The trip was almost complete. The kids stood in line and were awarded their junior ranger badges by the very impressed ranger. These kids knew a lot. True. Their chauffeur had a pounding headache though and managed to tune most of the battlefield lingo out while concentrating on capturing the whole thing for posterity.
The next day we headed home. Pat drove and Dad asked me if he could sit in the front seat with Pat. Well. Um. Sure. If you have ever ridden in an airport shuttle, then you know that the seats in the back are not crazy comfortable. They are benches. No head rest. I really wanted to try to sleep while I wasn't behind the wheel. Sleep was the only thing that seemed to combat the headache pain.
Dad wouldn't hear of it, so off to the backseat I went. No chance of snoozing.
Pat and Dad chatted endlessly about the White Sox. Trades. Stats. Hopes for next season. You can only imagine the shit they dreamt of to obsess over.
|We hiked up this lookout tower to get a better |
view of one of the battlefields. There is nothing
I fancy more than an empty field that
has formerly served as a battlefield.
When it was my turn to take the wheel, Pat offered to sit in the back seat so that Dad could remain in the more comfortable bucket seat opposite me. Dad shook his head. No, he would be fine in the back. My take: he had filled up on conversation with Pat and undoubtedly had very little left to chat about with me, so the back seat would work just fine. (that is my middle child version of events, and I dare say it is most likely not that far off of the truth).
As I drove, Dad leaned forward slightly in his seat. 'Hey, Pat, did I ever tell you about the time when I was working at the big accounting firm?' Pat, by the way, is not an accountant. Neither am I. Dad is a retired accountant.
We happened to be driving under one of those overpass restaurants that you see on the expressway. Apparently it jogged this story that Dad decided to share . . . with Pat. I was sitting there, but I assumed the story would be one that I wouldn't be able to grasp because of my limited knowledge in whatever the heck he was going to share.
|The last night in the hotel. My 'girl' room |
hosted the boy cousins who wanted
to watch TV or play cards with the girls.
The end was in sight, people.
Dad talked about a guy who took his place after he left the big accounting firm. The guy's job was to audit restaurants. He misunderstood the directions and when he stopped to collect receipts, he also collected the cash from the restaurants. He kept all of the cash in his car as he drove to the next stop. The restaurants started calling the accounting place in a panic because the newby hadn't deposited any of the cash. He was just driving around with the money in his car.
Dad chuckled hard as he told it. I was so glad that I hadn't bothered to listen. How could I have EVER tried to wrap my brain around the accounting concepts represented here? NOT. (um, I was a business major in college, I can talk FIFO and the like all day, but this little anecdote didn't every require the most rudimentary knowledge of accounting or business).
The moral of the story: I am only good for my big-ass van and my video skills (although that is purely voluntary) - after that, forget about it. Dad can converse with Pat and not even give me the time of day. How do you like that?
Gettysburg tour 2 complete. No one was happier than me to get home.