“But your blog is supposed to be about the farm, isn’t it?”

“I know, but . . .”

“You could write about Tyrone’s email, and Lee’s phone call? No? Okay, I get it. Not that interesting.”

Right. So here’s what happened: First, in case you’re planning a road trip yourselves, I suggest that you avoid Colorado. Yes, it is very beautiful, awesome in the older sense of the word, but the entire state freeway system seems to comprise what they call a “work zone.” In a work zone, there will be but one lane ahead. One lane. The mountains in Colorado, coupled with the inevitable rivers of trucking, big, slow-moving trucks — well, you know.

Anyway, hours later than planned last evening, we left the freeway to find our hotel. It was just a little mistake, owing to the confusing signage and the fierce setting sun, but the wrong ramp and there we suddenly were, back on the freeway, heading west again. Next opportunity to turn around, twelve miles down the road.

Lots of Minnesota bad language here.

Fast forward: Never mind the ghastly dinner at Whiskey Creek (peanut shells on the floor, just so Wild West), forget the mistaken order at Starbucks and the woman, delighted by our Oregon license chatting with Larry while I straightened out the Starbucks order (It’s easy to make new friends on the road!). Ignore the Sausage Muffin, all we could find for breakfast. Nebraska is lovely. Green, damp from record-setting rain, fecund (I love that word). We are going to play golf this afternoon. Have a tee time from a course called Thousand Oaks, and then:

Yep. That’s us on a tow truck. On the way to the golf course. Or not, as it turns out.

We arrive, courtesy of the wonderful AAA at the Lexus dealership in Omaha. Not before I have a few qualms. “You can wait in the truck,” says our AAA guy, mindful of the 93 degrees outside (Nebraska is also hot!) as he loads our buggy onto his flat bed. Inside the cabin I note with some alarm the portion of 2 x 4 jammed against the seat, pressing the gas pedal down. The ancient system of buttons and what appears to be a generator on the floor. Is it okay to just let some stranger load your car and drive off with it and you to destination unknown? Do we have a choice?

We arrive safely at the dealership, are seated in some nice office and are interviewed by a charming young man. “Now,” he asks, in a gentle voice, leaning over his desk to inspire us with his kindness, “When did you last fill your gas tank?”

WTF! He thinks we old folks have neglected that little matter of securing fuel? Now, that could, of course, happen. We could run out of gas. But we would KNOW we had run out of gas. We would have informed the AAA operator that we needed gas, not an expensive tow into Omaha. Damn. This getting old stuff sucks on many levels.

Not yet sure, at this hour (9:45 p.m. in Omaha) what the problem is. Undiagnosed. But we have a “Courtesy car” which we are authorized to drive on to Des Moines tomorrow. At some point, we will have to return to Omaha to pick up our car.

And don’t be thinking Why don’t these people FLY when they need to get somewhere? Let us not forget the last time we flew, Montreal? Mechanical problems? Flight cancelled? New flight to Oregon in middle seats between strangers, 7 hours late? Yeah, that’s fun, too.

But, adventure. And these are, as Aaron points out, “leaves-in-the-swimming pool problems.” Right. Life is Good! On to Des Moines.