"OF COURSE I CAN SWIM"

     As far as I know, I've never inherited anything.  Well, that's not exactly true.  My grandfather was the proud owner of a very long and very green john boat and when he passed away, my dad wound up with the boat.  I'm not sure if it was an actual inheritance, but somehow the boat wound up at our house.  So, by default, I guess one could say that I had at least inherited part of said vessel.
     As far as I remember, I didn't use the boat very much, Jarrett, my older brother did... often.  Occasionally, he would invite me and one of my friends along to fish, float lazily down a river, or perhaps come to within an inch of death by drowning.  We mostly came to within an inch of death by drowning.  Excitement was never far away when my brother was involved.  I suffered many unpleasant circumstances with him growing up, but there is always a silver lining to even the most harrowing of situations.  It toughened me up.  By my estimation, I had over the course of eighteen years completed the equivalent of Navy SEAL training many times over.
     "Of course I can swim! Well, I can swim underwater," Ike cried.  Ike was our younger cousin and was often at our house in the summer.  "Besides, why do you care if I can swim or not?  We'll be in a boat, so I doesn't matter!" In theory, he was right.  In reality, he couldn't have been more wrong. I was surprised that Ike had made such a comment without thinking it through first.  After all, it was he who'd had an entire pack of fireworks go off in his back pocket only months before.  Jarrett was indeed in the vicinity when the explosion took place. So, setting sail with Jarrett certainly carried inevitable risks...namely sinking.
    "Underwater?  That's how people swim before they drown," Jarrett said with a look of bewilderment. I should have know that his comment was an ominous foreboding of what lay ahead. Jarrett was a few years older than we were, so he was armed with a driver's license and could easily drive us to where our next adventure would unfold.  On that particular day, we were loading our old John boat onto dad's truck in anticipation of paddling around a quarry near our house.
     My mom and aunt sat on the front porch talking while we loaded all the necessary gear onto the truck.   I tossed the one oar we owned into the boat while Jarrett loaded a small cooler filled with sodas.  "Do we need life jackets?" Ike asked.
     "Life jackets?!!!  No, we don't need life jackets.  They'll just weigh the boat down.  Besides, we can swim...right?"  Jarrett barked.
     "Uh, yeah, of course," Ike answered nervously.
     Our mothers continued to talk on the porch, oblivious to the calamity unfolding in the driveway.  Helicopter parenting hadn't been invented in those days. and if it had, they didn't get the memo.  We could have been loading an atom bomb onto the truck and they might have possibly muttered, "just be careful," without even looking our way.
     "Are we gonna fish?" I asked.
     "Naw,  we'll just paddle around for awhile,"  Jarrett said, as he climbed into the driver's seat of the truck.  "Get in."  Again, I found it odd that we were going to 'paddle' around.
     We drove the short distance to the quarry, which had been created by a cement company many years before.  The company had closed, and as a result, the quarry filled with water and became a makeshift recreation area for people in our small town.
     "Wow! It's huge!" Ike said, as our old truck squeaked to a stop by the water's edge.  "Maybe we can just paddle around near the bank.  Yeah, let's just paddle near the bank."
     My brother and I ignored the paddling near the bank idea, and lowered the boat into the water.  "Hop in, off we go!" I said.  With that, we set sail or paddle into the quarry.
     With no fishing poles and absolutely nothing to do but paddle, we soon felt boredom sweep across the boat.  "OK, I'm ready to go.  It's boring, besides our moms are going to worry," Ike said.
     I was beginning to get bored as well.  Jarrett?  Well, maybe not.  We had managed to anchor in the middle of the quarry and sat, staring at each other while guzzling soda.  He was seated to the rear of the boat, I was in the middle and Ike sat in the front.  I noticed a crooked smile inching out from the corner of my brother's mouth.  I had seen that smile many times before.  Usually, it meant that he had either passed gas or was in the early stages of hatching some sinister plan that would require others in the area to pray for survival.
     That's when I noticed that my tennis shoes were wet.  I stared down at the floor of our vessel and noticed that water was beginning to fill  the boat.  I also noticed that my brother's head was a foot or so lower than mine.  Glancing toward Ike, it became clear that his head was a foot higher than mine.  Soon, the water was barely an inch below the rails of the back end and the gentle waves lapped over the sides and into our little aluminum craft.  Again, I looked to Jarrett.  With a sinister grin, he held the plug up for me to see.  He was purposely sinking us!  "The bottom of my end of the boat isn't even touching the water," Ike said nervously.  "And there's water filling up your end!"
     "Looks like we're going down boys!" Jarrett exclaimed.  Suddenly, and with very little notice, the old, green, John boat rolled to one side.  In an instant, we were overboard.  There was nothing left to do but swim.
     "I can't swim!!!" Ike cried, trying desperately to cling to the side of our capsized boat.
     "Here, hang onto this and try to make it to shore!" I exclaimed, while tossing my flailing cousin the cooler.  Thankfully, we had secured the lid and it floated.  Mysteriously, I noticed that  my brother was missing.
    "Where's Jarrett?!!" Ike bellowed, between kicks.  "I don't see him!" he screamed.  Briefly, I wondered how he could see anything.  He was kicking and flailing so violently, that water was flying in every direction.  It reminded me of the spray from a speedboat, minus the speed. Thankfully, he managed to flail into shallow water and thus saved his own life.  "Where is Jarrett?!!!" he screamed from the safety of the bank.
     I dove down to look for my antagonizing brother, and found him under the boat.  He was under the capsized vessel, treading water, with his head safely in an air pocket.  I popped up beside him.  "Tell Ike that you can't find me."
     "Why?"
     "He said he was bored.  Wonder if he's bored now?"
     I dove back down and popped up on the outside of the boat. I reported that I was now the oldest child in our family.  Jarrett was gone.
     Finally, the little joke ended.  Ike swore he'd never go anywhere with us again, although he did hug my brother when we finally emerged from the murky water.
     When we drove into the driveway, our mothers were still talking on the front porch.  We walked past them, sloshing all the way.  "Did you have fun boys?" my mom asked.
     "Oh, if you call nearly drowning fun, then yes, we had fun," Ike most pitifully said.
     "That's nice," they both said, without ever looking at us.
   

   

CENTRAL AIR

     I'm happy to report that as the dog days of summer have crept upon us, I am sitting in a very cool house at a very comfortable seventy degrees.  I did not always enjoy this little luxury in life.  For the last twenty years, I have been blessed to live in homes which were outfitted with good old central air conditioning.  Growing up?  Not so much.

     For the first eighteen years of my life, air conditioning was a convenience that we most pitifully lacked.  My dad, who was mysteriously stuck in the 1940s simply didn't see the need for such modern comforts.  "Naw, we don't need it.  Besides, air conditioning clogs my sinuses and we like that good, fresh mountain air at night.  Don't we son?"  he answered after another pitiful plea by me to at least get a good window unit.  I did, sure enough, like the good, fresh mountain air.  It's just that I would have preferred my fresh air to be a tad cooler that the 100 degree stagnant atmosphere that surrounded our home in the middle of August.  My dad loved the mountains, so it was always mountains this and mountains that with him.

     We had fans.  Lots of fans.  In fact, we had so many fans running that I figured that if we pointed all of them in the same direction, the house would have been blown from it's foundation.  But, we did have mountain air.  I swore that when I owned my own home, lying in bed in a puddle of sweat would be a thing of the past, mountain air or not.

     I bought my first home at age twenty-four.  The first thing I asked the realtor before I had even laid eyes on the home was, "does it have central air conditioning?"  

     "Of course.  Who doesn't have central air these days?"  he replied, with a puzzled look on his face.

     I bought the house and lived in cool luxury for the next five years.

     In those five years, my wife and I had gotten married and had our first child, Ryan.  We also had been practicing for a second child when we decided that a larger home was in order.  

     "Does it have central air conditioning?" I asked the realtor, as he guided his car into the driveway of the home we were interested in.

     "Uh, no it doesn't.  Mr. Bradford is here and he can explain why they never installed air," came the sheepish reply.  For me, a house without central air was a sure deal breaker.  Mr. Bradford was the owner and had recently built a new house and needed to sell quickly.

     The realtor introduced Kristi and I to Mr. Bradford and as one would expect, the questions began to flow freely from our mouths.  "I see that the house doesn't have central air," I said.

     "Naw, never needed it.  Heck, with all these trees and the whole house fan upstairs, we just never needed it.  The place stays very cool in the summer.  Besides, we always liked the fresh mountain air at night," he said, with his hands in his pockets while staring at the floor.  I was sure he had his fingers crossed inside those pockets. Apparently, he too was stuck in the 1940s.

     "Maybe he's right," Kristi whispered.  "The property is covered with trees. Besides, I LOVE this house!"  she finished.  

     We moved into our house with no air conditioning in October of 2001, so the weather was beginning to cool and we didn't even entertain the thought of air conditioning, at least until the following summer.

     "I'm roasting!  I mean I'm melting!" Kristi bellowed from the kitchen one day after I had returned home from work.  By that time, she was pregnant with our daughter, Sidney.  She was a pitiful sight for sure.  She was busy making dinner and with one hand, and with the other she was clutching the baby.  Draped over her head was a soggy dishrag.

    I immediately thought of my father and his mountain air, and also of Mr. Bradford and his blatant lie about fans, trees, etc.  "OK, I'll see what I can do."

     I was fortunate to work for a company that employed people of many talents.  Several of those people were very good at heating and air installation.  I hadn't been with the company very long, so I didn't know many people, but I asked around and sure enough got a good lead.  "You need to ask Fred.  He does great work and is very reasonable," one older fellow said.  "He's retired now, but I can give you his number.  I'm sure he'll be glad to give you an estimate."

     I called Fred that evening.  "Hi, this is Neil Fix.  I work at Merck and was given your number about having central air conditioning installed in my home."

     There was a brief silence and then he spoke.  "Weeel, aye mebbee coyld take a leeetle grive roun there.  Wheer ye aaat?" came his answer.  For a moment, I wondered if I had Fred on the line or had possibly dialed the wrong number and called an Irishman who was trying to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

    "Uh, I'm looking for Fred Alderson.  Are you Fred Alderson?" I asked.

    "Heel yep, I's Freeeed.  Wheer ye aaat?" he quipped, with a rising anger in his voice.

     I was finally able to give him directions to our home and hung up the phone.  "Well?" Kristi asked.  She was holding Ryan and sweating profusely.  The baby seemed content though.

     "I could barely understand him.  I mean, I think he's a mumbler or something.  I couldn't understand a word he said."

     "When's he coming?" 

     "Tomorrow morning, I think," I said, shaking my head and wondering if he was surely coming the next morning.  "I'm telling you, it was like he was speaking Mandarin Chinese or something."

     I got out of bed very early the next morning in anticipation of Fred's visit.  I quietly crept downstairs and waited.  And waited.  And waited.   Kristi had made the trip downstairs and stopped on the bottom step.  "No Fred yet?"

     "Nope, no Fred. But then again, he could have said he'd be here at nine, or seven.  Who the heck knows.  I couldn't understand him, it's like he had a mouth full of marbles."

     After a half hour or so, I got up and walked out to retrieve the newspaper.  To my amazement, an old truck was sitting in our driveway with an elderly gentleman fast asleep at the wheel!  "What the..." I thought.  I walked over to the truck and gently tapped on the window.

     "Good morning!  Can I help you?" I asked to the old fellow who had begun to stretch and roll the window down at the same time.

     "Yeeeah, I'm Feeed Aldreson...been seeeetin 'er fer erver.  Taught I toold yoo seeevin!" he growled.  Again, I didn't understand but a few words, but surmised that he, sure enough, was Fred, the AC guy.

     After a profuse apology by me, I led him into our home to survey the work that needed to be done.  Finally, after crawling around in the attic, looking into every room, and a walk around of the entire house, he began to scribble something on a note pad.  It was the estimate.  "Figuuuud I'dee white it seezin ye don't undeestund pwain Enrish," he growled from his seat at our kitchen table.  I looked at the estimate and I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  His writing was WORSE than his speech! I motioned for Kristi to take a gander.  She waddled over and looked for herself (remember, she was pregnant).

    "Yes, Mr. Alderson, that will be just fine.  When can you start?" Kristi said, as she glanced at me with a befuddled look and outstretched arms.  With that, we thought he said he'd start the next day.  Fred made his way to his truck and disappeared down the road.  I thought he told me that he would reduce the cost if I helped him with the work, but then again, he could have told me that I had a snake crawling out of my ear and I wouldn't have known.

    "How much is it?  I mean, I can't even read his writing!  It could be three thousand or maybe it's thirty thousand!  Who knows?" I whined.

    "Uh, it looks like, uh, maybe, uh... I don't know.  Good grief that's terrible writing!" Kristi said, with strained eyes.

    The next morning, I got out of bed even earlier than the day before.  I pulled a lounge chair onto the driveway and waited.  Soon, I heard the roar of Fred's truck.  He drove onto our driveway and stopped in front of the garage and me.  He opened the door of the truck slightly and spoke.  "I saiyed eeyight, no seeevin."  I glanced at my watch and noticed that sure enough the time was seven.  I also noticed that Fred had shut his door, pulled his hat over his face and appeared to be asleep.

     I folded my lounge chair and walked into the kitchen.  Kristi was sitting on a chair sipping a steaming cup of coffee and reading the back of a cereal box.  "Is Fred here?" she asked without looking at me.

     "Yeah, he's here.  He's currently asleep in his truck,"  I said, while simultaneously sliding a chair out to sit on.

     "He's asleep on our driveway?" 

     "Yep, like a baby.  Snoring and all,"

     We both laughed and could not imagine how we wound up hiring an HVAC mechanic who suffered from insomnia and had an extremely poor command of the English language.  Plus, he mumbled.  "When should I wake him?  Or should I wake him?" I asked my wife, who had risen from the table and was peering through the blinds at sleeping Fred.

     "I guess maybe we should just let him wake up whenever he's ready."

     Finally, Fred did wake up.  He showed up at the front door with a tool belt around his waist ready to work.  "If'n yoo heeelp mwe did wheel goo fasser," he mumbled while climbing the steps to the second floor of our house.

    For the next three days, I helped Fred.  Occasionally, he'd peek through a hole in the ceiling and ask for a hammer.  I'd hand him a screwdriver.  Sometimes, he'd need cable ties and I would hand him a hammer.  Tinsnips?  I handed him a socket set.  Duct tape?  I handed him his entire tool box. With each false move, I got an icy stare and I think he mumbled something about the younger generation not knowing a hacksaw from a horses a**.  I knew the difference between a hacksaw and a horse's a**, if the person speaking to me spoke in an audible tone in my language.  Mandarin Chinese mumblers need not apply.

    Finally, after three days, and many trips by me to Fred's truck to retrieve the wrong tools, the air condition came to life.  Despite an obvious and frustrating communication problem, Fred's morning naps, and my lack of knowing a hacksaw from a horse's a**, we had cool air circulating through the house.

   The bill for Fred's work was very reasonable, although I wrote and tore up three checks before I finally understood how much we owed him.  We've been enjoying our air conditioning for many years and I laugh when I think about Fred.  I also call my mom and dad occasionally on very hot days to make sure they're OK.  They are.  "Oh, we're fine.  Your dad just loves the mountain air at night," my mom will say without fail.

     

     

SQUARE FISHING AND WE'RE GOING DOWN!

     Over the years, I have been very well known for being an expert fish and wildlife repellent.  I have the uncanny ability to send aquatic life and woodland creatures racing to distant waters and woods. I also have the ability to send anglers and hunters scattering upon the mere sight of me.  In short I'm terrible at most things that involve feeding the family by means other than the local supermarket.  It's a talent like no other.
     I do however, like to take my little boat out and try to catch a few fish once in a while.  The story of how I came to own the little boat is of superior story quality.
     Years ago, Jeff, my brother-in-law, and I engaged in many fishing expeditions.  I am happy to report that at that time I did enjoy modest success in landing a few fish.  During those years, we worked with a young fellow who claimed that he was apparently put on this Earth to pull any and all fish from whatever body of water he happened upon at any particular day.  "You know, I'm getting sick and tired of listening to him lie constantly about his fishing prowess.  We need to go with him one day and show him how it's done," Jeff said, while simultaneously chewing on a bite of tuna salad.  We were situated on the tailgate of his truck and hadn't had much luck that particular day.
     "I agree.  I don't know anyone who has that kind of luck!  He's lying his butt off and I'm sick of it too!"  I said, as I stabbed another Vienna Sausage with my plastic fork.  "We need to go with him one day!"
     The next day, I called our lying friend and suggested we get together for a float trip on the Shenandoah River.  "Sure!  Is your boat river worthy?" he asked, as if we were novices of some sort.
     "Oh course it's river worthy!  It's a pontoon boat and we've hauled in many a fish from it!  We'll see you in the morning."  With that I hung up and started making plans.
     We arrived at the boat landing to find our truth stretching friend waiting impatiently for us.  "Thought you'd never get here.  Or maybe you chickened out," he said, as Jeff wheeled the truck around to unload our boat.  Immediately, our friend ambled over to the truck and studied our craft. "It's square," he said blankly.  An obnoxious smile crept across his face.
     "It's not a square, you twit!  It's a rectangle!" Jeff replied in somewhat of a irritated tone.
     "Naw, it's a square alright.  You can't fish off a square.  At least you can't fish with me off a square boat."
    I took a hard look at our sarcastic buddy's vessel, trying to imagine what could posses him to make fun of our craft. "I suppose you think that contraption you've got there is better than our sq... ah, rectangle!" I barked.  His canoe was sitting on the boat ramp, outfitted with a bolted in lounge chair, two pieces of pipe for holding his fishing rods, and a cooler overflowing with beer.  "That's the sorriest looking piece of crap I've ever laid eyes on!" I continued.
     "Yeah," Jeff chimed in.  Yeah?  I briefly felt that he could of come up with something a bit more forceful, but at least we were a unified front.
     Our boastful friend continued to stare at our rectangle boat, and drew a long gulp of his beer.  "Whatever."
     We launched our little pontoon boat away from the shore and immediately were passed by the humongous canoe our friend piloted.  "He doesn't even have a trolling motor!" Jeff said, as he guided us down the river.  We shared a good laugh and floated carelessly into the current, which caused our boat to briefly spin in circles.
     We immediately began to catch fish.  In fact we caught lots of fish.  Our friend did not appear to be having much luck.  "I knew he was full of crap.  He's had too much beer to even see straight, much less catch anything!" I said, as I reeled yet another small mouth bass into the boat.
     "Yeah, I'm glad I'm not in that canoe.  Whoever heard of fishing from a canoe while perched on a lounge chair anyway?" Jeff added, while operating the trolling motor with expert skill.
    We noticed that our friend and his gigantic canoe had turned into a mere dot on the river and we guessed that he was embarrassed by his lack of fishing skill, or the river was flowing much faster where he was.  "He's embarrassed," I said,  "I would be too," I continued.
     "He's standing up shouting something at us," Jeff said.  "I can't quite make out what he's saying though."  We craned our heads to the side and attempted to understand what was being shouted at us to no avail.
     "You know, the current seems to be picking up a bit.  I've got the motor in reverse and it's still pulling us, anchor and all," came the report from the rear of our little boat.
     "I think you're right.  Heck, just pull up the anchor and we'll just glide on down to calmer waters.  By the way, why is he standing on the shore?" I asked.  We could see that both the canoe and our tipsy friend were on dry land and he was frantically waving his arms in the air shouting yet again.
     "What the hell is wrong with him?"  I asked, while turning around to look at Jeff.  I have never seen the look that he gave me since that day.  His expression was a cross between someone who'd just witnessed the Hindenburg explode and someone who'd just seen bigfoot.   He remained silent and pointed down river.
     "Uh oh," I said.  The river twisted to the right and bottle necked into a raging, angry, monster.  The roar was deafening.  By the time we realized what was about to transpire, it was simply too late. White, bubbling water crashed over boulders in the middle of the river, and the roar of the rapids drowned out our screams.  Our buddy watched from the safety of the shore as we shot past him like a two idiots who'd been blasted out of the end of a cannon.
     As if the raging river and the boulders weren't enough of a concern, I spied a rather large log jutting out from the bank and into the river.  We were headed straight for the log.
     Until that day, I had always wondered what astronauts felt like before liftoff.  The water had directed our boat onto the log and thus causing the rear of the craft to be submerged in the bubbling, swirling torrent.  As a result, the front of the boat raised up causing it to stand end on end.  For a brief second, my back was perfectly parallel to the Earth.  "We're going down!" Jeff yelled.  I appreciated him pointing out the obvious.  Tackle boxes were launched into the air, fishing poles were jettisoned with mad fury.  Suddenly, and very much like the Titanic, the pitiful boat flipped and landed upside down.  Coolers and life jackets, dotted the river.  Soda cans floated aimlessly downstream.  Our arrogant and hysterical buddy stood on the shore doubled over with laughter.  Jeff and I crawled to shore.  Amazingly, our hats, although soaked, remained on our heads.
     "Told you that you can't fish from a square boat!  Oh this is great!" our friend bellowed.  "I tried to warn you, but nooooo, don't listen to me!" he continued.  He had indeed tried to warn us with all of his yelling and arm waving, but it was of little help.
     We swam to calmer waters and retrieved the boat, and salvaged what other equipment we could, but most of our gear was then one with the river. We rode home in silence, and saturated clothes, embarrassed, but happy that we had survived.  Our friend and his canoe floated carelessly to the boat ramp without incident.
     I now own that little sq.. ah, rectangle boat.  Jeff decided that maybe it deserved another home after such a traumatic wreck.  I have been out on that little boat many times over the years, but have never attempted that stretch of the Shenandoah River again, but maybe one day I will.  Surely, my son would love to know just how an astronaut feels in the moment before liftoff.
 
 
   

THIS IS NOT YOUR DAD'S HOMEWORK

     I am of great help to my kids.  Let's take homework for example.  I'm here for them.  When they're downstairs doing their homework, I'm upstairs.  When they're doing homework downstairs, I'm in my workshop lying low. When they come into my workshop asking for help with homework, I instantly start up a piece of equipment, thus drowning out their requests, but I am here.
     "Dad, I need help," Ryan growled while trying to complete a rather nasty algebra homework assignment.  "Dad!!!" the boy bellowed again.
     "For heaven's sake, answer him.  He needs some help!" Kristi chirped from the kitchen.
     I craned my neck around the recliner and stared at her briefly,  "Why don't YOU help him?"
     "Because I'm busy, that's why."
     In the moments leading up to that little exchange, she surely had been busy.  I guess sitting on a bar stool staring at her cell phone constituted 'being busy'.  I was busy too.  Apparently my busy and her busy are not on the same level of being busy.  I was trying to take a nap.  That's busy in my book.
     It's not that we don't want to help our kids with their homework.  It's just that we're too dumb to offer any real assistance.  To begin with, math of today is not the math of my day.  Yes, I took algebra and let's just say that I was probably one of the last students to benefit from social promotion.
     Kristi is a high school science teacher, so naturally she should be the homework enforcer.  "I teach Biology, not math," comes the excuse, without fail.  "You use lots of math on your job.  It's fresh in your mind."  It's true, I do use some math on  my job.  I use addition, subtraction, multiplication and division.  There's never any x, y, squiggly lines, brackets, parenthesis, or any other strange looking signs or symbols involved in my workplace math.
     "I don't do algebra on my job," I answered.
     With that, I was met with the usual ominous stare. "Your mother said you were a fine student... including math, besides, didn't you take a bunch of engineering classes?" she said, still trying to convince me to amble over to the kitchen table to make myself look like an idiot in front of our son.  I was a fairly good student, but it wasn't because of superior intellect.  It was because most of my teachers looked like vikings and I was scared to death of what would happen to me if failed to complete an assignment. One lady, who taught me in second grade, actually had a full beard.  She left education and now stars in Capital One commercials. I also took a few engineering classes which required lots of math mastery.  But in those days, my brain was fully intact and hadn't been ravaged by the distractions of raising two bickering kids and a wife who always needed to 'talk' to me about something.
     "Forget it, I figured it out," came the exasperated voice of our son.
     Sidney always requires a helper when it comes to her homework.  I don't necessarily think she really needs the help, but rather a duet of moaning and groaning because of the homework appeals to her.  "Why do they have to give sooooo much homework!  I mean, she's in the sixth grade for crying out loud!" I groaned before school ended last year.
     "Oh good grief, if it's that big of a deal, let me help her," Kristi said.
     "Fine, have at it," I said, while heading toward the back door.
     "What are you working on? Oh, it's math," she said, with a very perplexed look beginning to creep onto her face.  I paused at the door and looked at my wife.
     "Oh my, I need to start supper.  Neil, why don't you come back in here and help her with her math, I really need to start cooking," she continued.  Math, it's like looking at a welding flash.
     "Oh this is easy, here's how it's done," I said, sliding back into the chair I'd vacated only moments before.
     "Dad!  That's not how you do it!  This is how we do it!" the girl exclaimed.
     "Well that's not how we did it when I was in school.  I've never seen anything like that," I barked.  It was true.  I hadn't seen anything like what she was doing.  There were way more steps to get the answer than I remembered.   "New math," I groaned.
     Despite the fact that algebra and English literature seem to make my brain cells congeal into a useless blob, I am a master at projects.  There are few men in this world who can match me and my creativity when it comes to elementary school projects.  Surely, I hope, that Ryan and Sidney have taken some knowledge away from watching me work meticulously on their assignments.  Who knows, maybe one of them will be in charge of the baking soda volcano section at a prestigious museum.  Or perhaps even better, they someday will be world renowned consultants on the subject of miniature tee pee construction and styro foam solar systems.
     Unfortunately, as our children get older and the assignments get harder, I will continue to get dumber.  By the time they've both graduated my head should have completed it's evolution into a hollow void.  Fortunately, I may just be able to take that nap.
   
     I

PROPER VACATIONING IN A TROPICAL PARADISE

     "This is the captain.  We are currently circling above Fort Myers due to the severe weather below, and will likely need to divert to Tampa in order to land.  Thanks for your understanding," came the crackling message over the airplane's cabin speakers.
     Immediately, everyone around me began pecking away on their cell phones to call or text loved ones, or to perhaps to check the weather radar around the airport.  Unfortunately for me, I am the last holdout and currently own an old dumb phone.  I could have stared at my list of contacts, but that wouldn't have done much good unless the urge to call someone and catch up on old times.  I began to formulate a plan and decided that we'd simply rent our car in Tampa and drive the additional four hours south to Marco Island.  I couldn't gauge my wife's reaction due to the fact that I was sandwiched between two total strangers.  We decided to fly on an airline that didn't offer assigned seats, so when boarding started, passengers scrambled onto the plane like cattle at feeding time.  This little exercise left my family and I scattered hither and yon about the aircraft.
     "This is the captain speaking.  There is a brief window of opportunity to land, so we are going to give it a shot," came yet another announcement from the cockpit.  Finally, we landed and made our way to the baggage claim and on to the rental car agency.
     Within a couple of hours, we were standing on the balcony of our condo watching the wind and rain cause the swaying palm trees to double over.  "It's going to rain sharks,"  Ryan said wryly.  "I've never seen it rain like this."
     The weather forecast was bleak.  Severe storms were blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico and things weren't supposed to clear out for another two days.
    "There's a break in the weather!" Kristi said, as she burst into the bedroom where I was still in a deep slumber.  "I am watching the forecast and we have a few hours until the next storm arrives! I've packed sandwiches and drinks and snacks in the cooler!  Lets go while we can!" she continued, as I tried to wipe the sleep from my eyes.  With that, we marched out onto the sand with enough belongings to camp for at least a week.  It should be noted that there were two ways in which a person could access the beach.  First, a long and very wide lagoon could be crossed to reach a more secluded beach to the north.  Second, we could simply walk across the sand and arrive unfettered at the beach to the South within a couple of minutes.  Which did we choose?  The lagoon crossing of course.  It's always more practical to ford a quarter mile lagoon, while lugging everything but the kitchen sink while a tropical storm is set to roar in at any minute. It should also be noted that this little expedition was not my idea. My wife in all her excitement preferred the more primitive route due to being more in touch with nature. Soon, we would be exceedingly in touch with nature.
     "I'm going shelling!" Kristi chirped, while heading to even more secluded regions of the shore.  I felt a sinking feeling when I noticed that we were the ONLY people as far as the eye could see.  That sinking feeling sunk a bit more when I noticed a very dark and ominous sky creeping our way from the west.  Finally, that sinking feeling sunk to it's lowest depths when lightning started streaking across the sky and the wind began to howl.  Stinging grains of sand pelted our skin, and the kids raced toward my chair, which was held down only because I was sitting in it.  "Where's mom?!!" Ryan screamed over the howling wind.
     "I haven't the foggiest, but she better get here fast, because I'm out of here."  I answered, as rain bounced off my face.
     I'd never seen my wife in an all out sprint, but suddenly and without notice, she appeared.  At first she was a mere dot in the distant rain and wind.  But in an instant  she had performed her best Carl Lewis impression and was standing next to me. Soon she was huffing and puffing, racing to grab as much as her arms could hold.  "Oh my gosh!  We're in a bad spot!  Ruuuuuun!"
     Sidney was mad.  "Mom just had to drag us out here!  Now were going to die!" the child screamed as the thunder and lightning rocked the shoreline.
     We didn't die, but we could have.  We arrived safely at our condo and the storm blew over.
     Finally, the weather cleared and the rest of the week looked like clear sailing for us.  We fished, swam, went shelling (the shells on the Gulf of Mexico are wonderful) and generally lounged around, soaking up the sun.  We also walked... a lot.  Constant walking in wet shorts can produce some very undesirable results.  You guessed it, chaffing of the worst kind.
     "Dad, I'm sore," Ryan said.
     I felt his pain.  I too, was extremely chaffed.  " I know son, I am too.  It's all this darned walking we're doing," I said, while trying to adjust my swimming shorts for more comfort.  "Sidney's having problems too."
     I convinced Kristi that we needed to retreat back to the condo to give our pitiful inner thighs some attention.  So, with that we ambled, slowly, like the Earp brothers heading to the OK Corral, back to the condo for some comfort.
    Despite some foul weather, chaffed thighs, and airport delays, we had a wonderful vacation.  Now we're home and I think I'll take a nap.  Maybe I'll dream about next years adventure, minus the tropical storms and those very sore thighs.