It’s not often I do this anymore, but today I was feeling thoroughly sorry for myself, so I took my snotty, stuffy self and set out to ‘the chair’ in the backyard to sit in the sun. Book in hand, down I plopped relishing the relative silence of the suburbs on a Sunday afternoon.
Yep – you got it. The late summer serenade of cicadas and crickets was soon drowned out by the booming voice of our kitty-corner neighbor, his wife’s high-pitched shrills, and joy of joys, his brother with bratty 11-ish bruiser of a son in tow.
“Uncle Dave! Watch me, watch me!” Kaboom!
And so it began. Or should I say, ended. With that cannonball splash I knew my moments in the sweet sun were numbered, but not until I was witness to this discourse between father of brat and uncle of same.
“So you’re headed to Virginia for vacation? Cool beans. Gonna stop in Williamsburg?”
“Nope.” Said dad of brat. “The kids would be bored. There are no rides.”
I knew it anyway, but it was thusly confirmed that these are people I do not want to know.
I hate amusement park rides.