Shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower

Off yet again to the great land of the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower.
For those unknowing, my wife’s 91-year-old (almost 92) mother lives in a retirement community in De Land, Fla. in “the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower.”
AirTran has a direct flight between Rochester and Orlando (nearest to De Land direct). But the one down is late afternoon (used to be morning — we’ve done that), and return is very early in the morning.
I knew JetBlue also had a direct flight and it’s departing at 8 a.m. and return departs at 11:20 a.m. (a yo-yo).
Flight-time is almost three hours. AirTran would get to Orlando near 6 p.m., which is asking for trouble.
As always, the dog is the biggest problem.
I could stay home, and thereby not put the dog in the slammer.
But that would render Linda the insanity of having to get around a strange, faraway place.
She’s done it before. There is a prearranged shuttle service to cart you from the Orlando Airport to a De Land motel and back via minivan.
But it wastes 89 bazilyun hours, and like all transit can go awry (although it hasn’t yet).
We’re a team; I try to offset her foibles, and she mine.
I don’t want cancer-lady having to field possible transit insanity.
Linda’s mother was worried about the cancer Jones, but thankfully in no condition to drag butt all the way up here to fill in.
Linda’s mother also needs to be apprised that Linda is not at death’s door.
We also have to visit Linda’s mother before they put her in a Hefty bag — although Linda’s brother Jerry’s wife suggests she only deserves a generic. (“Hefty is a national brand. ‘Top Care’ or ‘Best Yet’ for her.”)
At the mighty Mezz I once suggested an obituary: “arrangements by Pratt Disposal and Flint Landfill.” “Don’t do that!” they said. “It would probably go into print!”
So the itinerary is Monday, February 25, Flight 673, depart Rochester at 8 a.m., arrive Orlando at 10:50 a.m.; return Thursday, February 28, Flight 674, depart Orlando at 11:20 a.m., arrive Rochester at 2 p.m.
All reservations were made online with FireFox on my dreaded MAC over our supposedly wonky ISP — including the rental-car reservation. —This despite being advised by my good friend Tim Belknap at the mighty Mezz that ‘pyooters are a “waste of time.”
I think this reflects that he is somewhat technically-challenged. He also has the same opinion about cellphones.
Well, to my mind dickering with a ‘pyooter was a lot better than holding 89 bazilyun hours to fiddle Preferred Care by phone.
And here I am years ago driving back from Sand Patch, and I stop in a motel with no phone to call Linda.
I go to a truckstop restaurant next door, and see a trucker call his wife on his cellphone. “Gee wilikers,” I say; “freedom from the landline network. I gotta get me one of them there cellphones!”
We’re at Wilmot Cancer Center; my wife getting a chemo. She’s almost done; so calls me up on her cellphone. An old geezer in there for chemo lights up. “Whoa! Gotta get me one of them there cellphones.”
Yet Belknap says, and rightly, “what good is a cellphone when I’m at the bottom of a wilderness gully with a broken leg in the Adirondacks with no service?”
My response to Belknap is that some people are intrigued by ‘pyooters, and some aren’t. Don’t take it personal, but I am. When I saw a word-processor could toss my mistypes, a light came on. I could still shovel — just like college. And a word-processor is letting me shove text all over the place. Who knows how many times I had to retype stuff on my Smith-Corona for City/East?
Plus my humble ‘pyooter is also making my bookkeeping (and billpay) a lot easier, and allowing me to slam-dunk my taxes.
Plus there’s all the dorking around with digital images. Photoshop sure beats a darkroom.
So off again to the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower. The onliest problem is putting the dog in the slammer; and he is terrified.
Plus we’re there two full days — I bet the ancient typewriter gets dragged out again. (“The ribbon won’t advance.” “Mother; can ya toss that thing in the dumpster?”)
Here we are twiddling our thumbs when our poor dog is mortified.
And we probably will get taken out to eat at the Laotian buffet — married 40 years (or was it 100; we got 100 smackaroos).

My wife of 40 years is “Linda.” She has lymphatic cancer. It’s treatable — she will survive.

RE: “In the slammer......” Our dog thinks of boarding as prison, and that we’re abandoning him. —He already been abandoned by two previous owners. He’s a rescue dog.

RE: “To fill in......” —Linda’s mother takes over; very bossy.

RE: “Hefty bag.......” “When I finally die put me in a Hefty bag and put me out at the curb. I don’t deserve no funeral.”

“Pratt Disposal” is a private residential trash-collector, who deposits its trash in the “Flint Landfill.” “Arrangements” are usually by the funeral home.

RE: “With FireFox on my dreaded MAC over our supposedly wonky ISP.......” —I use FireFox as my browser instead of Internet-Explorer, and an Apple MAC. All my siblings use PCs, and Internet-Explorer, so therefore I am reprehensible and stupid. “ISP” equals Internet-Service-Provider; in our case RoadRunner via the cable. Last July my macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston visited, and set up a wireless Internet connection to my wireless router. His Internet reception was spotty, so he loudly blamed our Internet-Service-Provider (ISP).

Tim Belknap is an editor at Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper (“the mighty Mezz”), where I once worked. Best job I ever had, and like me Belknap is a car-guy.

“Preferred Care” is my new health insurance. It replaced Blue Cross, who no longer was offering the plan I was in.

“Sand Patch” Tunnel is a long railroad tunnel under the Allegheny Mountains in southwestern Pa. on the Baltimore & Ohio railroad-line to Pittsburgh. It's a railfan pilgrimage-stop, although I didn't see it because it was on a private dirt road.

Wilmot Cancer Center in Rochester is where my wife is being treated.

RE: “When I saw a word-processor could toss my mistypes.......” —I had a stroke October 26, 1993, which made my typing sloppy.

During the ‘70s, I was Motorsports Editor for “City/East,” a small weekly newspaper in Rochester.

RE: “I bet the ancient typewriter gets dragged out again.......” —My wife's mother is always wanting us to fix her typewriter.