"Just follow us."

Those words from my father as I was trying to get directions to Monday's memorial service. I have not lived in this city for almost two-thirds of my life, yet my parents still expect me to remember where things are, and which street is which. Not to mention that more than half the town was still empty fields full of yucca, horny toads and cows when I left.

It's almost as annoying as the wife, who expects me to know the route to every possible place just because I grew up there. But half those places came into being after we were married, so I find it completely reasonable to expect her to know them as well as I.

So my Dad's directions to the funeral home weren't too bad. Except when he says "then turn back on Fountain."

Back?

How do you turn back onto a street you haven't been on yet?

Which direction are we going to be going on Fountain?

"West."

Okay, I can handle one of the cardinal directions. Since we were going to be going south, that means "turn back" actually means "turn right."

Which leaves me just fine, until my mother pipes in "the home is on the left as you go east on Fountain."

East!? I thought we were going west?

"Just follow us," is my Dad's exasperated response.

So, because of our parking arrangement, our two vehicles are immediately separated when we leave their home. With an understanding we will regroup at the turnoff onto the main drag south.

We get there first. Park and wait. Parents come in on a side street. And dear Father cuts off a green SUV to get onto our street, headed towards the main drag. Leaving us to pull in behind the green outfit.

So already, we have one vehicle in between us. And the green SUV was the only other car on the road. A ten second wait at the corner to let the green SUV pass, and my folks would have had us on their rear bumper.

We three vehicles line up at the stop sign, awaiting a chance to enter the flow of south-bound traffic. A heavy wave of traffic, released by the traffic light around the bend, bears down upon us.

Father cuts into a narrow, one car gap at the front of the wave.

Leaving us behind the green SUV, watching the pulse of vehicles go whizzing past.

By the time the wife can finally get us onto the thoroughfare, making a mad dash into an open lane that I would have let pass by, my folks' car is almost a half mile up in traffic, and out of sight. But youngest son, with his extra inch and a quarter of height, reports he has them in view.

Rather than pull over and slow down, or even stop, to let us catch up, Father is proceeding merrily along his way.

This is not the first time he has done this to us.

Wife barrels around the next bend, passing cars right and left, and we eventually find ourselves with just three vehicles between us.

'Course the lanes have narrowed down from four to two, so there is no opportunity to pass and catch up.

Parent's car makes it through almost every stoplight on a stale green.

We, on the other hand, are rushing through yellow almost every time.

Which is, after all, normal driving in a city. But my cardinal rule on amber lights is that it is okay to run them so long as the light is still yellow when it disappears over the top of your windshield.

These are red.

Then father starts rushing through on yellow lights.

"Ten more seconds, and we'd have lost them on that one," the wife mutters.

The next light: "Only five more seconds on that one."

One light turned red just as we entered the intersection.

"I get a ticket, he's paying for it," the wife announces as we blow on through.

About this time, I mention the possibility of getting my folks up to see our desert, and inviting them out to someplace remote.

Just follow me.

See if Dad learns how to have any consideration for the vehicle in back when he watches my dust trail leave at 70 mph in the middle of nowhere.

But the fates are with us. The next red light forces him to a stop, and there's only two vehicles between us. And miracles of miracles, those both turn off at the light before the balloon park. We're directly behind them now, and the wife hangs onto his bumper like it's a lifesaver.

We pass the city park lake. The one that received a crashing passenger jetliner so many years back. Which is just a mud flat, now. Yes, they're in a drought, just as we are, but water levels are coming back. Problem is, the city let the clay-lined lake go dry.

Do that, and your clay liner dries up too, and cracks.

And no longer holds water. Every rancher still in business knows that, but apparently the city managers did not. So now the geese have a huge mud and weed flat to enjoy, and the kids have naught. I remember family picnics to swim in that lake.

Soon after, we turn back onto Fountain (that wording makes sense once you've been there). A right turn right at the parked tank. A fairly obvious landmark. And are immediately entering the funeral home parking lot.

A person wanting to give directions might have said "It's on the northwest corner of Union and Fountain."

"Right by the tank."

That would have worked just fine.

As we unload from the vehicles, who should pull up at the same time?

My sister (Hi, Sister).

How did she find this place?

Logged onto Yahoo and got a map.

Well, that would have worked just fine, too. If the folks had internet.

But next time my Dad says "Just follow us,", I'm throwing a radio collar in their car.

Tracking with a yagi antenna would be easier.

For the first Grouse Pic of 2004, here's one of the remote places in our desert where I would like to take my folks. (And yes, Rift, those are feral horses on the left, there.)