Glamorous Escapades,  Wanderlust: Travel Tales

Gone Fishin’ With Dale & Roy

My mother is taking the entire family – my sisters and their spouses and kids– out to a dude ranch where there is horseback riding, hiking, and other outdoor activities. When you read this, I should be out west, mastering the art of fly fishing. I think I am going to be great at it. I practice fishing a lot at the lake, where I am the queen of catching small fish. If I can catch at least one fish that weighs a pound I’ll be overjoyed. I also plan to knit and read.

The whole family has been excited about the trip for months. The boys are excited about seeing mountains and riding horses. My sisters plan to play tennis and hike. The men are very serious about shooting skeet and fly fishing. One of my brothers in law even took a fly fishing lesson in Central Park. I give Uncle P an A+ for getting into the ranch spirit. I think it took major balls to walk to the park carrying a flyrod.

My parents are thrilled about the trip, as well. However, their excitement is a little different than ours. My mom and dad, inexplicably, are especially excited about the opportunity to wear belts with large buckles, turquoise jewelry, embroidered shirts, and every other article of Western garb they’ve been able to scrounge up in the Tiny Kingdom during the last weeks.

They seem to be operating under the belief that a trip to a dude ranch requires them to morph into Dale Evans and Roy Rogers, even though my dad never wears a bolo tie when he’s at home.

They are not too different from Drew in this regard. For the last week, he has been running around the house in jeans, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat and a bandanna pulled up over his nose. It’s cute to watch a six year old act like a cowboy. It’s a little unsettling to watch your parents do the same.

My dad has been pestering Bill to return a shirt he borrowed several years ago. It’s black, with silver arrows embroidered over the breast pocket, and fringe on the sleeves. The buttons are mother of pearl. Bill wore it to be Kenny Rogers for Halloween (I was Dolly Parton) and we never dreamed my dad would want it back to wear as part of a serious outfit. To protect him from the Fashion Police, we’ve told my dad we cannot find the shirt.

If there’s anything to report from the Wild West, I’ll certainly let you know when we get back.