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Two Dollar Dad

“Don’t do it!” I thought frantically. “Not in front of my friends!”

In was 1980s Scranton, Pennsylvania. And my father was pulling his Audie into the Quickie Mart at Marion Street. I was in the front seat (“Shotgun!”) and my two friends, Jim and Sean, were squished into the back like two penguins standing on a single ice cube.

“Do we really have to stop?”

It sounded like I was begging.

I glanced at the gas gauge. Of course we had to stop.

The needle was on E.

That needle was best friends with E.

In fact, if the gas gauge in my father’s car ever got above E, the needle would shout, “What the F is this?” and immediately die of shock.

“Please don’t do it,” I silently begged again. 

“I LOVE the Quickie Mart,” cooed my best friend Jim.

I shot him a warning look. THAT was not happening in front of my father.

Yes, I know The Simpsons show actually had Kwik-E-Mart, but Scranton, Pennsylvania had a real, live Quickie Mart a full eight years before Bart Simpson first skateboarded across your luxury 25-inch color console.

Only Scranton’s Quickie Mart was ruthlessly ruled by Debbie, a chain-smoking 30-something who, while missing a few teeth from her bottom rung, still cared enough about her personal appearance to scrupulously maintain foot high bangs.

After our wiffle ball games Jim blasted into the Quickie Mart just to torture Debbie. He’d yank a Yahoo out of the cooler. Then, in feigned befuddlement, he’d look around and shout, “Hey! Where do you keep the quickies?”

Every. Stinking. Afternoon.

Debbie tapped the ash off her cigarette and screamed, “THAT IS NOT FUNNY!”

Which, to a group of eighth graders, made it VERY funny.

But my death ray glare made it clear to Jim that we were not discussing any sordid intimacy in the presence of Waddy.

That’s what Jim called my dad behind his back.

That’s what everyone up in Scranton called my dad. Every guy who grew up in the Northeast in the 1950s had a childhood nickname.

I could have been born to a guy called Spike. Or Scooter. Or Buzz.

But no. I was born to a Waddy. From the moment of his birth, my father was destined to mortify his children. It was a full-time career and he was dedicated to it.

I’ll admit. Waddy was a step above the guy who lived across from my uncle. Everyone called that guy Tooter—even fifty years later when Tooter started collecting Social Security.

Tooter was actually named Ignatius. But sometime during a childhood of gastrointestinal distress, a friend—or that guy across the street (“that guy across the street” bestowed a shocking number of nicknames on 1950s Scranton boys)—sarcastically proclaimed him Tooter.

And poor Ignatius thought, “Hmmm. Ignatius? Or Tooter?”


“Tooter it is!”

That guy across the street also nicknamed my Dad. He deemed 6-year-old Pop, whose head was mop-topped with shockingly red hair, “Watts.”

As in a light bulb.

“Watts” might have been actually been a little cool.

So my dad’s older sister just had to squeeze all the coolness out of it. She called him Watty, which just had to be further emasculated by spelling it like it rhymed with poddy.

The 1950s were cruel years in Scranton, Pennsylvania.

So when Jim started calling me Waddy Junior in sixth grade, I immediately threatened to beat him up to put a stop to that. (And, in case you’re having any bright ideas, I will also not hesitate to beat you up too, be it in Publix, at the dry cleaners or in the dairy aisle of the Super Target on Sunday after church. You’ve been warned.)

Waddy pulled his Audi up to the gas pumps and the attendant came out of his little hut.

My dad pressed the button to slide down the car window, but it jammed. So he banged his hand against car door.

Among other talents, my father possessed the underappreciated skill of being able to walk onto any used car lot in town and immediately identify the worst available car.

And then enthusiastically pay $500 more for it than it was worth.

Hence the 10-year-old “luxury” Audi, whose muffler didn’t quite work.

Which prompted Jim to nickname the Audi the Laudi. You could hear it coming three blocks away. “Here comes Waddy’s Laudi!”Jim would cry.

As I said, a full-time career.

With another bang, my father got the window unjammed.

“Please don’t do it,” I silently begged again.

But of course he did.

“Two dollars!” my dad cried.

I nearly crawled beneath my seat.

And in case the attendant was hard of hearing and might possibly do something absolutely, out-of-his-mind crazy—like completely fill up the gas tank of any car that my dad was driving, my dad stuck his hand out the window and held up two stubby fingers as he said it.

“Two dollars!”

Jim and Sean rolled down their windows and held up two fingers.

The 1980s were cruel years in Scranton, Pennsylvania.

In all of the years he was alive, my dad never once filled up the tank of his car.

Wait. That’s not true.

He did it once, by accident.

After a year the Audi’s gas gauge stopped working, probably out of shame. Rather than fixing something that was broken, Dad drove around town simply guesstimating his mileage. Then one morning driving me to school, he pulled into the Quickie-Mart, bang-slid down his window and cried, two fingers aloft, “Two dollars!”

But when the gas pump his 95 cents, it completely shut off.

The Quickie Mart gasoline attendant, who suddenly concluded the guy with the broken down Audi always kept his car gas tank within two dollars of being completely full, looked at my father like he was crazy.

“Ha!” My dad roared out of the Quickie Mart. He jubilantly jammed a one dollar bill back into his pocket. “We just won the lottery!”

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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The No Photo Zone

“NO!” Number One, home from University of Florida, wagged a finger at me. “You are NOT taking a photo!”

Twas the night before Epiphany 2018. Along with her two sisters, our college daughter was squatting, in a pair of tattered candy cane pajama pants in our pitch black front yard. She cast a wary eye toward the spooky, black conservation area, undoubtedly filled with beastly, wild creatures lurking to eat unsuspecting college freshmen as part of their dining plan.

Keeping a close eye on the haunted forest, Number One glanced back at me to check that I was NOT taking a photo. Then she resumed yanking fistfuls of grass out of the front lawn and throwing them into a shoebox.

She suddenly shrieked, leapt to her feet and violently shook her hand. “WHAT WAS THAT!?”

Her two sisters leapt and turned.

Number One bent over and carefully studied the dark grass. “Oh. A wet leaf.”

“You’re a mood,” said Elf, our high school freshman.

The three of them resumed plucking grass and dramatically heaving it into shoeboxes to make clear their slight displeasure.

Because they’re all moods.

“I can’t believe you’re still making us do this.” Number One threw more grass into her shoebox.

“If you don’t leave grass and water for the camels, the Three Kings will not stop to leave you gifts.”

It’s their mother’s tradition from her childhood in Puerto Rico. On the night before Epiphany in Puerto Rico, the Three Kings, following the bright star to Bethlehem, stop at the homes of all good children. And if the children leave a shoebox full of grass and bowl of water at the foot of their beds for the camels, the kings will leave them a gift.

The three kings being Melchior, Balthazar and Gaspar.

Only Gaspar isn’t a drunk pirate with a ship that invades Southern cities. He’s a nice king from the East with an odd obsession with astronomy who invades little children’s bedrooms with his dromedary.

No cheap, plastic beads or red Solo cups are involved.

Which is probably how he manages not to wake them.

While my daughters were distracted by their grass plucking, I tried to raise my phone again.

“He’s gonna post it on Facebook!” bellowed Elf. She flipped her back to me.

Bee, 13, retracted her entire head into her hoodie like a turtle.

“I was NOT planning to post it on Facebook,” I cried.

Of course, I was totally planning to post it on Facebook. But you should never admit to teenagers they’re right. It never ends well.

Somewhere deep inside her hoodie, Bee had an epiphany. “You know, this is where we take the dogs to poop,” her muffled voice warbled.

Her two sisters pranced back into the sidewalk, leaving the headless turtle cluelessly spinning in her squat.

“Just one photo?” I begged.

“NO!” the three of them shouted.

Here’s the thing with teenagers. Thirty-two wildly smiling teens can jam all 32 of their wildly smiling heads into an enthusiastic friend’s selfie for their Snapchat and Insta feeds.

But if a parent of three teens so much as raises a phone, suddenly there are wild accusations about Facebook. And no matter how convincingly that parent lies, 33 percent of his offspring will ruin said photo with a scowl.

“Facebook photos are embarrassing!” Bee said. “All your friends just mock you for them.”

Because, in Bee’s mind, all the worlds’ teens are all secretly trolling Facebook. In between visiting granny’s wall, filled with posts of her online Scrabble scores and photos of rotary phones, demanding that all her friends click like if they used one, these teens stalk the walls of their parents’ middle aged friends.

Just so they can walk into high school tomorrow and say, “Ha! Saw you squatting on your lawn plucking grass for camels! FREAK!”

“I have some news for you,” I announced.

The three of them sigh.

Apparently this is one of the parenting lines they will be imitating at holiday dinners and laughing hysterically at when I’m 80.

“None of your friends is paying any attention to you,” I finished.

This is true. I don’t know if you’ve seen any groups of teens lately. But when gathered at community bus stops, half the herd looks like sleep deprived zombies and the other half is just staring at their phones.

You could set your hair on fire and no one at those bus stops would notice.

If you’re a teen, rest assured that every other teen is too busy worried about themselves to notice your parents’ car, the microscopic zit on your earlobe or the fact that you’re too poor to upgrade your iPhone 8.356.

Except for the Queen Bee.

The Queen Bee notices all three. That’s why she’s the Queen Bee.

The upside?

At your 30th high school reunion, the Queen Bee will be a divorced alcoholic whose kids resent her.

Trust me. Karma really is the B-word. She’s just a lazy B-word who takes three decades to roll outta bed and get the job done.

Despite having briefly been a teen, I still haven’t quite figured out how their brains work. They have no problem dashing naked across a football field with Oreos clenched in their buttocks. But this same group will endlessly worry what people will think of them if they wear the wrong socks.

Is there anyone on the planet as insanely self-focused as a teen?

(Other than the president.)

“Just one photo?” I beg again.

“NO!” they cry.

Someday, ten years in the future, when their brains are no longer inhabited by aliens, they will look up and finally notice the world. Looking through the family photos, they’ll turn to me and accusingly say, “Hey, why are there almost no photos of us as teens?”

I’ll just whip out my phone and take a photo of THAT epiphany.

And Facebook the heck out of it.

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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Just Say Yes

It took me fifty-two years, but I can finally check it off my bucket list.

I attended my first boy band concert.

God can call me home now.

OK, it was actually on my eighth grader’s bucket list. But the concert was in Queens, so Bee needed a parent to ride along in her bucket to pay for everything.

Bee has been, um, obsessed since January. While watching one of the New Year’s Eve shows, her profound three-month obsession with Finn Wolfhard of Stranger Things was immediately replaced by an even stranger thing.

A year-long obsession with BTS, a boy band from South Korea.

Yes, South Korea.

Which means said boy band does not actually sing in English.

So Bee began studying Korean.

She also began studying tour dates. “Um, are you doing anything important this weekend, Dad?” she’d say. “Because BTS is playing Singapore and single tickets are only $600.”

“I grew up in Appalachia,” I’d respond. “There is not a single syllable of that last sentence that I understood.”

She might as well have been speaking to me in Korean.

So she said it in Korean.

And then she signed up for hip hop dance lessons.

Mysterious notes began appearing on the kitchen blackboard: “BTS has a concert in Tokyo this Friday in case anyone cares.”

At first we rolled our eyes.

But I ultimately fell into the trap every parent who spoils their kid does.

I made the foolish mistake of wanting my child to like me.

Plus Bee, an introvert, bamboozled me.

Having grown up with five siblings who, to this day, will not shut up, I have no idea what to do with an introvert. They baffle me. They just sit there in uncomfortable silence.

For the world’s extroverts, this is highly suspicious behavior. They’re clearly plotting something.

Every day Bee comes home from school and our expansive conversation goes like this:

Me: How was your day?

Bee: Fine.

Me: Could you perhaps expound upon that?

Bee: My day was medium fine.

So, when we were driving to South Tampa to see her sister’s halftime marching band show and she began fiddling with her phone, I asked her what she was looking at.

Because you never know when an introvert might slip up and spill their evil plans for world domination.

“BTS tickets just went on sale for CitiField in New York,” she said. “That’s near Times Square, where the BT21 store is, a BTS store where they sell only BTS merch.”

As in merchandise. But it’s really cool merchandise because it’s just one syllable.

It was the most Bee had uttered in a week.

“Buy them,” I said.

She flashed a shocked, thousand dollar smile. “Really?”

And then she burst into tears.

Which I think meant she was happy.

Teens are confusing that way.

Hey, don’t judge. 

What proper nerd parent doesn’t cultivate an obsession that leads a teenager to voluntarily study a foreign language?

I promised Bee she could pick what we’d do in New York City. We did it on the cheap. Airline miles. No car rental. We booked a room within four blocks of CitiField in a semi-sketch hotel near a subway stop. Instead of a chocolate, we found a can of spraypaint on our pillows so we could tag stuff in Queens as we walked to the Mets stadium.

We flew out at 4 a.m. Saturday morning. We bee-lined to Times Square. We pushed through all the costumed characters and the naked guy in a cowboy hat playing a guitar and arrived at the BTS store.

Its line went down the block, around the corner and halfway to 8th Avenue.

A two hour wait with no fast passes.

“There’s not enough time before lunch,” I said.

Bee’s face fell.

So I bought her a street churro, which made her medium fine.

Then we met my mom for lunch.

“What shall we do now?” I said after lunch.

“We should go to the Tenement Museum,” Nana said. “I hear it’s marvelous.”

Bee’s eyes went wide.

Having grown up poor with five siblings, my parents, my grandmother and my aunt in a single home in Scranton, I also wasn’t exactly itching to see a museum where they displayed my family’s Christmas photos.

“I’m kind tired,” Bee said, suddenly 70.

So we put Nana on the right subway and headed back to Queens. I flopped onto my semi-sketch bed to grab a nap before the concert began at 7 p.m. A few minutes later, Bee emerged from the bathroom. “Um, what are you doing?”

“I’m napping because you’re tired.”

“But the doors open at four,” Bee said. “In 15 minutes.”

“Why would we show up three hours early for a two and half hour concert?”

Bee came over to the bed and nudged me. “Because the BTS videos start at four.”

I rolled over and looked at her. “When I die, you had better look back on this weekend and remember that I was the Best. Dad. Ever.”

My introvert exploded in excitement as we walked to the stadium. Her words came out a mile a minute. The cool band members. Her favorite songs. “Everyone who attends the concert buys an Army Bomb, which lights up with different colors to the music,” she said.

“How much do Army Bombs cost?” I asked.

“Fifty-seven dollars,” she said.

My eyes went wide.

“Fans in Korea use them because they can’t stand or scream during concerts,” said Bee. “So they just shake their Army Bombs excitedly. But we get to stand, shout AND shake our Army Bombs.”

“God bless America,” I said.

Of course I bought her an Army Bomb. Don’t judge.

Who doesn’t want to own a $57 flashlight that looks like a glowing planet Earth AND hooks up via Bluetooth with all other Army Bombs in Mets stadium to order to glow in a flashing, assimilated, Borg-like, hive-mind collective?

It was a glorious five and a half hours of shrieking. And dancing. And singing.

And shaking our Army Bombs.

Bee shrieked. She danced. She sang along to every song in Korean.

With 30,000 other young women who spend their weekends attending ComicCons.

Exhausted, we finally walked back to our sketch hotel. “Was that awesome?” I said.

“It was awesome. she said. “But now I’m sad.”

My eyes went wide. “You’re sad?!”

“I think I have Post Event Depression.”

We woke up the next day with 12 hours of Post Event Depression before our return flight. Bee ate breakfast quietly.

“Where to?” I nudged.

Bee shrugged. “Maybe the Museum of Natural History. I want to see the big blue whale.”

Forty-five dollars later, we were standing beneath what appeared to be large plastic blue whale, hanging from the ceiling.

“It’s not real,” Bee said.

I nodded. “Then where to?”

She looked at the map. “Asian mammals,” she said hopefully.

We were halfway through the hall, when she spotted it.

A plaque thanking two 19th century American Army officers for “collecting and contributing” all the beasts on display.

She whirled, horrified. “You mean they KILLED all the animals in here?”

“Um, yeah, pretty much everything in a museum is dead.”

Poof! That’s how quickly 45 dollars goes up in smoke.

We grabbed some burgers, sat outside in the park and ate while watching little children terrorize the pigeons. “Can we just sit here awhile?” medium fine Bee said.

I nodded.

Four hours to kill before we needed to get back to JFK.

I sat perplexed and studied Bee. “Whaddya say we just go back to Times Square and check out that long line?” I finally said.

The thousand dollar smile again.

She had talked about that store for two months and I just hadn’t listened.

Arriving in Times Square, Bee, the shy introvert, suddenly struck up a conversation with another eighth grader in line. “Did you go to the concert last night?” she risked.

The girl’s eyes flew open in excitement and they were off to the races.

We emerged from the BT21 three hours later, a $70 zip-up Koala jacket in a pink bag. “I don’t care what anyone says at school,” Bee proclaimed fearlessly. “I am wearing this tomorrow.”

Later at the airport, she spied a young female bartender with a BTS button. “Did you go to the concert yesterday?” she said.

Bee bellied up to the bar and talked BTS with the bartender for 40 minutes.

Bee, the child I had long feared would never utter a word to the world, the child I feared would hide behind books rather than make friends, was bravely chatting up strangers, shouting her K-pop passion in public.

Slipping on her Koala jacket, she shed her shyness.

Because, in a moment of weak-kneed parenting, I foolishly listened.

And risked saying yes to a teenager’s crazy passion.

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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Saving TONS of Money

“Would you like to save some money today?”

I had stopped dead in the aisle. I was fumbling in my pocket for my shopping list, and the guy just leapt out at me from behind the billboard sized ultra-high definition televisions.

“No, I’m totally opposed to saving money today,” I said.

Usually I’m more strategic and cunning, completely avoiding the eyes of ambushing Costco salesmen. On the weekend, dozens of them lurk just inside the entrance, like the hybrid offspring of car salesmen and Biblical lepers.

But it was Sunday. And Sunday brings entire families out to Costco so they can picnic in the aisles. It brings hordes of people who come to Costco to stare, dumbfounded, at the world’s latest discounted marvels.

Like a very expensive piano that not only plays itself but which also now include a voice that sings along.

No actual human required.

I dug deeper in my pocket, past an old candy wrapper, past a sticky note reminding me to call my brother for his birthday, past another piece of paper on which I scribbled a reminder so illegible that I can’t read it, so I’ve carried it around for two days, hoping I finally remember what I’m supposed to remember.


Found my wife’s Costco shopping list.

“Why wouldn’t you want to save money?” he said.

“On a piano that plays itself and sings along?”

“Yes!” he cried “Who wouldn’t want to own this baby?”

“Anyone who owns an iPod?” I suggested. “They’re a lot easier to carry down Linebaugh Avenue when you’re jogging.”

The logjam of shopping carts broke up. I surged forward, only to be stymied by three pre-teens, abandoned by their parents and rabidly playing video games on the display phones.

“Wanna save some money?” the cell phone salesman said.

“I think you’re just saying that,” I said. “I think you actually want me to spend some money.”

He shrugged.

I tried to get around the boys, but another large family was blocking the aisle. They were arguing while pawing through Halloween costumes.

Which were right next to the illuminated, blinking holiday snowman.

Which were right next to piles of far less expensive real clothing that one might conceivably buy to attend a Halloween Party ironically dressed like a Florida guy driving a golf cart in a fifty-plus retirement trailer park that’s obsessed with American flags.

I finally maneuvered around them only to get jammed again.

Right up against an actual bathtub.

In Costco.

I’ve seen people crawl onto beds in Costo to try them out, so I stood there a moment, waiting for some middle aged couple to climb into the tub to properly weigh its purchase.

I eyed the tub. Then I momentarily weighed whether to crawl into the bathtub in the middle of Costco just to take a selfie to send to all my daughters.

Whom I can embarrass even at great geographic distance.

Then I spotted him. A tiny, very serious looking man, just on the other side of the tub. He began reclining himself in an enormous chair, which began vibrating violently. He looked over at me, his cheeks quaking. “Does the tub vibrate violently too?” I asked before he could ask me if I wanted to save some money.

He just looked at me, his teeth nearly shaking from his mouth. “I—I—I’m. Ju-uh-ust si-i—i-tting,” he said.

OK, not a salesman.

In my defense, who in their right mind jumps into a massage recliner for a test ride and throws it on the “San Francisco Earthquake” setting while dozens of people rush past, inches away, fighting to be the first to grab their tiny white cups from the Tasty Bites Tikka Masala sample cart?

I vamoosed before the guy’s liver liquefied and began dripping out the bottom of his trousers.

Ten feet further up the aisle, a large man dressed like a Texan preacher called out, “Hello, friend! Would you like me to print your insoles while you wait?”

He almost got me.

I almost stopped.

Not because I needed insoles.

But because having your insoles printed seemed like some deliciously weird sideshow from the Florida State Fair.

“I can map your feet to discover its nuances,” he promised.

OK, no.

I’d have to stand there, surrounded by some loud, whirring machine, as hundreds of Costco shoppers madly rushed past to be first in line to grab their tiny white cups of Mateo’s Gourmet Salsa, carefully served on a half square inch of tortilla chip, while staring at me while I awkwardly pointed downward.

“Just mapping my feet to discover their nuances,” I’d have to explain.

“Maybe later,” I lied.

By the time I got to actual food, I was ready to take a nap across the bagel display.

I glanced at my wife’s list.

I had just spent twenty minutes maneuvering into the belly of Costco to buy bagels, chicken, milk, coffee and 100 rolls of toilet paper.

Five stinking things.

Because we buy our produce in actual human quantities at Aldi.

And our dry goods at the Super Target.

Because we have nothing better to do with our lives than to go to three different supermarkets on the weekend.

Fifteen minutes later, I stand in the cashier’s line for ten minutes, wondering why the person in front of me is buying an actual blinking Christmas wreath in the middle of September.

Then I’m done.

Gloriously finished.

Free of shopping in bulk. Free of the hordes of people excitedly standing in line to get their tiny white cups holding two free jelly beans.

Free of the human madness.

I race forward.

Because I must be first in line with my receipt in hand to prove I’m not a shoplifter. Suddenly a large man, standing innocently beneath a picture of solar panels, leaps off his rubber mat and lands at my side.

“Wanna to save some money?”

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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Over the Hill

“I have some unfinished business in Glacier National Park,” my younger brother said.

I missed that his words sounded just like what a high school chemistry teacher would say as he launched a lucrative second career as a meth cooker.

“That sounds wonderful,” I enthusiastically responded – like a nerd being offering an oatmeal cookie.

His unfinished business?

Hiking the park’s Highline Trail.

Thus named because only people who are high would actually hike the thing. It perilously traces the Continental Divide, across some ridiculously high peaks in the Rockies.

My brother’s other plans for our leisurely vacation? They began with a seven mile round-trip hike to Grinnell Glacier on Day 1. Then, on Day 2 we’d walk a mere two and half miles into the Highline Trail before coming back out. Twelve miles of climbing total.

Easy peasy.

I even trained a little. Put down oatmeal cookies. Lost 15 pounds.

Because the best defense against grizzly bears is the ability to run faster than the other fat guy on the trail.

The only problem?

I had forgotten my brother was the same guy who hiked down to the river at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Then deciding he couldn’t sleep in a cabin with six snoring strangers, he left to hike five hours back to the rim.

At 2:30 in the stinking morning.

Please note the following, actual line from the National Park Service web site: “The National Park Service DOES NOT RECOMMEND hiking from the river to the rim and back in one day.”

“I had a head lamp,” he protested.

He still got lost.

“People who are actually lost don’t get home,” he still protests.

This is the guy I let plan my family vacation.

But really? Who doesn’t want to die in a national park? Your name and official demise will eventually appear in one of those books they sell in all the gift shops. The ones with catchy titles like: 254 STUPID HUMANS WHO HAVE DIED IN GLACIER NATIONAL PARK.

That kind of immortality lasts even longer than dead friends’ Facebook pages.

If you’ve not heard of it, Glacier National Park is famous for its Going to the Sun Road, a 50 mile narrow pathway carved out of a sheer cliff face, called the Garden Wall, high in the Montana Rockies. It crosses the Continental Divide at 6,650 feet at Logan Pass, which sees up to 80 feet of blown snow in the winter. Once plowed and opened in June, Going to the Sun Road offers the most stupendous, stunning views of any in North America.

And if you look too long at any of it, some fool in an RV will push you right over the edge of one of its hairpin turns.

But you’ll have a beautiful, scenic view during your 200-foot plummet straight down.

For that reason even bucket builders put Glacier National Park on the top of their bucket lists.

To make things even more interesting, after building the road, park officials carved the Highline Trail out of the same cliff face 100 feet above it. And the first two miles of the narrow, perilous, acrophobia-inducing path has a metal cable coated in a rubber garden hose to offer a pretense of safety.

But after two miles, the cable abruptly ends.

Because by then all the sane people have turned around and crawled quivering back to the Logan Pass parking lot.

Yet the trail actually goes on for another nine miles. It’s popular with marmosets. Which, I learned, are also known Whistle Pigs – probably because they make a high-pitched, whistling sound as they plummet to their deaths.

You could write a gift shop book just about the Highline Trail.

In 2014 a lone man was hiking its ledge when he rounded a corner and came face to face with a grizzly.

He did what any sensible man would do after properly soiling himself.

He climbed over the edge of the cliff and hung there, risking death, to avoid being eaten.

Another 64-year-old guy ignored signs that Highline was closed due to ice on the ledge. He slipped and went to the sun.

As did another guy who was pushed to his death in the park by his new wife. (She apparently wanted to end their honeymoon on a high, screaming note.)

This is the trail my brother desired to hike for fun.

Fool that I am, I not only agreed to it, I also agreed to bring along one of my children.

Winning me Worst Father of the Year Award. (In my defense, she recently became a legal adult.)

Let’s just say it didn’t quite go according to plan.

Let’s just say our wives reported us missing to the National Park Service when we didn’t return by 9:30 p.m. (The nearest cell tower is in Minnesota.)

Let’s just say that may have been because we stopped to eat huckleberry pie in Two Sisters Café on the Blackfoot Reservation after nearly dying.

Let’s just say that even the pie idea was my brother’s fault.

Remember that reasonable seven-mile hike on Day 1 to start our leisurely vacation?

It ended up being 10 miles. He refused to wait for the return boat. Instead he dashed into a brewing thunderstorm. “We can get there faster if we just walk!” he shouted before shooting off. “It’s not safe to stand in that open boat house in a thunderstorm!”

Because dashing across an open mountaintop with five children is far safer.

So was I rip-roaring ready tackle the Highline Trail on Day 2?

No. Overnight, due to those extra miles, my legs had rusted into rigor mortis.

The next morning I unsteadily lurched like Frankenstein down the steps of Many Glacier Hotel, making a high-pitched “MEEP!” sound with every painful step.

But I HAD to hike the Highline Trail.

Because I had foolishly posted on Facebook that I was going to hike the Highline Trail. And I could not withstand the social media shame of having to instead post “Oopsie! Changed my mind! Today my legs are as tender as a baby lamb’s and my chubby inner thighs are chafed. I shall instead pass a lovely day in my hotel room eating all the strange candy bars I bought up in Canada.”

Worse, my oldest daughter had fallen under a similar Instacurse. She had to top her ex-boyfriend’s Ecuador photos with something absolutely spectacular. Someone had to protect her from social media self.

So I began MEEPING down the Highline Trail after her. “It’s just two and a half in and two and a half out,” I told myself with every squeak.

One mile in, a spectacularly beautiful family chattering in German rushed us from the opposite direction. It was me or them. Someone was going to have to take the outside of the trail along the precipice. I did the generous thing. Pressing myself against the cliff face like ham on rye, I let them have the better view. I sucked in my breath and closed my eyes. Their 12-year-old daughter tittered me at she passed.

Because spectacularly beautiful German families also raise their children to be fearless mountain goats.

One hundred-fifty feet below us an RV blew its horn at an SUV.

At mile two, just beyond the end of the safety cable, a shout went up. I leapt against the wall. Two trail runners blew past us dashing full tilt along the ledge.

Number One whirled and looked at me in horror. I had to consciously stop myself from raising my fist and shaking it like they had just stepped on my lawn.

Fifteen minutes later, after another terrifying precipice, we stepped off the ledge onto a more open portion of the trail. We breathed a sigh of relief. If we fell off the trail now, we’d simply need to be airlifted to an ICU. We wouldn’t become a surprise hood ornament.

I gave a little MEEP of happiness. It was time to turn around.

Number One hesitated.

“Let’s go,” I said.

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

“Because I kind of started crying on that last part.” Number One paused. “I can’t go back that way, Dad. I can’t be on the outside of that trail, on its edge. I can’t…” Her voice dropped.

My stiff legs ached from all the climbing over two days. I looked back. It was less than three miles of cliff hiking back to our car in the parking lot.

I looked forward. It was eight miles to the trail’s end. Six miles of further climbing over Haystack Pass to the Granite Park Chalet near the top of the Continental Divide.

Then two additional miles of straight down – 1,000 feet – to the road.

That’s the thing about hiking. When the legs are stiff and shot, it isn’t the climbing the hill that hurts. It’s the steep, relentless descent once you’re over the hill.

Her old man looked at her.

She offered an apologetic smile.

“Okay, then,” I said. “Looks like we’re going to kick the backside of the entire Highline Trail today.”

And we did.

Meeping all the way.

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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Sizzling at the Beach

The lightning bolt slams into the parking lot as we are unloading our luggage and our precious Trader Joe’s snacks.

A distinct crackling splits the air followed by a thunderous roar.

I like to think of myself as having a level head during emergencies.

This is a figment wrapped in a fantasy tucked into a crock of fabrication.

Do I look at my daughters and bravely bark brilliant orders to lead my platoon to safety?


I fling myself against the minivan, flailing my arms in the air like a 1920s movie starlet fighting off King Kong’s giant hand.

While that hole in my head beneath my nose emits the world’s most offensive vulgarity.

Then I dash forward.

And backward.

And forward again.

Like Super Mario when he singes his buttocks on lava.

That’s when I just look at them, wild-eyed, and scream, “RUN!”

At least that’s what my daughters insist. I have no memory of this. My brain was apparently wiped clean by electroshock therapy.

They shoot off like antelope.

Leaving all five minivan doors open, the luggage strewn everywhere and our Trader Joe’s chocolate covered almonds, the Speculoos cookie butter, the Quinoa and Black Bean Infused Tortilla Chips AND the Reduced Guilt Chunky Guacamole strewn across the parking lot.

Leaving me alone to throw everything on the bellman’s cart, slam the minivan doors shut and attempt to run, in a straight line, pushing the stupid cart with a hinky wheel as the thunder roars. I hit 30 mph and it wildly skews right and left across the cobblestone lot.

From the perspective of the teenager videoing me from the second floor of the condo complex, I look like am trying to leap onto the back of a rabid bull, wildly trying to buck me, while nearly overturning twice.

In my fear, I have become my crazy Aunt Petronella, born in 1917. During “electrical storms,” Auntie would sit in the middle of the living room with the lights out, rolling her rosary beads, believing that the only thing protecting her from being reduced to ash by Thor’s wrath was the rubber-soled sneaker she clutched in her left hand.

And I think: “I am pushing a large metal cart across a flat, exposed parking lot at the beach. I am going to die.”

Before I have even opened the Reduced Guilt Chunky Guacamole.

I finally roll up to the front of the beach condo. It sits behind a large, green, ominously smoking electrical transformer box.

My wife is already on the phone to the manager’s office. “Our building has no power. And there’s a big green electrical box outside our front door that’s making sounds like Darth Vader dying.”

“Oh,” the property manager says. “That’s probably a problem.”


So there we are. In our beach condo. With no electricity.

It was time for mature, leveler heads to plot a sensible survival strategy.

“We should eat all our snacks immediately so they don’t go bad,” I announce.

The antelopes gather.

“DON’T YOU DARE OPEN ANYTHING!” She Who Controls the Universe seizes the opened guac from me, tosses it in the freezer and slams the door. “NO ONE OPENS THE REFRIGERATOR!”

The antelopes scatter. “But there’s nothing in the refrigerator,” I mutter, walking away. 

I flop onto the bed, getting up once to turn on the ceiling fan, then looking around to make sure no one was videoing me.

She Who Controls the Universe’s head appears in the door. “If the power is not back on by four o’clock, we’re leaving,” she announces.

She disappears to guard the refrigerator.

When the storm passes, I step outside.

An old lady looks up the steps from her first floor condo. She throws her hands on her hips and shoots me a threatening look. “WHEN IS THE POWER RETURN?”

She has a crazy thick accent that might be Russian. Or it might be Spanish. Or Spanglorussian.

“Um,” I say. “I don’t know.”


Because, in addition to lightning, I’m also a magnet for crazy.

Before I can even figure out how to answer her question, she screams, “CUCARASKAYA!”  

She points to the porch ceiling above me. “CUCARSAKAYA!” She keeps pointing like she’s trying to hurl her hand at me. “GET IT!”

I look up.

There is a four-foot cockroach above my head that also apparently came outside to cool off.

“GET IT!” she screams.

And because I’m a good Irish Catholic boy who would jump off a tall building if an old lady screamed to do it, I actually reach up to “get it.” Then I suddenly remember that grabbing a cockroach is about appealing as drooping a necklace of snakes around my head. 

My hand pulls away. “But it’s outside!” I cry.

“THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK!” she shouts. “GET IT!” 

I shake my empty hands at her. “WITH WHAT?”

We have known each other for 28 seconds and already we’re yelling at each other like we’ve been married 50 years.

She rolls her eyes like I’m the village idiot. “WITH THE SHOE!”

I rip off both my sneakers.

I’m squatted into a proper cockroach fighting posture, holding one of my sneakers like a cell phone when She Who Controls the Universe’s head pokes out the condo door. “If the power is not back on by five o’clock, we’re leaving,” she announces.

But she’s chewing.

“Are you eating my guacamole?” I ask.

The condo door closes.


I flail my cell phone sneaker and jump. But it’s out of reach. The cockroach skitters into a corner over the next unit’s door.

Waving her hand, the old lady mutters something in Spanglorussian. But her universal sign language clearly conveys: THERE ARE DEAD CATS THAT ARE MORE USEFUL THAN THIS MAN!

“I WILL GET THE RAID!” she announces.

She disappears then lumbers up the steps. She then gases the both the cockroach and the north half of Longboat Key with a half can of Raid.

The cockroach peels off the ceiling. We both leap back in horror.

“LOOK!” she says, slapping my arm very hard.

I realize I’m still holding my shoes.

“Do you bring a can of Raid on every vacation you take?” I ask.

“OF COURSE!” She nods proudly.

A man clears his throat on the sidewalk below. He extends his hands like he’s holding angry peasants with pitchforks at bay. “Just an ETA on the power thing,” he says. “The power company is out and investigating. We think the lighting probably affected the transformer box.”

The transformer box that is still smoking by his right foot.

“The only problem is that to get their equipment in here to replace the transformer, we’re going to have to take down the tiki hut.”

He nods toward the entrance to the courtyard, where there is actually a tiki hut.

He lets the full weight of the mindboggling engineering challenge of moving four wood posts and a bunch of dead palm fronds sink in.

“So ETA on power is ten o’clock,” he says.

The old lady flails her arms stomps off, clearly conveying: ANOTHER USELESS MALE WHO SHOULD LOSE ALL BREEDING RIGHTS.

I sit on the steps for a while. Three men soon arrive. They commence a careful study the highly complex tiki hut.

When I return to the condo, the entire bag the Quinoa and Black Bean Infused Tortilla Chips has been reduced to crumbs. I shake the empty container of Reduced Guilt Chunky Guacamole. “You ate all the snacks!” I cry.

“We left you the Rosemary and Thyme Maple Toffee Sunflower Seeds,” the antelopes say.

“I hate the Rosemary and Thyme Maple Toffee Sunflower Seeds!”

“If the power is not back on by six o’clock, we’re leaving.” She Who Controls the Universe says, wiping green stuff from the corners of her mouth.

I go off to Publix to buy a sandwich and lie across the frozen foods for an hour.

When I return, the sun is setting. The old lady is back outside, staring at the three men, who have progressed to vigorously shaking the highly complex tiki hut.

At eight o’clock, the inside of the condo is pitch black.

“If the power is not back on by nine o’clock, we’re leaving,” a voice announces in the dark.

The antelopes titter.

I go outside to check on the progress. The old lady is still glued to her spot. The three men are now moving about the tiki hut with flashlights.

Suddenly, after nearly three hours of studying, conversing and shaking posts, the men whip out saws, decapitate the tiki hut posts at eye level and hurl the tiki hut roof into the bushes.

The old lady looks at me. Her head shakes, conveying through the dark: I WAS RASH IN MY JUDGMENT. YOU ARE NOT THE MOST USELESS MALE ON THE PLANET.

At ten o’clock, I do what people in parts of the world do when they don’t have electricity:

I decide to go to bed.

I shiver through a cold shower with the help of my cell phone light.

Then I lie in bed, wide awake. Because a tractor is now shaking the condo. And dozens of condo rental folks are standing on their balconies, transfixed by installing a transformer.

Because Netflix ain’t workin’.

Meanwhile four children in the adjacent condo stand outside my bedroom window screaming at how disgusting the dead cockroach on our porch is.

I find myself thinking about how an enormous bolt of terrifying power earlier that day had upended so many people’s lives by destroying their access to power.


A bloodcurdling scream. 

And every single light in the condo blazes on.

A thunderous cheer shakes the courtyard.

The tiki hut morons are suddenly heroes.

I mutter and get up to turn off all the lights.

“They don’t know how lucky they are,” She Who Controls the Universe mutters from bed. “I was just about ready to leave.”

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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Kool Aid Crotch’s Great Adventure

I balanced the Dixie cup on my leg and struggled to shove the cheese back into my bologna sandwich with my index finger.

My father was flying 80 mph down a New Jersey highway in our Ford LTD Country Squire.

You remember the Country Squire. It had those fake wood panel stickers down its sides that a highly dedicated 7-year-old could tear long strips out of to stick to the sides of his dog.

Because dachshunds can rock a faux wood look.

That old station wagon had all the stability control of an enormous refrigerator box perched on a red wagon. I know this because I once climbed into a large refrigerator box perched on my old Radio Flyer at the top of Marion Street.

What can I say? It was the 1970s. Back then even Nixon seemed like a reasonable idea.

“Gerard!” my mother screamed.

Dad flipped lanes and the refrigerator box leaned. My grandmother, two sisters, my toddler brother, a large paper sack of bologna sandwiches and the drink cooler slid across the seat and crushed my skull against the back seat window.

I held out my bologna sandwich to avoid its crushing.  “Be careful, Chris!” my grandmother shouted, “Don’t spill your—”

Too late.

The Dixie Cup toppled and a large red cherry Kool Aid stain spread across the crotch of my favorite plaid summer shorts (the ones with the cool-looking fringe circling my now sticky cherry thighs).

My older brother and older sister, in the way back, screamed like hyenas.

(Please keep track now. There were six of us.)

“KOOL-AID CROTCH!” my older brother shouted.

The station wagon exploded. “KOOL-AID CROTCH!” my little sisters screamed.

I whirled to my grandmother for justice. The old lady was struggling to stifle a smile.


“DON’T MAKE ME PULL THIS CAR OVER!” my father roared.

“GERARD!” my mother cried again.

Another swerve.

This is why, if you have six children and someone suggests you go on a family vacation, you should just go outside and lie in the yard until the feeling passes.

Especially if that vacation is taking you from Scranton, Pennsylvania to Central New Jersey.

We were headed to Great Adventure, a new amusement park with exciting rides AND an amazing, open animal safari you drove through in your own car.

“Tommy McGrath has a cousin whose aunt drove through the Great Adventure safari in a car with a vinyl top,” said my oldest sibling, Kate. “And you know what happened when she drove into the baboon area?”

We fell quiet.

“What happened?” Brian said.

“The baboons jumped on the car and RIPPED off the roof!” Kate cried, with a dramatic, ripping flourish.

Megan gasped.

Maura started crying. “Did they eat her?”

Shrug. “You’ll have to ask Tommy McGrath.” Kate sat back and twirled her hair.

Brian looked at Maura. “Probably,” he said.


But we were already at a dead stop. The longest line of cars I’d ever seen was trying to get into THE BEST AMUSEMENT PARK EVER.

Only it was 95 degrees outside. And our station wagon had just spent the last two hours flying 80 miles an hour, carrying about 800 pounds of human flesh, bologna sandwiches and Kool Aid across two states.

Which is why smoke started seeping out the hood of our LTD Country Squire.

(Which is really why cars should never be made of wood, real or otherwise.)

Dad pulled right up to a restroom, flung open the hood and began waving his hands around.

Here’s the thing about my dad. He wasn’t at all handy. He knew just enough about cars to seriously hurt himself.

But he was a guy. And because he was a guy, he drove for hundreds of miles without a map or asking for directions.

Because he was a guy, he tried to fix things he should have left to my grandmother to figure out.

I hung out the window. Dad ran into the restroom, brought back a container of water and poured it into the radiator. He immediately disappeared in a shroud of a dense fog.

I could only hear the cursing.

He flapped wildly and quickly poured another gallon of cold water into the red hot radiator.

He paused and the car made a sputtering low growl.

And Dad leaned over to pour more.

With a whoosh, the radiator erupted like Mt. Vesuvius.

We screamed.

The girls in the next car over screamed.

Dad screamed.

And when he finally got his steaming shirt off, he looked like a slice of bologna.  

Then Dad vanished for hours.

Meanwhile my grandmother and mother took all six kids into the park to ride on THE BEST RIDES EVER.

While every single person I walked past stared and pointed at my cherry red crotch.

“Don’t worry,” Grandma lied. “No one even notices.”

Meanwhile, the sweat and humidity just made everything stickier. So, at our next restroom stop, I secretly flushed my undies down the toilet.

It didn’t help.

Dad reappeared at 3 p.m., wrapped in gauze, looking like an Egyptian mummy. By that time my thighs were so glued together, I was walking just from the knees down.

Dad marched us back to the car.

Because we hadn’t driven through the Great Adventure’s Wild Safari yet.

A normal guy might have stopped and thought, “Hey, it’s 95 degrees out and my car just overheated. Maybe I shouldn’t pile 800 pounds of human flesh inside it and drive it into fields of wild animals at dinner time.”

But dad wasn’t a normal guy.

After paying 26 bucks to get each of his six kids in the park, nothing could stop him from taking his Country Squire through enormous paddocks holding elephants, giraffes, baboons and lions.

Upon entering the safari’s 350 acres, warning signs were everywhere.



The Wild Safari was 4.5 miles of multiple sections holding hundreds of animals. What could go wrong? We’d breeze through and finish before the car heated up.

But dad didn’t account for the fact that we’d be going at idle speed, because 32,000 people in New Jersey also wanted to gawk at baby elephants.

The car started gurgling and steaming in the baboon section. “I’ll put on the heater. It will help cool the engine,” Dad announced.

“OHMIGAHD!” Kate moaned.

Ten minutes later it was 120 degrees in the car.

Grandma started panting.

“OHMIGAHD!” Maura moaned.

A baboon leapt on the car hood, curious about the rising steam. “He’s gonna scratch my car!” Dad cried. “GET OFF!” he shouted, waving his hands. “GET OFF MY CAR!”

Dad beeped the horn. The baboon just turned around and stared.

Because it was a baboon from New Jersey.

Unable to bear the heat any longer, I began to lower my window.

“PUT THAT WINDOW BACK UP!” my mother shouted.



I cranked the window up but left it open an inch.

“CLOSE THAT WINDOW NOW!” Mom began climbing over the front seat into the back. “THAT BABOON WILL RIP THAT WINDOW RIGHT OUT!”

I closed it and Megan moaned.

Steam was pouring from under the hood. Dad pulled up to the park employees at the next paddock’s opening.

“Sir, you appear to be overheating,” the highly observant park employee observed.  Looking at my father, beat red, profusely sweating and wrapped like a mummy, he hesitated. “Are you OK, sir?”

“We need to turn around and get out of here!” my father said.

“Sir, there is only one way out.”

Dramatic pause.

“And that’s straight ahead.”

A normal man would have turned the ignition of his Country Squire off right there. “That’s insane,” a normal man would have said. “I am not taking a boiling-over station wagon with six kids, a grandmother, a mother and a bag of bologna sandwiches into an enormous paddock of lions.”

My father was not a normal man.

Dad gunned the engine into the lions’ den.

Grandma moaned.

That’s when I knew we were doomed. 

If we broke down and had to make a run for it, I’d be the slowest. My thighs were glued together, my legs flapping uselessly below the knees. Even Grandma, carrying the Kool-Aid cooler, would outrun me.

The Country Squire sputtered and died halfway through the lion’s den.

Mom moaned.

Today, you’d just whip out your cell phone, right?

This was 1975, the era of sit and wait and hope someone notices there are nine humans slowly roasting in a Ford LTD.

And this was Jersey. In the ’70s abandoned cars on the sides of the road were as common as grass. The only thing that might get people to stop and take notice?

We still had our tires. 

“We should just feed ourselves to the lions,” Kate panted. “Get it over with.”

I looked out.  A half dozen lions were now padding around the dead car.

We waited.

And complained.

And waited some more.

And complained some more.

“Complaining will only make you hotter,” Grandma lied.

“I lost my gum!” Maura announced.

Grandma reached up and cracked opened her window a notch. Mom whirled around. Grandma eyed her, daring her to climb over the front seat. “They are not baboons, Barbara.”

As if this made any sense.

That inch of outside cooled nothing.

“Has anyone seen my gum?” Maura repeated.

Megan shrieked.

I looked over. Megan’s left hand was glued to the side of her own head.

“That’s where my gum went!” Maura proclaimed.

Megan tried to pull her hand away. Half her hair rose with it, matted to her fingers by five enormous hunks of chewed-up Bubble Yum.

Megan shrieked again. In five seconds flat, Grandma also appeared to be glued to the side of Megan’s head.

My dad finally groaned.

Kate pointed to a lion that flopped down under a nearby tree and began licking its lips. “She’s waiting us out,” Kate proclaimed.

Brian inched up, flopped over the seat and breathed his bologna breath all over me. “You know what she’s looking at, don’t you?”

I turned. “No,” I said, worriedly. “What?”


The entire car screamed. “KOOL AID CROTCH!”


Dad’s voice died. There was no way in hell he was getting out of the car.

“KOOL AID CROTCH!” Brian whispered into my ear.

I launched myself over the backseat, intent on ripping the ears off the side of my brother’s head. Grandma shouted, reached over and seized my belt loops to haul me back.

But her Bubble Yummed hand only came back holding my cherry red-crotched shorts. I landed on Brian, buck naked from the waist down.

That’s when the park ranger knocked on the window.

We froze and fell silent.

Mom lowered the window two inches. “Oh, hello sir!” she said, acting as if everything was perfectly normal.

The park ranger took it all in.

A red-faced, heat-stroked mummy at the wheel. Mama, struggling to maintain her best Jackie Kennedy Onassis, sweating off her makeup and squeezing her lips out a crack in the window to suck in some air. A grandmother with a pair of boys shorts in her raised left hand and her right hand glued to the head of a weeping child. Two other children were near death. And in the way back, a 13-year-old girl was rolling her eyes. And a naked child was lying on top of the brother, trying to pull his ears from his head.

“Well, well,” said the ranger. “Looks like quite the great adventure in there.”

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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Parenting Teens: Your Daily Chasm of Doubt and Humility

“Just had one of the best times exploring Duluth!” Number One’s text read.

Our college sophomore had flown out, on her own, in the wee hours. Now she was wandering with a friend around Minnesota, a state which once elected a pro wrestler named Jesse “The Body” Ventura its governor and which still has one of the highest numbers of professional bowlers per capita.

I don’t know about you, but having lived for six years in Washington DC’s inner city, that sounds fairly dangerous to me.

They were killing time, waiting to be picked up by Outward Bound, which would haul them northward to canoe the Boundary Waters Area. They were on the cusp of a life-transforming experience.

This is what affluent white America has come to.

We now have to spend thousands of dollars to send our children away for a week to experience real deprivation. Just so they will emerge from the tick-infested woods utterly grateful. With a squeal, they will hug their beds, relieved not to live like wild squirrels. They will finally be appropriately grateful for their cars, their iPhones and their dorm-room Keurig coffee pots, which eat $1 mini plastic cups like high school boys snort cookies.

My daughter will proudly sit in her college Starbucks in her Lilly Pulitzer dress and talk about how much she suffered in her North Face parka, properly layered over her $90 Lulu Lemon yoga pants and her $125 waterproof, fur-trimmed hiking boots.

And we will pat ourselves on the backs knowing we haven’t raised entitled children.

Only Number One threw me a curveball.

“I just did some spontaneous laser tag,” she bragged.

(Laser tag typically being an activity that an honors student carefully plans.)

“And look what I just found!” she continued. “SNOW! On the GROUND! Randomly by Lake Superior!”

Her text included a photo of the most pathetic, filthy snowbank I’d ever seen in my life (And, having grown up in Northeast Pennsylvania, I had a childhood filled with pathetic, filthy snowbanks.)

That snowbank looked like all of Philadelphia had had its way with it before turning it over to Newark for a good mugging.

And Number One was giddily excited about it.

I suddenly felt like a terrible father. I had let Number One grow up to be excited about a Charlie Brown snowbank. I, her father who grew up in the Great White North, had never taken her to see real, beautiful falling snow, which can frost and decorate the dingiest of old coal towns. My daughter had never witnessed a snowstorm hush everything and whisper, “Look how pretty I am!”

She was excited about a filthy snowbank

I just stood there staring at the picture.

What is it about parenting – about parenting teens in particular – that regularly convinces the most educated and competent people on the planet that they may just be abject failures?

At the end of a particularly trying day of parenting, my wife will often pose the same question after we’ve collapsed into bed.  “Do you think we’re doing a good job?” she says.

This from an amazingly educated, brilliant woman with a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology whose work focuses on children and who has spent decades of her life reading up on the adolescent human psyche.

This is what raising teens will do to you.

“You’re asking me?” I respond.

Yes, she’s asking me. A guy whose biggest daily accomplishment is not leaping off the Sunshine Skyway after another resident has leapt onto Facebook to express outrage that Westchase’s sprinkler system got their car wet while driving down Linebaugh.

(What do these people do when it rains? Uber to Publix?)

I am entirely the wrong person to declare that any parent is doing a good or a bad job. My wife was lying beside a man still daily bamboozled by the staggering amount of crying that teenagering involves.

I survived my teen years through sarcasm. Meanwhile, my father survived my teen years by hiding behind the newspaper in a corner of the living room.

It was a highly successful symbiotic relationship.

My three daughters are an entirely different matter. They cry when they’re angry. They cry when they’re sad. They cry when they’re brilliantly happy.

Take the time one of them asked what we were having for dinner. When I responded, “Tacos,” she burst into tears.

Startled, I looked at her. “Why are you crying because we’re having tacos? I thought you loved tacos.”

“I do love tacos!” she said with a sob. “I think I’m crying because I’m so happy.”

Blink. Blink.

Where’s the instruction manual for this sort of thing?

My three teen daughters burst into tears. What do I do? 

My default is to wrap them in a hug.

“Aww!” you may be thinking, “What a good Dad!”

But I’m actually just doing that so they can’t see me rolling my eyes and desperately thinking, “What the hell do I do next?”

I am the LAST person people should be asking if they are doing a good job parenting.

“Do you think we’re doing a good job?” she repeats.

I lie there and silently weigh the facts: My teen daughters expect too much. They take too much for granted. They complain about chores. They slam doors.

On the other hand, they are not in prison (they’re actually pretty good students). They are not yet heroin addicts. I haven’t yet caught them crawling out their bedroom windows. And they are not pregnant and wondering which guy is the father.

The clinical psychologist with whom I share a bed props herself up and eyes me. “Are you even listening to me?” she says.

“I am going with yes,” I say definitively. “We are definitely doing a good job parenting.”

(Because if I didn’t say that, I’d be doing a terrible job of husbanding.)

“Hmph!” she says. “You’re just saying that.”

And she turns out the light.

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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School Bus Wars

“What, for the love of gahd, are we going to do about the bus to Robinson?!” the text reads.

I plopped my cheek down on my computer mousepad.

The &%$#& Robinson bus again.

I decide to stay there until a meteor crashes through the roof and crushes my skull.

The &%$#& Robinson bus picks all the nerdy, overachieving IB high school kids from Westchase. It then, if it feels up to it, trickles 45 minutes south to Robinson High School, located at the southern tip of South Tampa so the IB nerds can annotate Othello and learn dozens of IB helpful acronyms to assist in comprehending sentences like: “In addition to your CAS hours, did you complete your IOS for HL Chem before your EE is due in your APUSH class or are you gonna wait for your JA?”

The &%$#& Robinson bus.

Which is late 33.56 percent of the time. (A Westchase IB parent told me this. But I rounded the decimal because my eyes glazed over after the sixth digit.)

The &%$#& Robinson bus.

Driven, if parents’ texts and email are to be believed, by a direct descendant of Genghis Khan.

I start typing my response.“I can’t decide between a good fire-bombing or picking it up with one of those large vehicle magnet thingees and dropping it into ginormous vat of acid.”

I hit send.

Then I quickly type a clarification. “Preferably with most of the kids off it.”

My phone dings for the arrival of a new text. “No. Really.”

But I WAS being serious.

My hatred of the &%$#& Robinson bus began five years ago. I was sitting in front of Westchase Elementary, waiting for Number One’s return home during our very first week of high school. We had never used a school bus before. It was bound to be as cheery and exciting as the old Wheels on the Bus song, right?

“Where are you?” I texted after 30 minutes of waiting.

It was our first experience with Hillsborough County School District’s Transportation Department.

Which, as bureaucracies go, make the most bananas of the world’s banana republic governments look like the pinnacle of brilliant competency.

With buses as new and reliable as all the Chevys in Havana.

“I’m not sure,” my freshman responded. “But we’re surrounded by water.”

Her next text carried a scenic photo of dolphins and a screen shot of Google maps.

The Robinson bus to Westchase was headed across the Courtney Campbell Causeway to Clearwater.

“Has anyone told the bus driver she’s going in the wrong direction?” I texted.

“A bunch of seniors are yelling at her and waving their phones,” Number One texted back. “But she just keeps yelling at them to shut up.”

After a full scale parental revolt some months later, that driver vanished. And for nearly two years, we had an extremely competent, polite and much beloved driver.

Competency being as rare as snow leopard in the district’s transportation department, he immediately got promoted. So that another homicidal nomad could again be directly responsible for our children’s safety.

Among Genghis Khan’s myriad abuses?

She assigns seats.

Despite not actually knowing any of the kids’ names.

Or apparently faces.

Last year at the beginning of the second quarter, Genghis kicked one of the Westchase IB nerd boys off her bus after accusing him of sneaking on it. He was left in the parking lot shouting, “BUT YOU’VE BEEN DRIVING ME FOR EIGHT WEEKS!”

Genghis bans athletic equipment.

Genghis also bans all musical instruments, unless you can convince her your clarinet is really your nerd lunch. (It’s happened.)

Genghis bans happiness and sunshine.

Genghis bans everything.

Because, it turns out, you can’t fit 75 high school kids on a single bus with IB backpacks AND still let two lacrosse sticks on because those stick will take up all the remaining space left for oxygen.

There’s been so much Genghis banning that parents have begun researching official bus rules.

Like this one: “Number 1: The bus driver is the authority on the bus.”

Let’s just skip over that inconvenient one and find something more interesting.

Other rules?

You can’t eat. You can’t fight.

My favorite?

“Rule 9: Do not carry onto the bus any glass items, reptiles, insects, pets, weapons or sharp instruments.”

So, IB nerds, you’re gonna have to leave those taped eyeglasses at home but by all means, bring any amphibian, spider or mammal along provided they’re not your pets.

Even three fully grown bull elephants.

Which, according to Hillsborough County School District’s Transportation Department, will comfortably fit three to a seat.

Or this: “Rule 10: Keep the aisles clear at all times.”

Which runs smack into school district officials’ insistence that 77 high schoolers can fit on a school bus.

Three to each 39-inch seat.

That’s officially 13 inches per butt.

Genghis actually berated my six-foot tall Elf, now a freshman, because her right buttock wouldn’t fit on the seat she was assigned to with a wrestler and a football player.

Genghis, however, doesn’t scream when she stops to pick up 25 more kids from the Alonso stop, whose bus driver apparently works every other week. Maybe you caught that video of 80 kids on the Robinson bus, sprawled on backpacks in the aisles, on the local news?

You gotta keep the aisles clear so the district can fill it with more teenagers.

Up in that hotbed of progressive liberalism called North Carolina, the state’s school rules say that only two kids in Grades 7-12 can ride in a single 39” seat. Because they realized high schoolers are a tad larger than Kindergarteners.

But we’re in Florida.

Where we have rules that ban reptiles from buses.

For years Westchase parents have offered conspiracy theories about why the Robinson bus route is the Titanic of competency. “The district is purposefully making it bad so families just start driving and they can cancel the magnet bus, saving them money,” the parents whisper.

The theory is believable enough.

Except for the fact that it requires a level of cunning, complexity and planning that the district’s transportation system has never once manifested.

This is, after all, a transportation system that forbids its drivers from using GPS systems.

Of course, it hasn’t occurred to Genghis to sit the nerdiest kid on the bus behind her, with a GPS open, telling her where to turn.

Because the Westchase nerd children, being the spawn of Satan, will trick her into something foolish.

Like driving across the Courtney Campbell Bridge to Clearwater.

Each year starts the same. The teetering, creaky bus takes the slowest possible route down Sheldon Road. For the tenth year in a row, Westchase parents launch an email campaign to get the bus to use Veterans Expressway so that the kids don’t spend an hour getting to school in a bus. Two weeks later they win a toll transponder.

Until the next year when it happens again. “Do you think maybe you could write this down this time?” I once suggested a district transportation official at a meeting.

He looked at me suspiciously.

Then last week, another parental text. “Our kids are still sitting on the bus that left for Robinson at 6:30 a.m.”

It was 8:30 a.m.

I texted Elf.

“The Alonso stop’s bus to Robinson didn’t come so we had to go down there to get the Alonso kids,” she texted back. “Then our driver drove back up to Linebaugh Avenue to get on Veterans,” she wrote. “Then there was this accident on Veterans...”

She included a video. Fully grown high school kids were mashed three and four to a seat. Ten kids were sprawled across backpacks clogging the bus floor.

In the background came a shrieking voice. “PUT YOUR PHONES AWAY!”

I texted back. “Make sure both buttocks are safely on the seat.”

And I rested my head on the mousepad.

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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Helping Your Kids Get Holes in Their Heads

An old memory sits like a scar in my brain:

Grunting, the Cable Guy slowly emerged from behind the entertainment unit, crawling backwards.

Technically it wasn’t really the whole Cable Guy slowly emerging. Just his prodigious crack, peeking precociously over his belt. “Step aside!” it seemed to cry. “I am here!”

I stepped aside.

But our fearsome beast, Dash, who runs in terror from the vacuum cleaner, eyed it suspiciously and then stepped forward for a big sniff.

I lunged for Dash’s collar.

The Cable Guy’s head popped out just as I appeared to be lunging for his backside.

“I WAS GETTING THE DOG!” I said too loudly.

The Cable Guy yanked the back of his khakis. “OK, that one’s done. Where are your other TVs?”

“That’s it.”


“That’s the only TV we have.”

“You only have one TV?” He was looking at me like a large crack had suddenly replaced my nose.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the only one.”

“Oh,” he said.

But it wasn’t just an “Oh.”

It was an “oh” that succinctly conveyed, “Oh, you’re one of THOSE parents.”

And I’ll be honest.

I was one of THOSE parents.

Back then owning a single TV did make me feel superior.

Except when I went the living room with a plan to watch all 80 cable channels for five seconds each before grunting and throwing the controller on the ottoman only to find my wife clutching the controller (and her pregnant belly) and turning white with terror as some lady died of eclampsia on Grey’s Anatomy. 

Then it would have been nice to be one of the other parents.

But my wife is a clinical psychologist who specializes in children and teens.

She is all about limiting the screens.

They are the opioids of the under 21 crowd.

So, one TV. In the living room.

Oh, and she refuses to let her daughters get their ears pierced until they’re 18.

Because her Puerto Rican mama waited exactly 30 seconds after she cleared the birth canal to jam pins through her baby girl’s ears.

So my wife has taken a clear stand against screens and youthful ear-piercing, both of which put holes in kids’ heads.

A kid cries in a restaurant? What does a typical parent do?

Hands him their phone. Or his own personal iPad.

It’s the world’s first babysitter that fits into a purse without all the awkward shoving and yelling.

Alas, if you’ve handed your child a screen like this, you have just condemned him to a lifelong attention span of a gnat, bed-wetting, low SAT scores, teen acne, multiple unsuccessful marriages and a future career as a prison inmate or a personal injury attorney.

According to the American Academy of Pediatrics, you should have handed him a book instead – even if he does try to eat it. Those pediatricians have a strict rule: Minimal to no screens until after the age of 2.

We followed this rule with our oldest to help protect her head from holes.

And when we finally let her watch Caillou and Arthur, our 2-year-old sat in front of the TV, her nose five inches from the screen.

Which was when we first discovered Number One was nearly legally blind.

So we got her some fancy thick glasses.

And she spent a whole following week walking around admiring those things on the end of her hands. “Look at what my fingers do, Daddy!” she cried.

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

But we were still superior because we only had one TV.

Then along came Elf, now 15.

And smartphones.

And Netflix.

It’s a lot harder enforcing the no-screens-til-two rule when you already have a 3-year-old bouncing up and down in front of the TV along with the leaping lemur on Zooboomafoo.

And because my generation also banned playpens, we couldn’t just drop our second born into prison until Number One finished her strictly monitored 45 minutes of screen time daily.

So we slipped.

Then Bee came along. And while the three of them still got fed and read books and played musical instruments and ate their vegetables, mistakes were made.

Corners were cut.

And then, because we sent our daughters away to magnet school in high crime or far flung areas, we slipped again.

We got them all phones.

We were officially on the expressway to hell.

Someone even gave the girls DSes.

I think it was their grandmother, the ear mutilator.

I don’t exactly remember. That whole decade is blur of STEM Fair projects, Sunshine Math and iXL.

Math that needed to be completed on a computer screen.

Then—boom!—in roughly 36 hours, they were all teenagers stomping about, accusing each other of wearing their clothes and spending their lives walking around, staring at or poking at screens.

It’s been terribly confusing.

Most nights, when I walk into Elf’s room to say good night, I’ve not been sure if she’s Facetiming her best friends Shea and Blair or watching Pretty Little Liars.

And the one time I was sure she was watching Pretty Little Liars, Blaire’s voice screamed over the iPad, “Are those cute little piggies on your pajama pants, Mr. Barrett?!”

The screen crackdown was inevitable. Especially after their smartphone-addicted Uncle Eddie walked off our cousin’s lake dock checking all his Facebook Likes.

No one wants an Uncle Eddie.

“We’re instituting some new rules in this house!” their mama, Dr. Clinical Psychologist, cried.

The good doctor announced new limits on screens. All phones and iPads and iPods and Kindle readers were to be placed on the kitchen counter at 8:30 p.m. (There would be no bed wetters or personal injury attorneys in this house!)

We expected blowback, a fight even.

But Elf, a high school freshmen, threw us a curveball. “I’ll do it on one condition with no complaints.”

My wife looked at me.

If you see Elf, be sure to compliment her on her newly pierced ears.

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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Abu and Alexa

My father-in-law leaned over and shouted into the metal cylinder. “PLAY SOME SALSA MUSIC!”

He stared at the cylinder, which, like metal cylinders everywhere, just sat there.

It was Abu’s seventy-fifth birthday. And we had just given him an enormous jar holding six pounds of peanut M&Ms.

Because Abu loves his peanut M&Ms.

And what else can you really buy for a wealthy guy who buys himself whatever he wants?

I mean, other than the go-to answer.

Drones. And in Abu’s case, you can just keep buying him drones.

He’s got six of them stuck up in the same palm tree in front of his Lakeland house.

Abu goes through drones like he does peanut M&Ms.

His son Robert had arrived during dinner and dropped off the package holding the cylinder. Then Robert quickly took off, before Abu could open it and ask him to set it up.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” Robert shouted. The door slammed and Robert sprinted across the front lawn.

Because you never know what fresh tour of Hades lies in store when Abu innocently asks you to “just take a look at” something.

Five minutes after we arrived, Abu turned to me as I sat down on the sofa. “I need a little help,” he said.

I got up to sprint across the lawn but he blocked my escape.

“My new lanai pool lanai lights aren’t working. Would you be willing to just take a look at them?” He handed me the directions written down by the guy who installed them.  “I have to go pick up dinner,” he said.

Abu patted my shoulder like I was a high schooler about to try a 12-foot high pole vault for the first time. “I know you can do it!”

I looked down at the incomprehensible directions. “Did you actually try the on switch, Juan?”

Abu gave me a little offended look. Then he sprinted across the lawn.

I got up. And because I know nothing about electricity, I walked around his pool lanai for 40 minutes before I discovered Abu’s new lights weren’t actually plugged in.

When Abu returned, he threw his hands into the air. “Es un milagro!” he cried (It’s a miracle!).

(Apparently he didn’t really think I could do it.)

“I knew you could do it,” Abu said.

So when I glanced at Robert’s box, I got nervous. My mind flashed back to the guy who set up the entertainment system in Abu’s man cave, complete with eight recliners and surround sound. He took Abu’s check, handed him five different remote controls and sprinted across the lawn.

Abu immediately dropped three of them.

My brother-in-law Carl spent an entire Saturday setting up a single, universal remote for Abu.

Which Abu still hands to one of his 19 grandchildren to operate so he can binge watch all five Rocky movies.

Abu tore open Robert’s box.

“What’s this!” he cried, pulling out the metal cylinder.

“That’s an Amazon Echo,” cried Bee, 12, excitedly.

“It’s a miracle, voice-activated digital assistant you set up on your kitchen counter,” said Elf, 15. “And then you yell at it.”

If you’re not familiar with it, in a smart home, a digital assistant can change your thermostat, play music, dim the lights, fold your clothes and scrub the toilets.

OK, I lied about those last two. A digital assistant is actually a lot lazier than a real assistant.

But a digital assistant can tell you the weather and which U.S. president was nicknamed The Little Magician (Martin Van Buren). It can also helpfully answer all your child’s math homework questions, giving you time to chase the dog around the kitchen table in order to find out what foul thing is in its mouth.

“Alexa!” your child simply has to call out to the Echo. “What’s seven times five?”

Alexa’s calm, cool and slightly condescending voice responds. “Seven times five is thirty-five.” (You kind of wait for Alexa to add, “fool!” but she doesn’t. But she’s definitely rolling her digital eyes.)

Bee seized the Echo before I could stop her. “I’ll set it up for you, Abu!”

I groaned audibly.

Bee plugged the Echo in, hooked it up to the wifi then looked at her abuelo. “Spanish or English, Abu?”

Abu, who was born, raised and has lived his entire life in Puerto Rico, thought about this. “English!” he said.

Bee looked at me as if this was: A. BIG. MISTAKE.“It’s ready!” Bee proclaimed a few minutes later. “PLAY SOME SALSA MUSIC!” Abu shouted at it.“No, Abu.” Elf, 15, touched her grandfather’s shoulder. “You didn’t say its wake word.”

“Ahh, yes!” Abu nodded. He leaned over again and braced himself. He looked like he was about to swallow Alexa whole.

Abu shouted into the cylinder’s top. “WAKE UP AND PLAY SOME SALSA MUSIC!”

Elf snorted.

Abu picked up the metal cylinder and shook it. “Maybe it needs batteries.”

“No, Abu,” Bee said. “You have to say ‘Alexa.’ That’s its wake word.

“Ahh, yes!” Abu said.

Elf and Bee leaned in hopefully.

Abu placed his nose an inch from the Echo. “WAKE UP AND PLAY SOME SALSA MUSIC, ALEXA!”

Bee turned and tossed me a look that said, “This ship is goin’ down!”

Elf took over. “No, Abu,” she said. “You have to say ‘Alexa’ first.”

“Aah, yes!” Abu said.

His granddaughters giggled.


This from a guy who spent his adult life working as a highly respected cardiologist cracking dying people’s chests open and actually keeping them alive.

His granddaughters screamed with laughter.

Abu turned to me and shrugged.

Then he turned back and pointed at the useless cylinder. “Alexa, you’re fired!” Abu said.

The lights on top of the metal cylinder spun and changed colors. “Aww, man! I’ll just have to place a magic spell on you,” Alexa responded. “Abracadabra! I’m rehired!”

Abu looked at me amazed.

“Here, Abu,” I said handing him the enormous jar. “Have an M&M.”

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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Life’s Unwritten Rules

The chief chaperone for Bus #2 (the friendly one who speaks in italics) sidled up to me.

Approximately 8.2 inches too close.

Compelling me to step back without appearing like I was stepping back.

“Well, that was a memorable experience.” Her italics made clear she was making a dramatic, unclear statement that compels a man to stop and listen.

Even though his bladder is screaming at him for drinking that second large cup of coffee waaaay back in Tampa before foolishly boarding an early morning charter bus to Orlando.

It was an IB middle school band trip to an invitation-only music clinic at Disneyworld. Perhaps the 40 young Mozarts on her bus had broken into a soaring, transcendental, acapella version of In Dulce Jubilo before annotating War and Peace and releasing a joint study announcing a groundbreaking Grand Unified Theory of Physics.

Or they had just behaved like 40 middle schoolers on a bus.

She heaved an italicized sigh. (The world would apparently be waiting for its Grand Unified Theory.)

She stepped forward. “There was a rather PG-13 version of Truth or Dare.”

I stepped back. “At six in the morning?”

Step forward. “And one of the boys stole one of the girl’s purses, removed a feminine product and began passing it around the bus.”

Step back. “Strawberry sparkle lip gloss?” (I was now pinned against a Disney hedge.)

Step forward. “No, the other feminine product,” she said. “How was the behavior on your bus?”

Nearly toppling over hedge. “Oh, it was great. The kids were very well behaved.”

At least that’s what my mouth said.

Meanwhile my brain was seriously rethinking the last 90 minutes.

Had the largest hole in my head spoken truthfully, it would have said, “Actually, I was sitting in the front of Bus #1 comfortably reading the paper and commenting to another chaperone that the bus driver clearly didn’t color inside the lines as a child because he certainly couldn’t drive inside them as an adult. And, frankly, the eighth graders could have stuffed the sixth grade bassoonist down the bus toilet and I wouldn’t have even noticed.”

Fortunately, I have a very active social filter and only say about 40 percent of the foolish things that flit through my skull.

She nodded. “Probably because the band teacher was on your bus,” she said.

I politely overlooked the fact that my own highly intimidating presence received no credit for the perhaps entirely fictional superior behavior on my bus. “Well, she even terrifies me, so you may be on to something there.”

Then I sprinted to the Disney bathroom.

Because, as everyone knows, you NEVER use the bathroom on a charter bus.

At least everyone apparently knew that except me.

In 2011 I once boarded a charter bus for a 9-hour trip to Sea Camp in the Florida Keys. And when I emerged from the bus bathroom, I encountered a red-faced, sputtering bus driver. “WHO USES THE BATHROOM ON A CHARTER BUS?!” he screamed.

I had violated an unwritten rule. Bathrooms on charter buses are like those expensive, fancily printed napkins on the sink in your neighbor’s guest bathroom.

You’re never supposed to use them.

(Important note to guys: Just shake your hands vigorously over the sink and wipe them dry on your buttocks.)

And here I was, chaperoning the precious offspring of real adults again, and I’d made another major misstep.

No one told me that chaperones were actually supposed to watch the kids while they were on the bus.

It frankly seems rather counter-intuitive. What farmer watches 40 free range chickens once they’re jammed into a small cage?

Apparently a good middle school chaperone does a lot more than repeatedly count to six or seven at Hollywood Studios and grumble, “For the love of gahd, would you people make up your minds?”

That’s the problem with society. It has a lot of unwritten rules you magically have to know.

Like when you step into an elevator full of strangers. You’re supposed to mutter a number and immediately whirl 180 degrees, facing the closing elevator door.

No exceptions.

You should never just board and keep facing all of the strangers. And then, to break the growing tension, loudly ask, “So what d’yall think of the president?”

Another unwritten rule?

Fifty-one year old men should not go into Disney parks alone.

Which is exactly what I had to do for three full hours before all the free-range chickens joined me at lunch.

“Awesome!” I first thought, speed-walking toward Toy Story Mania in Pixar Place. “I have three hours to do whatever I want to do at Disneyworld!”

Then I stopped. 

Because it was going to play out one of two ways.

I was going to climb into a single car all by myself.

And slooooowly roll past all the other people in line staring at the 51-year-old man riding the Toy Story 3D shoot-em game all by himself.

Or I was going to sit next the 8-year-old son of some couple from Italy. And, when I scored 150,400 to his 88,000 points, I would be screaming, “IN YOUR FACE!” in incomprehensible English to a complete stranger child instead of one of my own daughters.

I couldn’t figure out which made me feel more pathetic.

So I searched the town square for an empty park bench.

To keep me safe from all the ole-people scooters out in force, hunting potential victims that morning.

And because there is an unwritten rule that you just don’t sit down on a park bench that another person is already sitting on unless it’s longer than five feet.

Finally finding an empty one, I sat.

So that I looked like a proper dad waiting for his kids to get off a ride that started making him feel motion sick once he turned 40.

And I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Until another guy came up.

And plopped into the park bench beside me.

Long, awkward pause.

“An absolutely beautiful day, isn’t it?” he italicized.

The bottom quarter of my face smiled. And I slowly, subtly and incrementally slid away, politely wedging myself into the corner of my bench.

Because that’s what the other rule says.

By Chris Barrett, Publisher


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