Today the boys and I took my dad and stepmom some valentines and cookies from the kids.
I tried to surprise her at her office, but she'd left for lunch. The secretary told me where she had gone, so I headed to the restaurant so she could see the boys and Cullen could give her some treats.
I didn't mean to hijack her lunch with her friend, but she wanted us to stay and eat with her, so we did. Well, I ate. Cullen annoyed us all (they tried to act like they weren't annoyed, but I wasn't fooled; or maybe it was just that he was annoying me on a whole new level today with his 5,861 questions) and stole cheese from her friend's plate before I could stop him. And then didn't eat his food when it came. But I digress.
After we left, I drove around the area, looking for my former pastor's house. It was just a street or two away from where we were, and I wanted to see if it looked the same as it did years ago, when I spent as many nights there as I did at my own home.
I passed it slowly, looking at all the changes. Then I made a u-turn at the block, since I was now headed in the opposite direction of my dad's house, which was my next destination.
It meant I'd get another look at the lovely, and huge, old house.
I barely noticed the old man walking on the opposite side of the street, just a few houses down, until I was alongside of him.
It was at that point that he whipped his hands out of his jacket pockets and flipped me off and began screaming "F&%# you!" repeatedly.
Crazy Old Man, do I know you?
That would be a no.
I looked in my rearview mirror.
He had taken up a position in the center of the street, facing my departing vehicle. He had added a crotch grab to his repertoire. He wasn't shy about it, either. He was rising to his toes for dramatic effect. He was screaming and grabbing himself and flipping me off with gusto. He was proud of that gnarled old finger. He must have fond memories of his days waving planes in to land with those hands.
Unnerved, I continued to my dad's house. Surely this is the town's beloved insane hobo, I thought.
"Don't mind him," my dad was bound to tell me. "That's just Old Salty."
Except my dad had no clue who I was talking about. He wanted to jump in the car and go find the old man.
I suggested he kiss Chubs' cheekies and snuggle his fat little body and answer Cullen's 8,672 questions instead.
He thought that was a pretty good idea.
So that's what we did.