Category: Adventures

Every once in a while, Superman needs a ladder.

My son, ever since he has been old enough to throw a ball, has had an amazing propensity for getting them stuck in trees. Mainly, this is because, for some reason, he enjoys throwing or kicking balls directly into trees. One would think he might eventually determine the cause and effect relationship.

We have been successful every time in retrieving said stuck balls, normally because I have fairly solid aim, and with a few chucks of another ball, I am able to unlodge the stuck object.

Sometimes, however, you have to go to plan B.

The most recent time happened when my son punted a football into the top of a palm tree in our yard.

“Dad, the ball’s stuck, and I don’t think we can get it out,” my son said. Hogwash, I said gathering up two other footballs that were sitting in the yard. I chunked one. And I chunked a second one.

Fun fact: The top of a palm tree has a ball magnet that will capture footballs and hold them with an iron-like grip.

I considered going to get a basketball, Frisbee, golf ball, etc. but figured I would just be adding to the offerings being donated to the tree.

Rather, I said, “Go get the ladder.” The ladder is a six-foot ladder. The ball was about 20 feet up in the air. My son said, “Dad, you can’t reach it from the ladder.”

“And your fishing pole,” I said.

I’ll be the McGyver of ball rescue, I thought.

Once the ladder was in place, I noticed it was sitting on mulch, which is not exactly what OSHA probably recommends you stand your ladder on. So I called in reinforcements. I had my daughter on one side of the ladder and my son on the other, holding it in place for me. I began climbing the ladder, fishing pole in hand. When I got near the top, I raised the pole above my head. I couldn’t quite reach the trio of balls. So you know those top steps on ladders that say, “Not a  step”? Yeah, totally a step.

Once up on the top of the ladder, I braced one hand on the tree and began poking at the balls with the fishing rod. And every time, the top of the pole just bent, and the balls hardly moved.

As I was making several attempts, I began getting advice from my son and my daughter. My wife emerged from inside and also began to give me pointers. As if suddenly there were a bunch of experts in the time honored sport of retrieving balls from the top of a ladder with a fishing pole.

“Hey,” I said. “You know what I could use? No advice.” I was still looking up, but you could pretty much hear the collective eyerolls.

Back to the task at hand. Time to improvise the improvisation.

“Parker,” I said to my son. “Go find a the biggest stick you can. Taller than your fishing pole.”

In a few moments, my son returned with about a 10-foot plastic pole. The pole was in our garage when we moved in, and I have no idea what it’s for. At least I didn’t. Now, I know exactly what it’s for.

Back up on the ladder, with my assistants firmly in their places, I maneuvered the pole to the top of the tree. I poked the first ball a few times. And down it came free and clear. My son abandoned his job as ladder assistant to catch the ball. I’ll allow it.

Second ball — same thing. Free and caught. When the third ball was bounced free, it came near my daughter, who opted to keep her grip on the ladder. I will also allow that.

The balls are now free, but I am sure at least some of them will find themselves wedged up in a tree again sooner rather than later. But that’s fine. Because I finally know what the big, long pole is for.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

I am a survivor.

Six hours in a car. Ten hours at an amusement park. Four teenage girls.

Survive.

OK, so it wasn’t that bad. It was my daughter’s 16 birthday, and she wanted to go and ride roller coasters with some friends. So I piled the four of them in a car and set off toward our destination, three hours away, which means I spent the next three hours hearing songs from “Hamilton” being sung, occasionally breaking for a quick trip to “School of Rock” songs.

When we arrived at our destination, the energy in the car got even higher, as when you near the entrance to Carowinds, you see huge sprawling roller coasters dotting the horizon. Big ones. Fast one. Scary ones.

We entered the park and I did what a responsible father would: I told them all to stay within five feet of me the whole time, and make no eye contact with anyone.

Ha! Made that joke to my daughter. She just stared at me. I told the girls to head off and have fun, and I’ll see them a bit later. The best present a dad can give his daughter on her Sweet 16? Space, in particular if three friends are with her.

I met up with my wife and son. We traveled the park hitting various rides and questioning occasionally why we thought a theme park in August was a good idea, since clearly the earth had moved twice as close to the sun as normal.

I did make a few observations while strolling the park:

• We are a confident nation. As I walked through the park, I saw quite a few folks and thought, “Wow, that person woke up, but on that ensemble, and said, ‘This is who I am gonna be today.’” Good for you, confident person! Own your look.
• It’s a shame some people don’t understand how lines work. It appears some people don’t realize the purpose of a line is to have an orderly manner in which to proceed. Rather, it seems some people are under the misunderstanding that a line is a challenge in which they have to see how many people they can gradually slip past. Surely it’s that and not just people being rude.
• I am not suggesting that people should sprint through a theme park. But the Mosey Off that some folks are participating in? Lawdy. Pick it up a smidge, please.
• I love me a good roller coaster, and Carowinds has plenty, including their newest one, Fury 325, which goes nearly 100 mph. While those are awesome, there is something about a good old fashioned wooden roller coaster, and not just because you are thinking to yourself, “Doesn’t wood sometimes rot or catch fire?” thereby adding to the adrenaline rush.
• I found out I can tie a shoe, sort of, with one hand. Just as the shoulder harness locked into place on the quite speedy Afterburn, I looked down and saw that my right shoe was untied. Since I was about to go do flips and spins upwards of 60 mph, I figured I probably wanted to correct that. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get both of my hands to my shoe because of the harness. I kicked my foot upward toward my right hand and, somehow, managed to fumble and fidget and cross the laces once, then twice, and pull them tight. It wasn’t pretty, but that bad boy was snug for the whole ride and, most importantly, on my foot when the ride ended.
• I am not as bothered by selfies as some people. It really doesn’t affect me, so I feel no need to get my feathers in a bunch over what someone else does. That said, I was a bit surprised how many times I saw people trying to take them on roller coasters. Normally, this was on the ascent up the big hill. I have no idea what they were doing during the fast parts, because I was holding on for dear life. But I sure as heck wasn’t holding onto my phone. My phone was safely stowed in a backpack that was left in bins back at the beginning of the ride.

In all, it was a great, tiring day. Most importantly, my daughter said it was an awesome birthday. On the ride home, her friends all fell asleep in the car, so my daughter spent the bulk of the ride just chatting, which was a nice close to her Sweet 16.

She’s eager to go back to the park and ride the roller coasters again. I’m down for that. As soon as the earth moves back to the distance it’s supposed to be from the sun.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Charleston. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

As we established a couple of weeks ago, my sandals are important to me. (In case you missed it, my sandals were stolen from the beach, in one of the most egregious violations of beach etiquette mankind has ever known.)

My son? Not as tied to his footwear as I am. In fact, given the option, he’d not wear shoes anywhere.

During the summer months, he usually goes with bare feet, but keeps his trusty pair of flip flops with him for when we have to go into some place that has one of those pesky no-shoes, no service policies.

Recently, he and I were at a favorite fishing spot of ours, a bridge and pier overlooking Charleston Harbor. He brought his flip flops with him, as there is a small stretch we have to walk on asphalt, which during July in the south gets a smidge warm.

As we arrived at home from our fishing trip, he was gathering his stuff from the floorboard of the car. “Dad, I’ve only got one flip flop,” he said. “I hope it didn’t fall out of the car.” We searched the car thoroughly, and it was not there.

It was about 8:30 at night at this point, and I told him not to worry about it. We’ll head back in the morning and get it. “Nobody’s going to steal one shoe,” I said.

So the next morning I got up and headed out to the pier. Parker was still asleep, so I figured I would surprise him when he woke up. I arrived at the spot and found his shoe, securely wedged under the tire of a car. I tugged. I pulled. I tried a few very terse words. Nothing.

But surely this person wouldn’t be there long, I thought. I’ll run a few errands and head back in a bit. But I’d better leave a note, just to make sure. I found some scrap paper in my car, and scribbled this note: “Dear Driver, My son and I were out here last night, and his flip flop fell out of the car. It’s under your tire. We’ll be back in a bit to retrieve it. Hope you’re having a great day!”

I thought the last part was a nice touch. It then occurred to me that someone might question why I might insinuate that they would take his lone shoe. So I scribbled a post script. “P.S. Not that you would take one shoe. But just didn’t want you to think the shoe was trash and needed to be thrown away. We’ll be back! Take care.”

Kill ‘em with kindness.

Fast forward an hour. I went to the house and roused my son. I told him the shoe was probably free by now, and we could go and retrieve it. We headed to the spot. The car was still there. My son said, “It’s fine. I can get new shoes.” No. This is now about principle.

I decided I would walk the pier and see if I could find the car owner.

It was, of course, the people at the very end of the pier, which is probably a half mile walk. “Hey, do you guys have a light blue Honda Civic?” I asked.

One of the the guys turned and said, “Yeah, why?” It was a look that told me I should have phrased my intro differently.

“Nothing’s wrong!” I assured him. I explained my son’s flip flop predicament. He just stared at me. “So, I guess if you guys could give me an ETA of when you’ll be heading out, I’ll come back then and get it.”

“We’ll be leaving in 30 minutes,” he said, and turned and cast his line in the water.

“Good luck on the fishing, fellas!” I said. I’m a people person.

We were heading out of town for the night, so I went back to the house and packed the car and loaded up the dogs. All told, about an hour had passed. We went back. Car still there.

It was after 1:00 at this point so I suggested my son and I would gas up the car and come back.

Still there.

And then some lunch.

Still there.

At this point, I’m incredibly pleasant. It’s 8 billion degrees, I just want the shoe, and my original departure time has passed by about two hours.

“Should we go and ask them when they’re leaving?” my son said.

“No, it’s 8 billion degrees,” I said. And I popped the trunk.

I retrieved my tire iron. No, I did not exact justice on his windshield. Rather, I dug out under the sandal as much as I could. I had my son grab the shoe while I rocked the car back and forth and back and forth and back and forth until boom! Free flip flop.

My son hopped in the car, and I grabbed my note to the driver off the windshield. “Dad, don’t you think they’ll wonder about the shoe not being there when they get to the car?” he said.

“I hope so. Because someone who says they’re leaving in 30 minutes who hasn’t left three hours later needs some mental anguish in their life.”

But the important thing is we got the shoe. And I need to remind myself never, ever, ever to let any pair of shoes out of my sight again.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Charleston. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.