Being a Kid Again

Tags

family relationships, fathers and sons, kids, mischief, mischievous

A number of years ago I had a unique opportunity to spy on my two sons without them knowing I was anywhere around; something that most mothers can relate to, but that I rarely experienced. This was during one of the more stressful periods of my work career and my day off happened to fall during the week; while the boys were in school. They were eight and six years old then; an age range that I’ve always been very fond of and I’ve often stated that my favorite age was when I was seven years old. For some reason I remember my second grade teacher, Mrs. Pelton, more than any other teacher from those early grade school years. She was raised in some part of South Africa and told stories of riding ostriches as a kid; her being under five feet in height I had little trouble imagining the scenes.

The grade school where the boys were enjoying class was only a few blocks from our house and I made plans to meet them at the school and walk them home; only they weren’t let in on the secret. I arranged it so that I would arrive at the school in plenty of time to see all the kids leaving as the final bell rang, only I decided that I was going to hide from them and surprise them once they came out of the school’s entrance.

Once I arrived at the school, I scoped out all the possibilities and I noticed that the school had two main entrance/exit doors; one in the front and one on the side of the building. I made an educated guess which door they would be coming out of and had a contingency plan in place in case I was wrong. I then found a position alongside the building, just out of sight of the doors, to await the final bell and the kids storming out of the building. I didn’t think, and seldom do in these instances, about what it might look like for me to be hiding alongside of the school building and if it had been today, the swat team might have poured out of the building and surrounding trees and thrown me in the paddy wagon. But those were simpler times back in the late 80’s.

It was a beautiful, sunny fall day and I could hardly stand the wait. The feeling was the same feeling I felt whenever I was anticipating something exciting; like the feeling you have on Christmas morning before mom and dad are awakened. I was nervous and my heart was pounding; I was almost giddy with anticipation. I tried to act nonchalant and cool while I waited and luckily no one approached me to ask me what I was up to. Finally, the bell rang and I crouched into position.

As the little grade school kids poured out of the school building, I kept a sharp eye on each kid, trying to remember just what the boys had worn to school that morning. I didn’t want to screw this up and knew that they might recognize me before I did them. They weren’t the first ones out, nor were they the last, but I finally spotted them. They were walking side by side and talking; about who knows what. At first I was going to jump out from my hiding place and scare them, and enjoy the looks on their faces while we laughed about the trick I had pulled, but then I decided to just lay back and follow them; at a safe distance.

I took the risk that they wouldn’t turn around and notice me following them, and my risk paid off; they never turned around. I followed them for a few blocks, getting closer to them as we walked. I saw them find sticks along the way and pick them up and throw them, and they kicked rocks down the sidewalk, and I fully expected them to break into a skip; and if they had, I believe I would have too. I could hear their laughter and conversation, but never got close enough to hear exactly what they were saying. Their demeanor told me that they didn’t have a care in the world. I was enjoying them as much as they were enjoying the day, and it took me back to the hundreds of times I had walked home from school with various friends. Their carefree attitudes had rubbed off on me. Work was the last thing on my mind.

Finally, I couldn’t take the suspense any longer and I walked up behind them, placed a hand on both of their shoulders, and said, “Boo!” I reached out to hug them and they reacted like I thought they might, at first pushing me away, but soon they were laughing and chastising me for scaring them. We walked the rest of the way home together and I couldn’t wait to tell their mom what I had pulled off. For a moment there, and as an antidote to the stress of grown up life, I was a kid again. And it was glorious

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“But Dad, it wasn’t my fault!”

Tags

#fathersandsons, fathers and sons, Humor, social commentary, teenagers

On my commute home today, I see the flashing lights of police and fire vehicles up ahead and think What now? It’s always something when I’m on my way home. As I drive through the gaper’s delay, I see the damaged car, I see the teenage boy, and I see the boy’s face. I recognize that face. Fear is written there; a fear not of potential bodily harm, but of the impending ticket and face to face with Dad.

I remember a similar day. I was 16 and it was my first night out with Dad’s pickup. Everything was in place for me to have a real cool night, riding around the town. With new wheels and tires, the old pickup didn’t look too bad. I had just mounted a new Craig 8-track stereo under the dash, so even if I rode around all night and didn’t encounter a single soul, I at least had a great night of music ahead of me.

My first stop was the Quik Trip, located a few blocks from the house. The weather was cool, and a light drizzle made visibility less than ideal. As I was pulling into a parking spot, some other guy was pulling out, and I guess he didn’t see me and he ended up putting a nice scratch on the side of the truck. I thought Great! But it’s not my fault. I realize that there are few guilty men in prison, but it truly wasn’t my fault.

After exchanging insurance information, we determined the damage to be inconsequential, and the guy got in his car and drove off. Standing there in the rain, staring at the scratch on the side of Dad’s truck, I was presented with a dilemma. Did I drive back to the house and face Dad’s wrath and the grounding that was sure to follow, or go ahead and continue my riding around plans and wait to tell Dad the next morning. As I often did during my teenage years, I chose the incorrect option, and learned a couple of valuable lessons along the way. First, the right thing to do is often the most difficult and one that you’re usually not inclined to do, and the consequences of delaying a forthcoming punishment are often more painful in the end. The other lesson? I learned that riding around all night listening to my favorite tunes isn’t near as fun when accompanied by a guilty conscience.

After driving through the accident mess and typing this story onto my phone with my right thumb (you do see the irony here don’t you?), I begin to wonder what had caused this careless teenager to rear end the vehicle in front of him. Was he texting his new girl friend? Or just texting a friend? Or perhaps he was pre-occupied with his stereo, moving the dial-up and down in search of the perfect hip-hop tune. Or maybe he was attempting to see how fast he could accelerate down the two lane road, racing from one driveway to the next. Only he knows for sure.

I did wonder one other thing. Would this boy, under the intense scrutiny of his father’s inquisition, use for his defense the time-honored explanation, “But Dad, it wasn’t my fault!” I have some advice for you son. Don’t try it.

“And don’t let him out of your sight!”

Tags

family relationships, fathers and sons, fishing, Humor, husbands and wives, kids, mischief

 When my sons were small, that age range between diapers and junior high school, I often brought them along with me on my frequent excursions into the wild; mainly fishing trips. I saw it as a “one stone kills two birds” opportunity; I got to go fishing and I accomplished the father/son bonding experience that is so necessary to the development of any boy. There were, however, a few hoops to jump through prior to exiting the house; the inquisition by their mother. I figured the ordeal shouldn’t be any more complicated than, “Hey boys, grab your fishing poles, jump in the car, and let’s go.” I was wrong. There were details that had to be worked out.

Before leaving on one trip, I said to Julie, “Honey, I’m taking Christopher fishing. Let’s go son.” Before I went any further, I heard a voice from somewhere deep inside the house, “Where are you going?” My reply was short, “To the river.”  She continued, “That’s not safe. He has to wear a life jacket.” I thought, Poor little kid. You have to wear that stupid looking orange life jacket. The kind you find thrown in the corner of every boat and canoe on the waterways. I knew better than to resist and when Christopher gave that look of “Do I have to?” I just winked and said, “Go get that life jacket and throw it in the back of the car.” She wasn’t done. “What are you feeding him?” I first thought the beef jerky and cheese and crackers I planned on taking would satisfy her, but reconsidered. “I’ll fix some sandwiches and bag up some chips and fruit. You can get ice for the cooler on the way.” I resisted, “But honey, we’re not going on a picnic. We’re going fishing. How am I going to drag the cooler up the river?”  My next thought was, What else can she come up with? Julie next said, “He can go fishing with you, but he can’t go in the water.” I shouldn’t have, but I asked, “Why am I bringing a life jacket if he’s not allowed in the water?” Julie wasn’t fazed. “He could fall in.” Having given up by this time, I answered, “I’m sure he could.” As we walked out the door to the car I heard, “And no cigars! And no jumping out of trees. And no loud music. And no spitting.” And finally, “And don’t let him out of your sight.”

Once in the car, having lit up a cigar and cranked up the stereo, I turned to Christopher and said, “You know all that stuff Mom said back there?” He nodded his head. “Well, forget it. You’re going wading down the river with your dad and we’re going to catch a stringer full of fish. What Mom doesn’t know, won’t hurt her.” I then spit out the window. Christopher said, “Yeah Dad. You’re the boss around here.” Once we arrived and unloaded our tackle, I made him put on the orange life jacket. “Why do I have to wear this?” he asked. “Just in case” I answered. He wasn’t satisfied, “You’re not wearing one.” Taking advantage of my authority I said, “I’m the adult around here. I don’t need one.”

Before we entered the water, I tied one end of a rope around a strap on the life jacket and the other end through one of my belt loops. That way I wouldn’t have to worry about Christopher and could focus on catching fish. Wading upstream and casting on both sides of the river, I occasionally glanced back, to see how the boy was doing. He was having a tougher time navigating the current than I was, but it’s understandable. The water was waist-high for me, but came up just beneath his chin. I told him to walk over in the shallow area near the bank, so that he wouldn’t slow us down. The next thing I heard was a faint, “Dad, help me, I’m floating away!” I looked back and saw Christopher being carried downstream in the swift current. He was struggling, but safe. Good thing I thought of that life jacket.

After a couple of hours of catching fish and retrieving Christopher, I decided we should go back to the car and grab a sandwich. After we’d eaten our fill, “Man these sandwiches hit the spot. I’m glad I had your mom make them,” we decided to do some fishing at the dam. We both waded a few yards off shore and cast into the swirling waters beneath the dam. At one point Christopher hooked a nice fish and we were both surprised when he pulled in a two-pound channel cat. He was thrilled and so was I, although we couldn’t figure out how he caught a catfish when we were fishing for smallmouth. After a while it was time to go home.

After putting our things in the trunk, Christopher asked me, “Dad, what’s that thing on my ankle?” I looked down and saw a three-inch long leech attached to his skin, just above his tennis shoe. “That’s a leech son.” He was only a little concerned and asked, “How are we going to get it off?” At first I thought, I could take my filet knife and cut it off, but that might be a bit bloody and Julie would notice the laceration. I then looked around the car and found a packet of salt from Wendy’s. If it worked on snails and slugs as a kid, why not a leech? Unfortunately the salt had no effect on the leech and Christopher was now worried. As I lit another cigar, it hit me. “I’ll burn it off with my cigar, son.” He was skeptical and asked, “Will that work? Have you done it before?” I answered, “I saw it in a movie once.”

I knocked the ash off the end of the cigar and puffed on it enough to get the tip a glowing red, and then proceeded with the operation. After a few painful yelps from Christopher, the leech was dispatched. I looked at the place where the leech had been and noticed a slight burn on his skin. “Don’t worry son; that burn will eventually scar over.” He seemed satisfied and we had a great ride home. At eight years of age, he was quickly becoming a man.

Once arriving home, before exiting the vehicle, I had to coach Christopher, “Now son, remember all those things we did at the river today? They’re just between you and me. Your mom doesn’t need to know any details. Got it?” He nodded his head and we got out and unloaded our gear, and then entered the house. Julie had a big smile on her face as Christopher came into the kitchen. “Did you have a great time with your dad,” she asked. She reached down to hug him, and the smile quickly left her face, as she felt the water on his shirt and pants. Glaring at me she asked, “How did he get wet?” Before I could answer I heard Christopher say, “Mom, you should have been there. I got a leech on my foot and Dad burned it off with his cigar, and…” I didn’t wait around to hear the rest. “I’ve got to go mow the lawn,” and out the door I went. The roar of the riding lawnmower prevented me from hearing the wrath of Julie, but it was only a temporary delay. Before embarking on any future father/son outings, Christopher would need additional counseling on what information was appropriate to release to his mother upon our return.

“I can’t do this Dad!”

Tags

driving lesson, dump truck, fathers and sons, Humor, teenagers

In addition to his work ethic, one of the things I admired most about my dad was the confidence he had in his abilities. He seemingly was unafraid to try anything. It was evident in his career choices. His first love was driving a truck, the big ones, and he especially enjoyed those long, cross-country trips. He told me that one of his favorite experiences was to be in his truck, driving over the next hill and see some town or sight that he had never seen before. Because of his love for his family, he pretty much gave up on his truck driving career and found other job choices closer to home. After working for Holsum Bread and Party Steak, both as a route salesman, he decided to buy a restaurant. What? What did Dad know about running a restaurant? Nothing. And yet, because of his confidence in himself, he made a very successful run in “Bay’s Place”. I may have inherited Dad’s love of adventure, wondering what lies over the next hill, but his confidence in himself was not something that he passed along in his genes.

Somewhere between the bread route and the restaurant, Dad bought a dump truck and hired himself out delivering rock, chat and asphalt to various construction companies. It was a large dump truck, not like those little tiny ones you see driving around town with city stickers on the side. It was of the 24 ton variety. To me it was huge. When he bought the truck I was reminded of the old, steel, yellow Tonka truck I had received as a kid for Christmas. That was one tough truck, but just a toy. And he was one tough man.

Not long after he bought the truck we came home one day and found that Dad had been rushed to the hospital; an accident on the job. When he came home, his left hand was bandaged up and we found out that he had lost his ring finger. It seems that when he was checking the tarp on the top of his truck and jumped back down to the ground, his ring caught on a steel cleat; he returned to the ground while his finger stayed with his ring. Later, when he told me the story he said, “I just looked at my hand and said, ‘Damn, I just lost my finger’. I drove to the hospital and the doctor took a saw and removed what remained. He sewed up the end and now I have a stub.” No tears. No crying. Man was he a tough guy!

Whenever he would return to the house at the end of a work day, we all knew he was home because when he backed down the driveway, the backup warning bells would chime a distinct cadence. Ding, ding, ding! He was such a great driver that in just a minute or two he could back the truck down the drive and park it between the basketball goal and the bushes at the back of the house; effortlessly.  Apparently, he thought it would be a good idea for me to learn his trade (funny thing is I don’t remember ever listing truck driver as one of my career goals).

One day, sitting in the living room watching Gilligan’s Island, I heard the ding, ding, ding of the dump truck backing into the driveway, but on this particular day the truck stopped about halfway down the drive. The next thing I knew Dad was shouting at me from the front walk, “Ronnie. Come out here for a minute.” Little did I know what was in store for me, but when Dad commanded, I came.

As I met him at the edge of the driveway, I noticed that the truck was still running and the driver door was wide open. Dad seemed excited when he said to me, “Jump up there and park the truck son.” After looking inside the truck and noticing a stick shift that indicated about twenty different gears, including reverse, I finally swallowed deeply and responded, “Uh, that’s okay. Maybe some other time.” Thinking quickly, which was unusual, I blurted out, “Besides, I don’t have my driver’s license yet!” (It’s funny how a lack of a driver’s license hadn’t prevented me from driving Jim’s Chevy Bel-Air those few times on the back roads around town. Of course, driving an automatic car in forward gear, learning how to steer into numerous fishtails as the car sailed up and down the dusty dirt road at sixty miles per hour is one thing; driving a twenty-four ton dump truck in reverse is quite another). Assuming that my declaration had put an end to this ordeal, I turned and began walking back toward the house; Gilligan was waiting.

Dad however, was not deterred. “Son, get back over here. You don’t need a license, we’re in our driveway.” It seemed that Dad was serious, so I returned and climbed up in the truck, a pasty white look on my face as I briefly looked into the driver’s side mirror. “Don’t worry son, I’ll show you all you need to know.”

The first lesson involved the clutch and gear shift. Dad was patient as he explained the intricacies of the fine art of shifting gears in a finely tuned manual transmission. “If you do this right son, you won’t have to leave reverse.” If I do it right! I didn’t even know what right looked like. I could only imagine wrong. After grinding the gears to the point of leaving piles of metal shavings at the bottom of the transmission and killing the engine numerous times, I was ready to go. I revved the engine once more, released the clutch, and the truck began to slowly move backward down the driveway.

Feeling pretty good about the whole thing I was beginning to gain confidence when I heard a loud, “Stop!” Slamming on the brakes and forgetting to engage the clutch, the truck shuttered to an immediate stop; the engine dying along with my confidence. Dad jumped up on the running board and leaned in the window, “Didn’t you see that tree back there? You were running off the driveway. Use the mirrors!” I looked out the window and could see small limbs and branches scattered about the driveway. By this time I was near in tears (I was known to cry at the drop of a hat so this wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary behavior for me). “I can’t do this, Dad!” I cried. “Yes you can son. Just listen to my instructions and do what I tell you.”  I just then realized that there wasn’t a rearview mirror inside the cab like one might find in an automobile. This truck had two mirrors mounted outside the driver and passenger doors. I was supposed to back up using the two mirrors. Oh, boy. I was in deep trouble!

Starting up the truck again I continued to back down the driveway; sweating profusely the entire time, my head on a swivel trying to see out of both mirrors at the same time, wondering if I would run over some object, brother Timmy for example, and not even know it. I was doing okay, with only a few shouts of encouragement coming from Dad who was walking beside the truck the entire time; until it came time to actually park the thing. “Stop the truck!”

“Now son, this is where you need to use your mirrors. You have to cut the wheel so that the truck turns at a forty-five degree angle and you end up between the basketball goal and the row of lilac bushes. Got it?” I meekly answered, “I think so.” I knew Dad well enough to know that I wasn’t getting out of this lesson anytime soon. Still not too sure of myself I asked, “Can I come down and look at it from ground level?” Dad was fine with that. I climbed out of the cab and surveyed the situation. I knew I couldn’t do it. I was not going to successfully park this truck. “Yeah, this looks easy. No problem.” I confidently asserted. “You can do it son.” All this time my three siblings were probably peering out the kitchen window, glad that it was me and not them being Dad’s guinea pig.

As I returned to the truck and began backing it into the narrow space between the two landmarks, I never made it that far. Dad began frantically yelling and waving his arms, “Turn the wheel! Turn the wheel! No, turn it harder!” Suddenly I heard a loud crunch and could see in the driver’s mirror that the basketball goal was shaking after being “clipped” by the back of the dump truck and was no longer standing proudly erect, but was tilting grotesquely toward the ground. “Stop the truck!”

I was crying by now and timidly shut off the engine. I sat there staring out the window in front of me, waiting for what I knew would happen next. In an odd way I was relieved that it was all over, but I was hurt that I had disappointed Dad. “Get out of the damned truck!” Dad was angry as he “helped” me out of the cab. I stood sheepishly on the driveway and watched him complete the job. Good thing I didn’t pursue truck driving as my first career option.

For some reason we didn’t fix the basketball goal for a few days; the leaning pole, reminiscent of the tower in Pisa, remaining a testament to my lack of driving skills and failure to do a simple task like parking a dump truck. Dad later apologized to me for losing his temper, but he never again asked me to get anywhere near his dump truck. In addition to being confident and tough, Dad was also very wise.

Father Knows Best, But I Wasn’t About to Admit It!

Tags

father's advice, fathers and sons, pride, teenage know it alls, teenagers

It was back in my 19-year-old days, when I knew everything and needed no advice from anyone; definitely not my father. I was commuting to college, post baseball career, and other than school, my main priority, in addition to getting into extracurricular shenanigans (let the reader understand), was working. At this time I worked for J.C. Penney, an anchor for the North Park Mall, only I wasn’t in the store; instead up on the hill at the TBA pumping gas. This just happened to be the coldest, snowiest winter that southern Missouri had seen in a generation and I was working outside. This was also the day of full service gas stations and some customers just didn’t understand. “Sonny, could you put some air in my tires?” “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. Due to the fact that it’s zero degrees outside, our air is frozen.” “I don’t understand; how does air freeze?” I went on to explain about the moisture in the line and how it would freeze up at certain temperatures and when that happened it was impossible to put air into her tires. I finally convinced her. “Well then, could you make sure to wash all my windows?”

One particular morning, before heading off to Joplin for school, Dad pulled me aside. “Son, the weather is supposed to be bad all day; sleet, snow, frigid temperatures; and by the time you get off work tonight, the roads will be dangerous. I don’t want you driving on HH highway on your way home tonight. Take I-44. It should be cleared.” “Okay Dad.” I had learned long ago that even though it was much easier and a shorter drive taking HH and I could have made a good argument in my favor; agreeing with Dad was the best course of action. Of course, agreeing was one thing, but I had no intention of following his advice. I, after all, was in full control of my own destiny.

When school was out I drove to work and had a wonderful day of pumping gas, washing windows and not putting air into people’s tires; and in between automobiles, standing in the little booth with the space heater trying to stay warm. When the last car pulled away and I’d shut down all the pumps, I loaded up in my Opel 1900 (Julie’s least favorite automobile) and began the trip home; Dad’s warning still ringing in my ears.

I drove by the school on my way to HH highway (Surely you didn’t think I was going to do the smart thing did you?) and the roads indeed were not only snow-covered, but where the snow had melted during the day was a layer of ice; frozen again when the sun went down. Some call it black ice, but whatever it is, its slick! Really slick. I was having fun fish tailing down the road, testing my driving skills, when I finally reached the prohibited highway and turned east. For some reason I thought that the 55 miles per hour speed limit was in effect regardless of road conditions.

As I reached 45 miles per hour, the car began to spin. Around and around I went; with no amount of steering wheel corrections able to change the trajectory of the car. From the inside of the car all I could see was a white blur flash in front of my eyes as I was whipped around time and time again. If you’ve seen Planes, Trains, and Automobiles and recall the scene on the highway, “You’re going the wrong way!” then you have a good idea of what was going on inside my car. I was definitely going the wrong way! If there had been a passenger beside me, he may have seen the face of Satan sitting next to him, but as it was I was all alone. How many times I spun around is impossible to say as I was moving at a rather high rate of speed. It would have made a great amusement park ride! Finally there was a big thump and the car came to an immediate halt. I was in a ditch; waist deep in a drift of snow. The car had come to rest, interestingly, within a couple of feet of a telephone pole. (“Son…the roads will be dangerous!” Ha!).

Now I was in a predicament. How to get the car out of the ditch? I couldn’t call Dad (pre-cell phone days) and suffer the fate of eating crow. I tried rocking the car back and forth, but it was buried and that didn’t last long. I began walking down the deserted road, looking for a house with the lights still on; indicating someone being at home and awake. I finally remembered that a friend of mine’s brother-in-law lived on HH highway. I walked the remaining distance to his house (not dressed for the weather as I never anticipated this happening; I was so smart!). Gary was home and he threw some chains in his Jeep and we drove down to my car. After a few minutes I was hooked up and he pulled me out of the ditch. I thanked him profusely and before he drove away he said, “You should have driven home on I-44. It’s much safer!”

As I drove the remaining miles home, I thought of Dad’s advice and was aggravated that he was proven right; again. I thought of what I was going to say to him when he asked, because I knew he would ask which way I had come home. I also knew I couldn’t tell him the truth. Thanks to Gary and his Jeep, I didn’t have to. He did ask and I did lie. I’m not sure he ever knew the true story of what happened that night. What is it about 19 year old boys? There isn’t anything they don’t know!