It's Okay, The Van Is In Park

Husband whispers "I love you" and sings my favourite songs. He shouts at obnoxious trucks in traffic and hollers for Meeker to stop trying to catch Saskatchewan. His voice is both my beacon and my map; the one sound in all the Universe which can cut through the goofy, frazzled clutter of my mind and bring me back to my soul and my self.  

Unless he calls out "Honey, can you come here and help me with this?" in which case I usually hope there is enough gas in the Volvo to get him to the emergency room once all the bits have been found and packed on ice.

The day was a sunny weekend day like any other. I was painting over the strange combination of blue and mustard stripes in the guest room and singing along to Long Beach Radio, waiting for the Mandatory Marley song to air and thinking that the Filthingtons had just about the worst decorating sense of any family in the history of home decor because who puts a shiny bronze wallpaper border of constipated-looking elephants in their actual house? 

Husband had left in a flurry of phone calls and activity, in an effort to move Ze Plane from it's temporary location to our new home. I know this because before he left I was asked to produce the usual pre-departure items using only my wifey powers and keen memory skills: tie down straps, head lamps, mittens, cell phone, trailer plates and, that Holy Grail of trips, the van keys.

Hours passed. The guest room looked less like a zoo keeper's nightmare and I could hear thumps and bumps from the garage. Husband had returned with Ze Plane and was installing it in the garage where it would be lovingly restored to it's former glory, landing gear and all. 

And then, from the stillness of the sunny Alberta afternoon, those ten words that chill me to the bone and send me scrambling to press 9-1 on the phone, finger hovering in readiness over the final 1.

"Honey, can you come here and help me with this?"

Normally, I am not certain what I will encounter. Husband is, after all a resourceful adult with ADD and a brain the size of the planet. There could be any number of things I will see when I dash outside. A felled tree. Large holes in the ground, spouting sparks and jetting water. Puppies. Literally anything you can think of, I have probably seen Husband standing in the middle of it, holding pliers and wearing look of intense determination. But I knew he had Ze Plane in the garage. I knew that he had carefully measured the space available and was confident that it would fit with room to spare. 

I knew that he had been left unsupervised for at least three hours.

That is the entire list of the things I thought I knew. What I did not know was this: 

"It's okay, Honey. It's dangling from a beam."

Naturally he had Ze Plane suspended by pulleys, strapped around a rafter, accessed through a hole carefully smashed in the garage ceiling with the first tool that came to hand (his hand), held there by the weight of our minivan and preventing the garage door from opening more than about four feet. And of course I was able to help him with this. I have ten years in at this point, the only thing I couldn't do was hold my finger over the final 1 of 9-1-1 and take this photo at the same time.