Thankfully, today's Cana Island Lighthouse was a Mom-favorite and somehow gave her her fill of lighthouses without having to galavant around to tour all 10 as originally intended.  

Truth be told, after further investigation, we couldn't actually get into all 10. But the Cana house, apparently iconic in the world of lighthouses and the most photographed of them all, was enough to sate Mom's fascination– for now. I think it might have helped that a few years ago I sketched for Mom a lighthouse I'd seen online that I knew she would love.  

As we approached Cana, Mom and I both recognized the lighthouse as the very one in my sketch that now graces a wall in our basement recreation room. Mom ended her lighthouse extravaganza on a nostalgic note– the way she enjoys all her best memories. Thank goodness. A girl can only take so much education about fresnel lenses.

My father, on the other hand, is as tenacious as a beaver and as focused as an entranced cobra. He can stick with a task for longer than Mom and I care to endure.  

While walking along a beach made of shell shards, Dad locates a fully intact shell and gives it to my mother with the enthusiasm of a little boy finding a caterpillar for the very first time. He is so excited that he becomes insistent upon also finding one for me.

Insistent is putting it mildly. Once again, very much like the time Dad decided to recite the near equivalent of an entire 9-day novena on his knees in Santa Fe basilica last year, Mom and I wait for him, famished and about to pass out. I haven't had a sip of coffee yet this morning, and each time I hear myself say out loud, "Dad, can we go now? Mom and I are literally starving" I worry that I will get his age-old response of, "Offer it up, Née Née" (as in, offer it up because Jesus hung from a cross all day, so you can surely hold out for food).

Growing up, my three siblings and I typically heard “Offer it up” anytime we complained. It would follow our whining about being too hot, or still being hungry after a meal, or, you know, when we were writhing in pain after having our calf sliced open from a sharp protruding piece of metal on a neighbor's slide.

I'm certain it's why, as adults, the four of us kids rarely complain, can carry on daily functions like finishing mowing a lawn after applying a tourniquet to our own femoral artery, or endure natural childbirth with unwavering fortitude (only one of us has actually done this, for the record).

While other kids are motivating themselves by referring in their mind to The Little Engine That Could and repeating the "I think I can. I think I can" mantra, the Arthur kids are overcoming their own discomfort by envisioning Christ lifeless and bleeding on a cross.

After brunch, as we get ready to traverse north to catch a ferry to Washington Island, Dad slows the car down and exclaims, "Oh, Joycie, there's a hardware store!"

We pull over. I'm perplexed.

Curious, I ask, "Dad, what do you need at the hardware store?"

"Nothin', sweetie. I just like to check 'em out."

"Check out the hardware store itself?" I ask, hoping I'm missing something.

"Yes, I'll be right back."

Mom, apparently quite used to this strange custom, doesn't say anything until she sees the befuddled look on my face, at which point she begins laughing as she realizes the perceived bizarreness of my father's sudden urge to leave us in the car as he peruses aisles of tools– while on vacation.

I shake my head and figure he just has to use the restroom and doesn't want to tell us, which seems like extremely odd behavior for a man who has no inhibition about discussing bodily functions in any other circumstance.

As he walks from the car like a child making his way to the gates of Disney World, I begin to wonder if my entire life exists within the same constructs as the Truman Show.

Uneventfully, Dad returns to the car ready to be on the road again. When I ask him what was so compelling about hardware stores, he just responds, “Nothing really. I just like them.”

I think to myself how much I like pedicures, but that I bet a detour to the nail salon would go over like a lead balloon.

On Washington Island, we fly by the seat of our pants, which isn't customary for my Meyers Briggs INFJ mother who likes to plan the course of her day. Since Dad and I have personalities that prefer to surrender to the wonder of an exciting adventure into the unknown, we don't complain.

As Dad drives down the road to nowhere, Mom excitedly blurts, "How about we go to the lavender farm?"

"No thank you!" Dad says decidedly.

Mom states cheerfully, "Oh, Genie", then she begins laughing. 

Something tells me her laugh entails more than just giving in to Dad, so I regretfully ask, "What's so funny?"

Mom composes herself and responds in all seriousness, "Your dad thinks his nipples will lactate if he's exposed to lavender."

What in the holy hell?!  

I begin lamenting today's footwear choice, because had I worn running shoes I'd be getting out of this car at the next stop sign.

Instead, I bury my face in my hands and begin making a fake crying sound as I realize that until the next ferry arrives, I'm trapped on Washington Island with these crazies.

While on the island, and to dispel the boredom of driving on a water-surrounded mound of nothing but woods, Dad takes notice of the various trees that line the road. Dad then launches into his best impersonation of the character Harlan Pepper of Best in Show. Instead of naming nuts, Dad attempts to list every variety of tree he can think of.  

I sit in the backseat, rock back and forth and repeat, "Offer it up, Née Née.  Offer it up."