The family vacation started last Friday with The Big Daddy driving the family to Chicago. He tends to fancy himself as a pioneer, forging a trail northward for Ma and the Youngins. We have hitched our wagon to this trail for nineteen long years and The Big Daddy is about making Good Time. Move along, let's go, time's a wasting. The trip with a stop for lunch takes nine hours, but Pa would love to crack that time and have something to tell the menfolk over the campfire while they're whittling their pipes.
Somewhere in Iowa I had to take a bathroom break and The Big Daddy said I'll just keep the car running while you go in. That means run that overactive bladder of yours in and out so we stay on schedule. Back in the car and down the road he says to me, "We should have been at this point at 2:45 instead of 2:52." What are you talking about? " I'm calculating our ETA and now we're off by seven minutes." I'll be sure to wear Depends from now so you won't be able to tell if I'm looking out the window or peeing in my diaper.
Ten miles from our destination and due to arrive thirty minutes early, we came to a screeching halt due to construction. Like a driver in a NASCAR race, The Big Daddy pulled off the road and bobbed and weaved in search of an alternate route. Trouble was he was in unfamiliar turf, but it just so happened to be the town where both of my grandmas lived and I knew a little something about the old school ways of getting around before they put in an interstate. Namely, Route 6.
He will tell you that he was never really trying to beat the nine hour mark, that he wasn't out to prove anything and that I'm just like my brother when it comes to embellishing a story. There's some truth to that. I'm just saying that like Moses, it was me that delivered my people to the Promised Land.