But she was speaking with her grandson. He finally stopped her and handed his phone to his mother.

So there stood me wife, surrounded by pumpkin guts, exhausted from her disastrous shopping expedition, listening to a blow-by-blow account of a canine bloodbath.

I suppose Dragon needed a calming voice to soothe her nerves.

Though I couldn't help wondering whether it might have been wiser to keep the phone free in case Bruno was trying to call with news from the vet.

But what do I know?

I wasn't there for any of this.

Which brings us, finally, to me.

I came home that evening blissfully unaware that our youngest had been pursuing a career in bathroom decoration.

No one had mentioned the detention to me.

Not a word.

Apparently, the plan was to wait until we were all gathered around the dinner table and then have the lad explain his artistic endeavours himself.

So there we were, sitting down to dinner, when he was instructed to tell me why he'd been given detention.

He sighed dramatically.

"Oh, do I have to go over this again? I'm not gonna."

Well, now.

That wasn't quite the response his mother had been hoping for.

Before the discussion could develop into a full-blown confrontation, his older brother decided to lend a hand.

"Your youngest child," he announced to me, "is in trouble for his interior decoration of the boys' bathroom at school."

Well, that got the lad's attention!

He was absolutely horrified at the suggestion that he might be considered an interior designer.

Apparently, being known as the boy who hurled wet, soapy paper towels at the school bathroom walls was preferable to being accused of having an interest in home décor.

So, rather than allow that terrible slander to stand, he promptly spilled the beans.

The whole ridiculous story came tumbling out.

And there you have it.

What was supposed to be a lovely autumn outing for the ladies of the house had turned into a marathon of minor calamities: freezing shops, misguided navigation, disappointing merchandise, queue-jumping Q-tips, a frightening accident, cold coffee, stale desserts, overpriced chocolate ghosts, uncooperative hostesses, uninspiring lunches, snooty boutiques, broken latte machines, a school detention, pumpkin entrails, and an emergency involving two unfortunate Chihuahuas.

All in one day.

And yet, for all the irritations, there was one thing worth remembering.

That old fellow who stepped in front of Mam at the checkout — the one she'd been so annoyed with — might very well have saved their lives simply by delaying them a minute or two.

So perhaps Mam was right. Sometimes the little inconveniences are blessings in disguise.

Mind you, I doubt she'll remember that the next time someone jumps the queue.

And as for me youngest, I've decided that if he ever gets bored again, I'll hand him a paintbrush and point him towards the garage.

At least then we might get something useful out of his artistic talents.

Gabe

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