It was a heated argument. The kind that shakes the ground. That ends friendships. That counseling is required to remedy, and that in another place and time might have led to war between clans. Something good? Something juicy? Nope. The proper name of the new Jurassic World Blizzard at Dairy Queen. If you’re wondering, it’s “Smash.” My wife’s cousin and her 11-year-old son, Adam, were in town for the week. The boy is my 9-year-old daughter’s second cousin. Except, as they both come from only-child houses, they are about the closest thing they have to siblings. And pseudo-sibling-hood, I quickly found out, comes with all the accoutrements of real-life siblings.
The remote control infestation
The look on my wife’s face was one of disbelief. Not anger. Not disgust. But quiet, solemn, exasperated resignation. Like she knew her husband had a problem — maybe even an addiction! — and wasn’t sure how to approach it. How could this be? “I know,” I said, “but it’s just one more.” There were five remote controls laid out on the coffee table in the living room. Two of them had joined our family in the last week. TWO! “So, what does that one do?” she asked, pointing to the newest addition. “That one?” I said. “Oh, that one controls this so we can use that.”
For a kid and a dog, the joys of mountain running
To be a kid again. Or a dog. Never was a dog, but I could have been. After a week in the mountains of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, I would definitely take another childhood. Or a doghood. We rented a cabin. It looked like it had fallen out of the sky and landed teetering on a steep ridge overlooking a stream. There were old logging roads and lots of trees and not a living soul but us. The only way to the cabin was on a gravel “road” that could have been a ski jump if it wasn’t broken up by so many switchbacks. You know you’re in for a wild ride when your road comes with instructions for navigating it. You also know you’re going somewhere isolated. Away from people. And where your clan can run wild and free. To be a kid again. Or a dog.
Race of the chalupa
There was great sadness amongst the male crew of the chalupa San Augustin. Great wailing and crying, not to mention a couple of gents beating their fists and screaming, “Why, dear Lord? Why?” Sadness like someone had stolen our puppy. Sadness like someone had spit in our beer. Sadness like the TV was out for a week and we had to converse like normal humans with family. It happens. The St. Augustine Maritime Heritage Foundation hosted the inaugural San Agustin Rowing Challenge on July 4 along the bayfront. It pitted a men’s team against a women’s team, each taking turns rowing the 37-foot replica of a 16th century Spanish longboat — the chalupa — against the clock.
The call of the museum gift shop
“When are we going to the gift shop?” Those were the words from my daughter. It was the 3,200th time I had heard it. In the last 20 minutes. We were in the nation’s capital. In the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. We were surrounded — literally swarmed — by towering rockets, Mars landers, lunar rocks, Wright brothers planes and lots of lost tourists who thought they were at the White House. They couldn’t figure out why there were satellites hanging from the president’s ceiling. “Look at this!” I told my daughter. “An actual Apollo command module! This thing went into space. See the burn marks from re-entry. See! See! See!” “Eh,” she said. “Now, is the gift shop upstairs or down?” Aaaghhh!
Invasion of the summer smoothie
It is smoothie time in my house. Morning. Lunch. Afternoon. Not that I’m complaining. It is the result of a new blender. A good blender. One that doesn’t sound like a rock crusher that has thrown a belt. That was the old one. Loud. Tedious. Troubled. It made smoothies with the consistency of a fruit cocktail. Once I sprained my face trying to suck a mango chunk through a straw. So I bought us a new one. I didn’t know what I was unleashing. It’s a good one. Powerful. With multiple sets of blades that chop and dice and pulverize. Smoothies come out smooth, and rescue personnel don’t show up at my house after neighbors hear what they thought was a rock slide. I haven’t sprained my face once.
Father’s day … Yay me!
Fellow dads, I make this declaration on this immensely important holiday: “WE ROCK!” Yes, it’s Father’s Day. Our day. When eating cheese puffs on the sofa and drinking beer at 9 a.m. is not only permitted, but actually required by law. We are dads! We should celebrate. Sure, we’re not perfect. We mess up our share of stuff. We have no idea how to use the washing machine (believe us, we just don’t understand!), we have shorter attention spans than fruit flies (high school biology taught us they only live .023 seconds,) and … wait a minute … what was I talking about? Anyway, we certainly have our faults. But as fathers extraordinaire, we just as often take one for the team. Not to brag, but take me for instance. I was in the swimming pool with my daughter the other day. She was tossing a tennis ball around with a friend, only the depth made it hard for her to catch and throw.
Signs of vacation on the brain
It’s called “vacation on the brain.” It can be a debilitating condition, and every year it afflicts millions of Americans who can’t stop thinking about an upcoming trip. For some it means loss of sleep, twitchy legs, mis-matching socks, only shaving one side of your face, putting on sunscreen and goggles for no apparent reason, carrying fold-out roadmaps, and loss of productivity at work. (And let’s be honest: Most of us were already pretty un-productive as it was.) Vacation on the brain is a serious epidemic. Think you might be suffering from it? Here are a few warning signs to watch out for: • Do you practice loading the car in the middle of the night? Do you critique previous loading strategies for trips? “What were you thinking last year stacking a water jug on top of the Oreos!?!” Do you draw complex, geometry-defying diagrams for how suitcases, a cooler the size of Delaware and 11,000 toys your child plans to bring will fit in perfectly? Do you share strategies on Internet message boards with other obsessive car loaders (who may or may not inhabit insane asylums)? • Do you find yourself staring at Google maps and studying driving routes for hours? Do you calculate fuel stops and research interstate gas stations/coffee stops, all in an attempt to “maximize efficiency?” (If you have actually read gas station reviews online, or consider a particular gas station because it has a great view AND donuts, you might need immediate medical attention.)
Paying tribute to passionate teachers
The little sparkly gift bag with the turquoise tissue paper fountaining out the top sat on the dining room table. Something told me there was Dove chocolate inside. Dove chocolate! My chocolate radar had picked it up the minute I walked in the door. “Fight the urge,” I told myself of the temptation to stealthily fish around for a chocolate or two. “That’s a teacher present.” My daughter finished up third grade this week. Another school year done. How could that be? Another classroom in the rear view mirror. Another grade under her belt. Another teacher goodbye. A great teacher. We’ve been lucky — they all have been great at Ketterlinus Elementary in downtown St. Augustine. Inspiring. Thoughtful. Caring. Smart. Passionate. You can’t teach a teacher to be those things. It’s something they just have. It’s a love for what they do.
The first sunburn of summer
The true meaning of Memorial Day is never lost on me — that freedom comes with a price, and that many brave men and women proudly served this wonderful country. But there’s always a second lesson I wish was as easily understood — that the sun is a giant ball of scalding hot gas and it will fry you like a paper-thin sliver of bacon. So as last weekend’s Memorial Day also marks the semi-official start of sun-scorching season, I thought I would share a few tips on how to ensure your summertime sunburn horror stories are something your friends will talk about for weeks: • Make sure when you’re spraying on sunscreen that you do it haphazardly. Just spritz it on like cologne. A little here, a little there. Miss whole sections of your body. This is what I did, and it explains why my shoulders are perfectly fine, but my sides are the color of a fire truck. There’s nothing more ridiculous — and uncomfortable — than a sunburn on your mid-section.