A cookout, the day before Labor Day. Do you want these? I asked. Mmmm, not really, she said. How about this potato. Youll probably like that. OK. But if I dont, youre eating the rest. She gave me half of her potato. Its OK, but you can have the rest. Dessert was rich. Chocolate and cream and brownie and crunchy stuff. Here Dad, I cant eat anymore. I shrugged and finished hers, didnt want to be rude to our hosts. We said goodbyes, we were off to the local fair, to ride cheesy rides, play rip-off games in hopes to win crap, and maybe eat some junk. Donning all the rides you can ride wristbands, we surveyed the landscape. There was no line for the spinning spinning ride. We spun in a small circle while the ride spun us in a bigger circle. Hmm. Thats unusual, I thought. I began to sweat, my brow and forearms beaded up. I looked at my feet and ignored the spinning spinning. That was better. Bumper cars? I asked. YES! she said. She drove her own car, a blue one. Much faster than my dogging red car. She lapped me several times, banging me and laughing at me each time. She walked through fun houses and scary houses, won a stuffed seahorse by breaking a couple of things a couple of times. Pirate Ship Swing? YES! she said. The music was loud, all the little girls were singing along. The arc of the swing increased, soon 180 degrees. Hmm, I thought. I started sweating again, despite the wind from the swinging. My head began to pound. Three quarters of the way through the ride, I got a mouthful. Three long minutes, wondering when it would end, wondering what was so chunky (the salmon, the veggies, or the dessert?). I wondered what color it would prove to be: brown and white of the last-in dessert, a mishmash of fish and roasted veggies, or the bright orange of the spiced chip dip I first snacked on? Kathryn smiled at me. I returned her smile, mine was tight-lipped. The swing slowed. I could do this. As the operator moved to release the restraint, I moved to the edge of the seat. Quickly and deftly stepping off the ride, through the gate, I spied a trash can. No one speak to me, I thought. No one did. Hoping Id put distance between me and my daughter, I spat into the trash. She was lock-step with me. Dad, was that SPIT? Yes, I lied shamelessly. And it was the bright orange of the spicy dip. As we walked to the next ride, she noted, DAD, you sweat through your shirt. I did? playing stupid. Bumper cars? I asked. She lapped me and laughed some more. Damned red car. Composed and without the excess, back to spinning and swinging rides. A minor mistake. No more mouthfuls, no more wondering about color and texture. Lots more sweating and head pounding. I celebrated my victory with another go at the Bumper Cars. She laughed and taunted me, from standing in line, through the ride, and the walk to the car. The sun was setting, she tore off her wristband, and tore off mine, showing me how it is done. School would begin in two days. Summer was almost over. I did not kiss her goodnight.
Posted on: Fri, 05 Sep 2014 12:02:50 +0000
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