When we were kids our Dad would load the younger four, or sometimes all six, of us into the car and pronounce that we were going ‘on a mystery ride’. He wouldn’t tell us where we were going, which varied between fun and chores, but the destination didn’t matter even if work was ultimately involved. Our mystery rides were treasured. They were an exciting concept and usually fun departures from the routine. Mystery rides resulted in anything from a rare ice cream sundae to a short drive to the cemetery to water flowers or an excursion to the local mountain to catch spring water in our reused milk jugs. Our Dad just made everything fun. Mom didn’t always accompany us but when she did, it was usually an indication that a treat of some sort was involved.
My husband knows all the tales of fun and woe from my childhood. He’s probably heard them a million times after 25 years of marriage. With our own children, Richie creates traditions, makes the mundane exciting and the quieter times special for our girls as well. Loving that about him, and knowing he was chomping at the bit to break in his new Jeep, I was charmed to take him up on his mystery ride offer the other day.
He knew the premise and so did I. I cleverly climbed aboard without my purse, expecting him to pay for the evening. We stopped for gas in town, where I dared ask about our final destination.
“This IS the mystery ride.”
“Are you kidding me? I even saw you checking your wallet for funds before we left.”
“That was for the power ball.” as he hannded me his pre-selected numbers. “Why don’t you go play them while I fill up?”
I like to think I at least smiled as I schlumped away.
I suppose the destination didn’t matter and I was glad he still treasured time with me.
It wasn’t an exciting concept but it was a departure from the routine.
The ride was somewhere between fun and chores.
A potential lottery win was a treat of some sort.
How he can still pull one over on me is the mystery.