It's All Small Stuff

“Rule number one is: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Rule number two is: it’s all small stuff.”

That was what my high school economics teacher, Mr. Pavalko use to say. Mr. P. was a nutty old teacher with an unorthodox style. The kind of person who would womp a large ruler across your desk if he thought you were sleeping. The kind of person who threw erasers at kids just to test their reflexes. The kind of person you either loved or hated.

I was in the hate camp. It wasn’t that Mr. P. was a rotten guy or a rotten teacher. I guess he was OK. I think I got an A in his class.

What I hated was that Mr. P. had a couple of tired old sayings that generally meant nothing to a seventeen year old. And it seemed like he trotted each of them out during his classes until they were more worn than a pair of army surplus hiking boots.

The “small stuff” quote was one of his favorites. I rolled my eyes each time he said it. As far as I was concerned, the words were meaningless. That’s what I believed then. That’s what I believed now.

Until Friday.

We had left home a week ago. It was suppose to be our family vacation. That wonderful time when we escape the pressures of everyday life, kick back and enjoy the sunshine. Our Outer Banks, North Carolina beach bonanza.

The sixteen hour car trip (stretched over two days) with three kids (ages seven and under), was no biggie. We’d been traveling like this since Eric (7) was a baby. We had a good system, lots of DVDs and plenty of snacks. Even though Beth (2) threw up and Emily (4) spilled her juice, I’d describe the trip as uneventful. (See prior discussion regarding the drive out.)

It wasn’t until we arrived our destination that things started going downhill. We had rented a beach house in Salvo. When we arrived, we thought we were at the luxury beach house we had viewed in the brochure. Instead, we walked into the “House of Horrors.”

Apparently, the prior week’s tenants had been raised by wolves as they left the property in a condition that only a wild dog could appreciate. When we entered through the front door, the smell of beer was so intense that I got drunk just from inhaling. There was broken glass and cigarette butts strewn about. The remnants of at least five different bodily fluids were streaked across the walls.

We found broken pool sticks, a fly infested couch and a toilet seat that had been separated from the throne. The tables and floor were sticky from lord knows what. Someone had peed in the sink. I don’t even want to mention the condition of the pillows, comforters and bed coverings that the cleaners discarded. Oh, and the air conditioning didn't work and the temperature was over 95 degrees.

This was the house’s condition AFTER the cleaning crew had spent the entire day trying to get it into shape for us.

There were no replacement houses available on the island. We'd have to spend the night in the garbage can or turn back to the mainland. I was tired, disappointed and angry.

Like so many clouds, this one had a silver lining. First thing in the morning, the realtor moved us to a bigger and better place. The new house had palatial rooms, a spectacular view of the ocean and enormous, clean beds. It was a dream castle.

Cloud. Meet the silver lining.

“It’s smooth sailing now.” I told myself.

Boy, was I wrong. Over the next six days, we faced one tribulation after another. I even considered changing my name to Job (of the biblical reference). By Wednesday, I figured if we made it through the rest of the week without a plague of locusts and no one developed infested boils, we’d be lucky.

Still, I kept my chin up.

It wasn’t bad luck that Steve needed to rush Deb to the hospital, located over fifty miles north of us, in the middle of the night. It was good luck that medical care was available. After all, the hospital on the island was only a few years old. Before that, Steve would have had to drive three hours, one way, to the mainland. Plus, Deb received great care and, after a two day hospital stay, was back with the group before the week was out.

Cloud. Meet the silver lining.

It wasn’t bad luck that our car got a flat tire. It was good luck that the breakdown happened only a few blocks from our rental house. It was even better luck that the little service station up the road could replace the damaged tire before we were scheduled to leave.

Cloud. Meet the silver lining.

It wasn’t bad luck that my sister’s car developed engine trouble and had gone into “shut down” mode (while on the way to visit Deb in the hospital). It wasn't bad luck that the radio didn't work, the air conditionar shut off and that the top speed was now thirty miles an hour. It was good luck that the car was still drivable. It was even better luck that there was a Ford dealer near the hospital and they could service the problem that same day.

Cloud. Meet the silver lining.

Even though it seemed like this vacation was cursed, I kept smiling. “Look for the silver lining.” I said. And it worked.

Until the last day of our trip.

We had left North Carolina and we were heading north to visit Ken’s family in Pennsylvania before going back to the Midwest. That’s when, at a tollbooth just inside Virginia, Ken arranged to test the relative strength of our car door against a tollbooth. Turns out a tollbooth is much more stable body and prone to inflict substantial damage on an unsuspecting door.

Now we had a mangled door that wouldn’t shut and we were a couple hundred miles away from any family member who might lend a helping hand. We had a car full of beach crap, three road weary kids and one cranky mom. If we couldn't get the door shut, we'd end up spending the better part of the day sitting by the edge of the road waiting for a tow truck. And we'd spend the weekend looking for a repair shop.

I was ticked off. “You gotta be f***ing kidding me.” I mumbled under my breath.

I was just about to lose my cool completely when Eric smiled over at me and said, “Isn’t it lucky that no one was hurt.”

Cloud. Meet the silver lining.

Somehow we got the door shut and got back on the road. And even though we knew there would be a car repair bill in our future, we were happy to be on our way. And after all these years, I finally figured out what Mr. P. was talking about. It turns out he was right. It’s all small stuff.