That's when grandma slipped and fell

Ramblings by Roy Mitchell

During the Christmas holidays my wonderful wife, woeful of winter, wished to be someplace warm. So I took her to hell. Actually, we did not stop in Auburn, but we passed it on the way to the beach.

Here's how our peaceful little Christmas trek to Panama City Beach turned as rotten as a two-ton truckload of old tomatoes.

As my family entered the condominium after an unseasonably cold panhandle day, my children's inner magnets latched them to the novelty and merriment of the bunk beds in their room. Amidst the climbing and bunk bed bouncing that ensued, my 6-year-old, Zac, misstepped descending from the top bunk. Though my Mitchell-in-miniature escaped without broken bones or a concussion, the tight space between the bed and the wall left several tender, crimson scrapes down his diminutive back.

Little could we know that our oceanside adventure had just begun.

The next day's temperature rose not only at the Gulf, but inside the beleaguered body of my little one. We knew something was wrong when Zac laid his head on the edge of the heated pool and tried to sleep. Once out of the pool, we noticed that Zac's eyes became baggy and his face flushed. I trekked to Walgreen's for Children's Tylenol and a thermometer. While I was gone, Zac emptied his stomach all over our bed. He had been drinking Orange Crush. By the time I could get back from the pharmacy, his fever radio had rocketed up the FM dial to 103.3 degrees.

In addition to Zac's fever frolic, the day before Christmas, we discovered that the dishwasher didn't work. After phoning the cleaning service, we were assured that though no one could inspect the washer until the 26th.

Our next wandering into Wal-Mart we purchased paper plates and plastic cups, yet Christmas feast preparations still dirtied dozens of dishes. When we left on the 28th, no one had serviced the dishwasher. At least we left Florida with our hands Palmolive clean. But we should've contacted Mike Rowe to help with all the dirty jobs the illness and faulty plumbing presented.

The predictably runny byproduct of Zac's stomach virus showed up the next day in the back condominium toilet. Unfortunately, that potty didn't drain properly, and little boy's flush flooded to the toilet rim. At this most inopportune of times, the condominium's back toilet didn't appear to drain at all. After dozens of unsuccessful, frustrating attempts with the pitiful plunger provided, whose outer edges curled upon itself with any forceful plunge, the disgusting water level remained perilously close to overflowing.

At this point my wife stormed out of the condo. She came back a half an hour later with a purchased plunger. It didn't work either. Determined, my wife kept thrusting the plunger with quick, regular heaves like she was administering CPR. Eventually she developed a rare malady: a red, irritated, plunger blister in the center of her palm. Eventually, we unclogged an opening that must've been about the size of a pinhole because during plunging breaks we noticed that the remaining water was, in fact, draining.

The final night of our vacation, my mother kept the boys at the condo while my wife and I enjoyed a dinner unencumbered by children. Upon our return, the unmistakable vomit stench invaded our nostrils. This time the culprit was our 10-year-old son, Alex. A hurl of nasty liquid and chicken chunks had hit the bathroom floor near the sink, splattering on every wall and baseboard and even leaving its mark on the tub at the other end of the bathroom. My mother rushed to the bathroom to care for her grandchild. That's when Grandma slipped in the vomit. Later she would show me the bruise to prove it.

Roy Mitchell, a teacher, basketball coach, and local fisherman, lives in Cherokee County with his wife, Suzette, and two sons, Alex and Zac. Though nearly 40 years old, Roy is kind of like a puppy dog who wants a pat on the head. You can e-mail any pats on the head or "bad dog" comments to rmitchell@horizonwisp.net.