Category: Family

It’s all about time

When it comes to punctuality, I have long subscribed to the old adage of “Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable.”

This is often a difficult trait to have, especially in my family. My daughter is always on time for school or work, but apparently uses all of that on-timeness there, as she is constantly the last one ready for any family social event. This is something we should have known would be commonplace when my wife was pregnant some 18 years ago and she went in to be induced in late July. Hey, you know how when women get induced they have a baby shortly thereafter? Yeah, not in this case. Our daughter arrived 11 days later, foreshadowing a lifetime of getting to family events on her time schedule.

Our son is not so much late as indifferent to time. Early. Late. On time. Whatever. As long as there is some time for fishing prior.

My wife is rarely late for anything, but has that knack for getting places just in time, which for someone like me is sooooo much fun. There is a reason the most frequent phrase my wife says to me is “Relax. We’re fine.”

That said, I do understand that there are times when you are late for reasons beyond your control. I’ve had a flat tire on my way to work. I’ve been stopped by a train that, by my estimate, was 800 billion cars long and moving at one foot per hour. And, like everyone, I’ve been derailed by having to rescue a possum.

What, you haven’t?

It happened a few years ago, when I was taking my son to camp. I don’t remember how old he was, but I know he was still young enough to have been in the backseat. I know this because I remember having room in the front for a possum.

We were pulling out of our neighborhood when I saw a guy on the side of the road. He was standing next to a live mammal trap, which held an incredibly unhappy possum. Granted, that adjective is probably unnecessary, as I have met quite a few possums in my day, and I have yet to meet a happy one.

I pulled off on the side of the road, and engaged the gentleman. He and the possum were having a disagreement of sorts, and he did not want the possum to have the ability to return to his place. After a brief discussion, I convinced the man to give me custody of the possum, and I agreed to take it and release it far away so the two would never cross paths again.

I went back home and got a pet carrier and in short order had the possum secured and in the front seat. I am fairly certain the man who had trapped the possum has questions about me to this day.

My son and I drove to some remote woods and released the possum. It scampered off into the woods, and, most likely, used its possum-honing skills and made it way back to the nearest highway, as is the possum way.

We were about 30 minutes late to summer camp that day, and my son did get to share a great reason for his late entrance by bouncing in shouting, “WE RESCUED A POSSUM!!!” Granted, several folks did ask what in the world possessed me to pull over and haggle with a stranger over a possum.

And, yes, one of those people was my wife. Granted, she’d have done the same thing. But somehow, she’d have done it, released the possum, and still made it to camp on time.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

Family

I ink, therefore I am (in a panic)

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date October 25, 2018
No Comments on I ink, therefore I am (in a panic)

I think most parents can relate to this emotion: It’s 9:30 on a school night. Your kid has finally finished that project that is due the next day. He hits the print button, knowing he is SOOOO very close to being done. Your kid heads to the printer to retrieve the work. And then you hear, “IT SAYS WE’RE OUT OF BLACK!”

At that point, you think to yourself many things. You think, “Can’t you print in magenta? We should have an ample supply of that?” You think, “Shouldn’t the printer give you some warning when it’s about to run dry?” And mostly you think, “Pretty sure this wasn’t assigned this afternoon, so I am just guessing you had time before THIS EVENING to finish it.”

Nonetheless, there are decisions to be made. Fortunately, when this hit our house recently, I made that decision easy. I had tried to print something earlier in the day and noticed that we were out of ink. So, I did the adult thing and went to the store and bought new ink cartridges. And I promptly left them sitting in a bag on the dining room table, when I probably could have installed them right then.

But I was still able to step in at 9:30 and be the hero. “Everyone calm down. I. HAVE. THE. INK!!!!”

And there was much rejoicing.

Fast forward about three minutes, and there was much of me, grumbling under my breath, trying to hold back words that should not be part of any student’s project work. I reached in the package of ink cartridges – a multi-pack, which costs about what the down payment on my first house was. Apparently, printer ink is made with unicorn tears and pixie sweat. I opened up the printer and saw the black cartridge blinking. I popped it out, ready to replace and win the day.

And then I noticed that the empty black cartridge was much thinner than the replacement black cartridge I was holding. I looked back into the printer. It apparently has two black cartridges, one big, one small. Fine. I’ll replace the small one then. I went back to my multi-pack. Cyan. Magenta. Yellow. Giant black. And that was all.

I have no idea why the multi-pack does not include the thin black, but I didn’t have time to waste. The store I got the ink from is across the street and was closing in about 25 minutes. In about 10 minutes, I was back home with the single black cartridge.

I opened it up and, of course, it was not the right one, but a second version of the thick black one. As I bolted down the stairs and out the door my wife said, “Where are you going?” and I merely hollered black something akin to, “BLARGGHHHEEHGHGHGLEEE!!!”

At about 9:55, after scouring the shelves, I found a multi-pack that had cyan, yellow, magenta and skinny black. Why the other multi-pack exists is beyond me.

Standing in line at the check-out, there was a guy behind me holding a multi-pack printer package. We nodded in solidarity.

I got home, installed the cartridge, and hit print. And the printer proceeded to tell me that magenta was out. I kid you not. I considered a lengthy rant about how I had most certainly NOT used up my magenta reserve, but instead just reached into one of my two multi-pack replacements and retrieved said magenta.

Once installed, the project printed quickly and we were in good shape. I now have an ample supply of printer ink. I am ready for the next student project. And I gladly await any surprise pitfalls. Bring it on, cyan.

Family Food

Florence fudge

Hurricane Florence is now behind us, and at least we can all agree on this: the fudge was pretty tasty.

Now, lest you think I took a piece of storm-powered debris to the noggin, I’ll make sense of the fudge later.

In South Carolina, the coastline was ordered to evacuate on Monday morning. Plenty of people feel that order was issued a bit premature. However, I will withhold my opinion on that and let the real experts debate it at the 21st Century Algonquin Round Table that is a newspaper Facebook page comment section. Also a great place to shape your opinion on matters as broad as politics and as specific as whether a particular intersection needs a traffic light.

We did not evacuate Monday, as (a) we were not ready and (b) the storm was still a really good ways off. We did not evacuate Tuesday as (b) we were still not ready and (b) the storm was still a really good ways off and (c) “Hey, that place across the street with the awesome Happy Hour is still open! Let’s make our plans there!”

So as we enjoyed a lovely charcuterie plate at Happy Hour, my wife and I strategized. She and our son would leave on Wednesday and head west to stay with family. I would stay back and prep the house and play it by ear.

On Wednesday, they were safe and sound a few hours away, and I had brought most of the the stuff inside that could become projectiles should a storm hit. Our dog took on the very important role of walking outside on occasion and barking at the sky, which he never does. I took this to mean that he felt a storm coming, or he was keeping aliens at bay.

On Thursday, I awoke bright and early to check the storm status. Initial reports had Florence hitting some time as early as Thursday. However, as the week progressed, Florence decided she apparently had some tasks to tend to or something and began taking her sweet time.

It soon became clear that the storm, if it did arrive, would not be here until probably late Friday night. And it was becoming more and more evident that it would hardly even graze where I lived. That said, I was becoming incredibly bored. The house was long-since cleaned. The laundry was long-since done. Netflix queue all caught up. I had googled everything I could possibly want to just to kill time. And that included “How to make fudge.” Why, you ask. Because I was sitting here and thought to myself, “I wonder how you make fudge…”

And then a short while later, I received word that our nearby grocery store would be open until 7 that night. Thus, hurricane fudge time.

I went to the store, and there were only a few people there, mostly buying a few basic essentials. I was hardly buying essentials.

That night, as I enjoyed my evening round of Jeopardy!, I successfully made fudge for the first time. And I was really surprised to learn that it costs about $5 and takes all of about 10 minutes. The next day, with my fudge solidly cooled and ready for sharing, I packed up the dog and the fudge and headed west. I was not so much fleeing a hurricane as I was fleeing the sheer boredom of the week, with maybe a smidge of desiring human interaction other than the grocery clerk and Alex Trebek.

Florence pretty much avoided where I live, although it did pack a nasty wallop north of here. There are a couple of more hurricanes brewing in the Atlantic as I write this, so who knows what will happen next. We’ll just keep an eye on the storm and make sure we are ready to act on a moment’s notice. Or, about 10 minutes notice, as I’ll need to make my hurricane fudge first.

Childhood Family

Back to school

Well, this was certainly a different start to the school year.

Fifteen years ago, my wife and I took our daughter to her first day of 3K. I don’t remember what she wore that day, but I can guarantee you it was not overalls, as her mom was there. If you see any school pictures of my daughter in overalls, you can pretty much bet that her mom was not in charge that morning. I, on the other hand, had overalls as the go-to because (a) she looked really cute in them and (b) I’m not really great at coordinating cute outfits for tiny girl humans.

A few years later, her brother started 3K. Fifty-fifty chance on overalls on that day.

For the next 12 years, the two of them started school on the same day. We would always do the requisite first day of school picture, as is required by federal law. (Side note: To anyone who gets grouchy about people posting first-day pictures on Facebook, you should really just take that day off from social media. To me, first day pics are kinda the best part about social media. You get to see your friends and family and their kids growing up, and you get to see who’s wearing overalls and thus had dad in charge of first day outfits.)

That run has ended, however, as we dropped our daughter off at college this year. So a few thoughts on this year’s first day(s):

Move-in went surprisingly smooth. We loaded up two cars with Allie’s stuff and headed off to the University of South Carolina. When we arrived, we were instructed to park and unload all of her stuff on the curb. We were told we had 30 minutes to get stuff into the dorm, which was about three blocks away. Yeah, not happening.
It only took us about three trips, but we finally got everything into her room. Maybe an hour. Fortunately, those in charge of monitoring the unloading were understanding.
On the second day of her being there, she attended the Beyonce/Jay-Z concert, which students got for a mere $25. Before you think that’s an amazing deal, please remember the tuition cost required to be eligible for said deal.
My daughter’s first day of class was on Thursday at 4:30. It was weird not being there for her first day, but I did not allow myself to get too sentimental. After all, this was what we worked for over the last 18 years. This was the best possible outcome of our parenting. I did send her a text that read, “Don’t mess this up. We’ve invested too much in you to be a family shame.” Ha! I kid A little bad parenting humor. I texted, “Go with the overalls.”
While adjusting to our daughter not being at home has been weird, we have noticed that she had one particular utilitarian trait that we hadn’t truly appreciated: She got the mail, every single day. When it finally occurred to my wife four days after dropping her off, we had a mailbox stuffed with mail. Note to selves: The mail fetcher is gone.
Our son’s start to school was uneventful, fortunately. He is a high school sophomore, so preparing him for school is a relatively easy exercise. “You need anything for school?” “Nah.” “Clothes?” “Nah.” “Supplies?” “Nah.” “Nothing?” “Pop-Tarts, maybe?” Pop-Tarts it is.
His first day of school picture was a quick shot of him in the passenger seat in front of school, giving the look that only a 15-year-old can give, one that says, “Make it quick, Dad, before my friends see this.”

So I guess this is the new norm, and it will all change up again in a couple of years when our son heads off to college. But that’s life. It’s what we’ve worked for. It’s what we’ve been aiming for the whole time. No reason to wallow in self-pity because kids are moving on. I simply won’t do that. Now it you’ll excuse me, I think I want to go put on some overalls.

Family

Roll Gamecocks!

I graduated from the University of Alabama. I met my wife there, who is also a graduate. My parents went there. My sister went there. And, like, 85 percent of my family went there.

For those of you who are not familiar with college football loyalty, it is one of the higher loyalties in life.

So you can imagine it felt very strange for me recently when I found myself in a sports pub, wearing a South Carolina Gamecocks shirt.

I found myself in this unfamiliar territory thanks to my daughter and 1980 Heisman Trophy winner George Rogers.

You see, my daughter is starting as a freshman at South Carolina in the fall. When she told me of her decision on school, I immediately kicked her out of the house and told her she had betrayed us all.

Ha! Little bad parenting humor there. When she went and visited the campus, she was immediately smitten and knew she had found her home. And that was enough for me. I certainly don’t ever want her to choose a college based on who her dad roots for on Saturdays.

So imagine my inner-conundrum when my daughter came home from her visit and presented me with a Gamecocks T-shirt. She played a little bit of dirty pool, however. She got a Gamecocks T-shirt with Han Solo on the front, knowing (a) I’m a diehard Star Wars and fan (b) if your daughter gives you a T-shirt, you’re gonna wear the T-shirt. (My daughter gave me a Superman T-shirt a few years back, and I can tell you that I not only wear the heck out of that shirt, but also got her to change my picture on her phone when I call to me pulling back my jacket to reveal the Superman logo.)

Fast forward a few months, and word came out that Gamecock legend George Rogers was going to be doing an autograph session (free, no less) at a sports pub a few blocks from our house. I told my daughter that, as a new Gamecock, she had to go and meet George Rogers. She said, “Who?”

Sigh. In fairness to my daughter, she is (a) relatively new at being a Gamecock and (b) really not that into sports. I explained who he was and how he was kind of the face of USC football. “Cool,” she said. Teens are expressive that way.

On the night of the event, we headed up to the pub. We were seated at a booth right by the door when Rogers arrived, so I took the opportunity to hold the door for him and the gentleman carrying his Heisman Trophy. I also took the opportunity to be the first to shake his hand and welcome him, because why not.

This was my first time meeting George Rogers, and he absolutely lived up to the hype I had heard about him. He has an infectious happiness, paired with a booming voice and a hearty laugh. He treated every person who came up for an autograph as his new best friend.

As my diehard Carolina brother-in-law said, “It should be a requirement in South Carolina that if you’re feeling a little down, go hang out with George for 15 minutes.”

When it was our turn, we approached the table Rogers was sitting at. My son, wife and daughter’s boyfriend were also with us, but I told Allie I wanted her to go first. We approached the table and I said, “My daughter will be a freshman at Carolina next year, but her mom and I are both Bama grads. So, Roll Gamecocks!”

Rogers boomed a laugh and said, “I like that! Roll Gamecocks!” He signed memorabilia for us, and insisted that each of us get a picture with him while we were holding his Heisman.

While I received some understandable ribbing from college buddies for sporting a Gamecock shirt, I have no regrets. I’m a Bama grad, but a Gamecock dad. And my daughter got to meet one of the all-time Gamecock greats, which is a great way to start off your time in Columbia.

If you ever get the opportunity to meet George Rogers, I highly recommend you do it. I guarantee your happiness level will go up. And, if you do, tell him I said, “Roll Gamecocks!”

Adventures Family

The Magic Cowboy

And the silent cowboy rode off into the distance, knowing the town would be just fine. “Who was that cowboy?” someone asked. “We’ll never know. We’ll never know,” I said.

– Ending to a Western novel I just made up.

So my wife and I were having a leisurely stroll on a South Carolina back highway the other day. We were chatting about matters of great import, as folks are wont to do on backcountry roads. I think the particular matter was what to do for dinner.

And then up ahead we saw movement. Green movement. Big movement. Because a big ol’ tree decided that was the perfect time to uproot and come across the road.

I am not sure what either of us said, but let’s go with, “Wow!” or “Golly gee willikers!” or something else g-rated.

I hit the brakes and pulled off to the side of the road. There was a house and driveway right there, which was fortunate as driveways on this stretch of road are often miles apart.

I called highway patrol on my phone (*HP for you folks in South Carolina!), and went to assess the situation. The tree was blocking the westbound lane and then some. It had turned this 55-mph stretch of highway into a one-lane road.

Realizing we were about to have some serious traffic issues, I handed the phone to my wife so she could finish giving details to highway patrol. I went to the road and saw a line of cars approaching. I began frantically waving my arms, and doing kind of a bowing motion with my arms to get folks to slow down. My wife finished up the call giving our location and took a spot slowing the eastbound traffic. Another motorist saw what was going on and pulled over to help with traffic control.

We were waving one lane through at a time, hoping highway patrol would get there soon. And then The Cowboy appeared.

He pulled his big black pickup truck past the tree and then crossed over into the oncoming lane. He put his truck in reverse and backed right up to the fallen tree.

He stepped out of his truck, and didn’t say a word. Because The Cowboy wasn’t here to chat. He was here to get things done. He was an older gentleman who looked like Richard Petty, complete with a perfect mustache. He wore a black cowboy hat, a big shiny belt buckle, and black boots. The mudflaps on his truck said, “Cowboy life.” I kid you not. I am not positive, but the theme from “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” may have started playing (at least in my head).

As we continued to get the cars past the tree one lane at a time, The Cowboy grabbed a strap out of his truck, hooked it around the tree, and then attached it to his truck. He got back in his truck and hit the gas. The tree moved a smidge. One more try. A little more. A third try, the tree came free. But when the third try dislodged the tree, it also skidded his truck into a ditch. The Cowboy got out, cleared the remaining debris off the road, packed up his strap and headed back to his truck. I walked over and shook his hand and told him thanks. I asked him if he thought he could get his truck out of the ditch. He responded the only way The Cowboy would: “I reckon.”
He gunned his engine, climbed right out of the ditch, gave us a thumbs up and headed off into the distance.

Highway patrol did not show up by the time we left. I am sure that when they arrived, they wondered just where that tree blocking the road was. But it was gone. As The Cowboy had arrived and taken care of business, as is The Cowboy way.

Adventures Family

Flying is for the birds

My daughter, Allie, and her boyfriend, Tyler, were getting ready for their first airplane trip together.

They were going to see his family in Ohio, and while Tyler probably wouldn’t admit it, I think he was fairly nervous about it. This was his first flight since he was 8, a flight he doesn’t really remember.

Understandable that you would have some nervous tingles. I’ve flown plenty of times, and I still get a smidge of anxiety before heading into the skies. After all, you are kinda doing something that, while quite safe and consistent, is something that kinda seems like a great big gamble.

My wife flies a good bit for work, and she’s a pro at packing and prepping and navigating the entire process. She took the lead in getting them all ready to go, giving them checklists and pointers as we went. I assisted by providing snappy one liners. For example:

MY WIFE: Do you have your ID? Boarding passes downloaded on your phone? Phone charger? Computer charger? Got movies downloaded to watch?

ME: Remember, if you see someone at the airport you know named Jack, do NOT shout, “Hi, Jack!”

MY WIFE: Sigh.

She sighs a lot.

The day prior to the flight, we were talking about what to expect. My daughter has flown several times, and she is also someone who never gets nervous about anything except school exams. I could sense Tyler was a little apprehensive about the flight. I assured him that flying was plenty safe, and that it would actually be a fun and cool experience. He jokingly said, “What happens if a bird hits the plane?”

I responded, “Simple. Your pilot lands it on the Hudson River.”

Fast forward to the day of the flight. We got to the airport in plenty of time, and they had their bags checked in no time. They headed to security, where my daughter for some reason had been selected for TSA pre-check, which means she got to take a fast pass through security. Tyler headed off to the regular check. We told them we would hang out and make sure they made it through security. Allie breezed through. Tyler, after about 20 minutes, was at the front of the line. It was at that point we realized Tyler was going to go through the big scanner, where you stand in this cylinder, raise your hands, and they look for whatever it is they look for. That was the moment I realized we had missed a great opportunity. My wife and I had this conversation:

ME: We really should have told him the scanner only stings for a little bit.

MY WIFE: Yep.

Once they were through, we waved them off to their gate, and my wife and I set off to the grocery store, because that’s the kind of gangster life we lead.

As we were finishing up shopping, my wife’s phone rang. She answered, listened for a moment and said, “WHAT!?!?”

The airline they were flying only has a couple of routes, so each flight has to wait on the airplane to return from said destination before they can all pile in and defy gravity. And the plane that was going to be shuttling them to Cincinnati? Yeah, it hit birds. Enough birds that they were not going to be flying out that day, and they would have to be rescheduled for the next day.

Their flight the next day made it out fine, and they have since returned home safely.

But reflecting on the whole journey, of all the things that could have gone wrong with a flight, I am rather amused that it was the one thing Tyler was worried about. Also, I really thought they were supposed to land on the Hudson River when that happened.

Childhood Family

To the Class of 2018

Oftentimes, at graduation, columnists will write an open letter to the graduating class. This column, however, is an open letter to just one of those graduates. But the rest of the Class of 2018 should take this advice as well.

Allie Gibbons, we’re proud of you.

I never doubted you would shine in high school. Or in middle school. Or in elementary school. Or in kindergarten.

I base this on the fact that one of your kindergarten teachers once contacted us and asked us to please explain to you that while your contributions in class were appreciated, you were not, in fact, co-teacher. It was clear from an early age you were serious about school.

You have shined academically, and I am confident it will be more of the same in college. You have shined socially, and I am confident it will be more of the same in college. However, you have not shined at keeping your car clean, and I am confident it will more of the same in college. Prove me wrong on that one.

As you close this chapter in your life, I want to share a few things with you as you embark on the next step of your amazing journey:

You have never been the kind of person to get embroiled in silly dramas (unless on stage, where you are supposed to be). That said, as you leave any high school dramas behind, remember there will be college dramas. And drama after college. Somewhere in a retirement home, there is drama. But you get to decide whether or not you want to be part of it.
Fill up your gas tank. There is no Gas Fairy at college that will make sure your car isn’t on empty in the morning.
Never get behind on laundry. Set a schedule, use that time to knock out some homework, and make it a ritual. Also, please remember that you are now in charge of your laundry, and it, like your gas tank, will never magically be taken care of.
Credit cards are not your friend. Budgets – and sticking to them – are.
Stop rolling your eyes. You know I’m right.
Some of your friends from high school are friends for life. Some you may never see again. And that’s OK. The length of a friendship is designed to be exactly what it’s supposed to be.
Be kind. You are a kind person inherently, but remember as you go into the world, you will meet an expansive array of people, far more diverse than you have experienced to date. And you never know how a simple act of kindness may help someone else.
You are a role model. And you don’t get to choose the person you are a role model for. If you always carry yourself in a manner in which you are being your best you, you will be a great role model.
You have a lot to learn. I don’t mean that in a negative way. I mean that the world is just opening up to share some of its amazing secrets with you. So listen. Absorb. Learn.
At the end of each day, look in the mirror. Ask yourself if you are pleased with the decisions the person you see made that day. If the answer is no, don’t beat yourself up. Correct those decisions and answer an emphatic YES! the next day.
Pay attention to red flags. If your gut tells you something, listen to it.
Never punch down. It’s a cheap and shallow way to feel better about yourself. An open hand down will always be better than a fist down.
Vote. In every election.
Be informed and critical in your thinking, and be willing to change your opinion if presented with facts that make you say, “Hmm. You have a point.” That said, be very discerning in where you get your facts. Remember, your old man logged a lot of miles in journalism, and the old saying, “If your mother tells you she loves you, check it out” is oft-repeated.
And lastly, know that you are loved. Immensely. By lots of people. And we are all proud of you. We cannot wait to see what this next chapter holds, and the chapter after that, and the chapter after that. So get cracking on the next adventure. Right after you clean your car.

Adventures Animals Childhood Family Vacation

Road trip!

I have recently completed a road trip with my kids, and I can safely say it included the perfect amount of buffalo slobber.

This road trip was done over their spring break, and we set off on a whirlwind tour of roadside attractions and off-the-beaten path adventures, which is really the only way to spend spring break.

It was just the kids and me, as we realized too far into the drive that we had left my wife back home. Either that or she was in Omaha on a business trip. I can’t remember.

Our first stop was the Wild Animal Safari in Pine Mountain, Ga. As is often the case, I didn’t tell the kids where we going, as I love to see the looks on their faces when we arrive at a destination. The Wild Animal Safari is just what the name says. You drive your car through this great big rolling field, and feed buffalo and Texas longhorns and wildebeests as they mosey up to your car and occasionally stick their giant heads in through the window. Fun fact: buffalo have horrible breath AND copious amount of slobber, some of which was distributed into the car interior and my kids courtesy of a well-timed sneeze.

After the safari, our next stop was the Little White House, the retreat for Franklin Delano Roosevelt. At the entry, there is an FDR mannequin in a wheelchair, complete with his dog Fala. Neat, we thought. When we got to the actual house, there was another mannequin in a wheelchair on the front porch. And then the mannequin lifted his hand and started perusing the brochure he was holding, because it was actually an older gentlemen (who sat remarkably still) waiting for his family to finish the tour.

Our next stop was at the Lunch Box Museum in Columbus, Ga., which is, without a doubt, the single greatest museum ever created. With thousands of lunch boxes on display, it is an amazing walk down memory lane, especially if you’re a child of the 70s or 80s. Happy Days, ALF, Six Million Dollar Man, Holly Hobbie. You name it, chances are it was there. There was also one lunchbox that featured “The Exciting World of Metrics,” apparently designed for the kid who wanted the Fast Pass to an awful elementary school existence.

The next day we made our way to Macon, Ga., where we stopped at a place

called Reboot Retrocade and Bar, which has dozens of old-time arcade video games and pinball machines, each costing just a quarter. Draft beer and some Galaga on a Tuesday afternoon? Don’t mind if I do.

Fortunately, kids are allowed in the bar in the afternoon, so mine were able to experience life in an 80s arcade. Minus the draft beer, of course.

Our final stop was at the Museum of Aviation in Warner Robins, Ga. If you’re ever passing through, I highly recommend you stop in and walk through the history of aviation and see some amazing aircraft, including an SR-71 Blackbird, which may be the coolest plane ever built. I’m talking Six Million Dollar Man mailbox level cool.

We hit a few other spots along the way, sometimes just pulling off on the side of the road because we saw something interesting, such as an abandoned football stadium or a hunting and fishing store called The Funky Skunk. We also caught up with some old friends along the way, which is always a treat.

Upon arriving home, we all agreed it was a quirky and cool road trip, the kind we love to embark on. Maybe next time we can remember to take my wife.

Family

Remote out of control

It was your typical family Friday night. You know, the one where you are lying on your back under an overturned couch, a knife in your hand, while barking, “No! Keep the flashlight shining there!”

It all started when my daughter made the critical mistake of trying to change the channel on the television. We cut the cord about a year ago, and we have two remotes. One is for the TV, where we watch over-the-air channels. The other is for our Amazon Firestick. My daughter was sitting on the couch and reached for the remote, and in the process, proceeded to knock it down into the couch cushion. When she went to retrieve the remote, she did the opposite of retrieving it, and instead pushed it down into the nether regions of our couch that apparently feast on remotes.

Time to go into full on recovery mode. After my wife, son, daughter, and daughter’s boyfriend all tried to find the remote, it was time for the real pro to come in. Step aside, amateurs. Hero has arrived.

Yeah, hero didn’t find a thing.

We kept probing various parts of the couch, trying to find where the remote could have hidden. Nothing. Although we did have the super fun time where my hand got stuck inside the bowels of the couch as a couch spring latched on to my wedding ring. Once I got my hand free, I opted to make the rest of the recovery mission wedding ring-free.

I told my wife we needed to tip the couch over so that we could access the couch from underneath, and that would easily reveal the remote. She looked at me with a look she often gives me.

We tipped the couch, leaning it on its front part. On the underside of the couch there is a black fabric. All we need to do, I told my wife, is tear off the fabric and boom – remote would present itself.

My wife informed me that we could not just tear off the fabric, and also reminded me that this was a new couch. I told her that, sure, we could tear off the fabric, as we would just staple it back. I went to the kitchen and opened that junk drawer that everyone has, and retrieved a stapler. We had this conversation:

HER: That won’t work.

ME: Sure it will.

HER: Don’t you have a big stapler out in the garage?

ME: This will work.

So, let’s fast forward about 30 minutes to when I’m at the hardware store, having realized that (a) a junk drawer stapler won’t re-attach fabric to a couch and (b) my stapler in the garage is broken.

When I got back to the house, we began to pull apart the fabric, giving us a clearer view of the underside of the couch. Nothing there.

I peeled back more and more fabric. Still nothing. But, I could get my hand in more places and probe a little deeper into the nooks of the couch you couldn’t see.

And then, after exploring this pocket and that pocket, boom. Jackpot. I felt the remote. But I could just feel the edge of it. Despite my efforts, I could not grab the remote.

Time to tilt the couch. Shift it a little to the left and the remote would no doubt be right there.

Apparently, we tilted a little too much, as it jumped into a new hidden cavern of the couch, one where I could touch it, but still not get a hand on it. The problem was there was more fabric blocking my hand. How much interior fabric does a couch need!?!?!

So I made the executive decision of getting a knife from the kitchen and cutting away the fabric that was impeding progress. My hand still couldn’t get in there, so my daughter took a stab. After a few tries, success. Remote retrieved.

She was very pleased with herself, as she should have been. And anyone who knows my daughter can absolutely hear her voice when she made this comment, as she proudly held the remote up high: “Yay, me! I ruined the day AND saved it!”

Indeed you did, child Indeed you did.