Ten days. More than 2,800 miles. Eleven states, not counting that wacky District of Columbia. Four overnight stops. Enough cheap coffee to stew a yak. Only one (no kidding) fast food stop. A plate of southern stroganoff in Asheville with pork medallions, cilantro pesto and a heapin’ pile of goat cheese grits. (Heaven in a bowl.) Streams. Feet in streams. Kid in streams. Barefoot with that icy, cold water tingling your feet. Smooth, slippery river stones. Picnics and Smoky Mountain air. Hiking. Chipmunks. Skipping stones. More cheap coffee. Metro stations. Yankee beaches. Cousin’s wedding. Dogs who eat Swedish Fish. A tall green lady in New York harbor. The world’s slowest gas pump (still finishing the job as we speak.) And a vehicle that looked like the Clampetts paid a visit to “Sanford and Son.” There’s nothing like a good, long road trip. Few better ways to experience large expanses of a great country like ours. How else can you be high atop a mountain ridge one day, watch pandas the next and then find yourself breathing in that wonderful Atlantic Ocean breeze on the pristine beaches of upper Long Island. From forests of trees in the wilds of North Carolina to forests of skyscrapers in New York City. I think you can find bears in both. Road trips are not merely a longwinded way to get from point A to point B. Rather, they’re a way to experience every single thing between point A and point B. Travel has become […]
Dancing With the Devil … While Navigating Disneyworld
“You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?” It’s a question The Joker asks Batman right before he shoots him. A great movie line, and one I thought about while braving the unrelenting crowds that swarmed through the streets and rides of Disney World this Memorial Day weekend. There are much wiser ways to take your life into your own hands. You can smear a meat-flavored cupcake on a sleeping lion. You can run out into traffic. You can charge into a biker bar and yell, “Ya’ll ride a bunch of girl’s bikes and look like leather pansies.” All would definitely get you killed. But if you’re gonna’ go, you want the quick and painless route. Not to die a slow agonizing death in scorching heat while herds of tourists trample your poor, broken body. Crumpled on the ground as they roll over you with strollers and $6 beverages, you cry, “Why didn’t I check the calendar before I booked the room?” You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight? Yes, yes I have. OK, it wasn’t that bad. As Memorial Day weekends go, I’d rate it as tame. Remember: I’m a third generation Floridian. Buried in our DNA coding are the tactics and survival skills that our forefathers used thousands of years ago to brave holiday crowds at primitive theme parks. They honed these skills while taking their children on rides like “It’s a Pterodactyl World” and “The Real Pirates of the Caribbean.”
Understanding the Dad on the Fence
I never understood why he was always there. Standing alone along the fence line or hanging out in the empty, sun-drenched stands. It was high school soccer practice. Practice, for goodness sake! But there he was. Every day it seemed. Every time we rolled out onto the field. I just couldn’t understand why he would hang out and watch a bunch of knuckleheads run through monotonous drills, get yelled at by a coach and try at every opportunity to drop some poor, unsuspecting teammate’s shorts. Most of us didn’t want to be there. So why would a parent? Tampa’s weather can be terminal. It’s such a ferocious mix of heat and humidity. In 20 minutes, it could fully cook a bag of rice left out on the sidewalk. Dense and sweltering, it burned your lungs and squeezed you like a sandwich press. Then a man with a whistle barked at you to run laps until your feet swelled up like watermelons. When guys dropped, we would just bury them right there on the field and keep on running. So to me it made no sense why my dad showed up all those afternoons. There wasn’t much to see, and there had to be better things to do at the end of a long day. Why was he always there?
The Running of the Eggs
Knee-deep in children — trudging through a virtual tsunami of half-pints — is when it occurred to me: Group Easter egg hunts are an awful lot like the running of the bulls. Sure, there are some obvious differences. Bulls don’t wear Crocs. They sport horns and are all-too-eager to tickle your kidneys with them. They snort, stomp and charge down narrow streets while guys dressed in white scream, “Why didn’t I give up drinking like my wife asked!?!” Yet, as I stood with my daughter among the hordes of little ones, all waiting to rush the baseball fields at Palencia, I couldn’t help but think of all the similarities.
Secrets of a springtime ladybug escapade
Rule of Spring #124: Release unto your garden a swarm of gentle, fun-loving, insect-eating ladybugs. Come this time of year, it’s a tradition at my house. Survey the desolate, winter-scorched wasteland of our once glorious (and green) yard and give it some color (even if it’s just thousands of shiny-red hunchbacked beetles no larger than a pencil eraser.) Our butterfly bushes may have died a shivering death, but now the yard comes alive in a bloom of crawling red dots. The ladybugs are back. Every year about this time, we get a package of the winged critters. It’s great fun when you have a kid, not to mention good for your yard. The littler fellers … correction, little ladies (say, how do they reproduce if they’re all gals?) are good for gardens. I’m told they’re voracious predators of aphids, mites, and for all I know, other ladybugs.
A New Parent No More
I knew my daughter was growing up — I see the evidence of it everyday. No doubt about it, she’s a big kid. But not until I started typing that e-mail did it occur to me that I was also the PARENT of a big kid. No longer a “new” parent, I’m now someone with experience and wisdom in this thing called parenthood. I’ve served some time, got some gray hair and racked up enough credits to graduate from newbie father to junior dad. I think I get a patch and a discount down at the club store. For me this was about as cool a revelation as I’ve ever experienced. What prompted it was an e-mail from a co-worker asking whether her newborn should go on the family dental insurance. First off, I was stunned (and a little moved) that someone was asking ME parental advice. What beer goes with trout? OK. How do you properly embarrass yourself in front of a crowd of people? I gotcha’ covered.
Hear My Second Commentary on Jacksonville’s WJCT
[podcast]https://www.nutshellcity.com/wp-content/uploads/podcasts/babyjogger.mp3[/podcast]
Bike Rides, Karate Chops and Being a Big Kid Again
“Jack, what happened?” asked his mom. He was clutching his hand and on the verge of tears. We were at the Jacksonville Zoo and he was grimacing terribly, as if an elephant had sat on his hand or one of the leopards had snipped off a fingertip. Little chunks of skin flapped in the breeze and I was wondering how long before tiny trickles of blood would bubble to the surface. “Uh, he fell in a cactus,” I told her. “He fell in a cactus?” she said. “Yep, fell in a cactus. He was trying to karate chop me, but with ninja-like reflexes I jumped out of the way and he … um … fell in the cactus. Just … splat! … right in there.” Yes, I did feel a bit guilty. There is the fact that he’s 5 years old and I’ll be 37 next month — a minor age difference, if you ask me. And there is also the fact that he WAS trying to karate chop me. What was I supposed to do, just take it? And how could I know he would fall in a cactus. I mean, it’s 2010 … who does that anymore?
Going Lego Crazy at Lego Land
It began as the slightest tingling. Hardly noticeable. Nothing memorable. But it grew, and spread, from my chest down into my arms and legs. My toes trembled and tapped. My hair stood at attention and I felt hot as the blood raced quickly through my veins. Most of all, I could feel it in my eyes. They danced and darted about like googly eyes, latching onto this or that in a wild frenzy. I felt strange urges — primal urges — like I should hunt and gather or scream things like, “Woo-hoo! The Promised Land!” “Damn it, man,” I told myself. “Compose yourself. You’re drooling and children are starting to stare. That woman thinks you’re rabid and is probably going to hit you with her umbrella.” But I couldn’t help it. I JUST couldn’t help it!
And the craft project reared its head
It’s officially the holidays at my house and that can mean only one thing: a super nova explosion of Christmas craft projects. Epic. Extraordinary. The paint flies in such a frenzy that it tickles the ceiling. The glue gun is begging for mercy — “No, not another piece of construction paper!” The colored markers have run as dry as a Texas desert and the glitter is falling like snow. (Question: Why in the world would you ever give glitter to a 3-1/2-year-old who has questionable motor skills and a penchant for saying things like, “Is this candy?”) The biggest of the projects so far was the one we did on Thanksgiving. My wife devised it in order to amuse, entertain, and mostly preoccupy the time of the grandparents and my aunt. She was concerned that a stocked liquor cabinet and my family’s genuine love of fighting like rabid badgers could negatively affect the holiday. So in order to head off the fireworks she saw coming, she put them all to work. Why not? Big kids are like little kids: Want to keep ‘em out of trouble? Give them something to do. It was either that or resort to muzzles and shock collars.