Let's start from the beginning. I woke up first on this particular Sunday, a common initiation in our household. It was 5:15 AM and none of us were in the house. We were in a tent in the backyard. During the pandemic, the idea of living off the land was adventurous and advantageous. Our girls loved the campfire attraction right outside our doorstep and the parents needed a thrill that was outside the walls that had us boxed in. After years of commitment, camping in the backyard is now a standard operating parental procedure that has not lost luster. It comes with SMORES, the possibility of an outdoor movie, and the guarantee of Dad SNORES.
A tradition that was born out of the backyard camp was Dad going to Dunkin Donuts to deliver "breakfast in tent". I honored my daughters' request by driving my Subaru on the inaugural sugar rush years ago. Then, somewhere during the pandemic madness, I decided - this is too easy and the world is too weird - I will bike to destination donuts.
Biking from Brownstown to Westmont requires almost immediate hills to humble thy father. On this Sunday I was also up again incoming rainfall. This bike mission felt quite apocalyptic as there were very few signs of life and the atmosphere was brewing for a burst. Alas, it was I bursting into Dunkin. "Blueberry and Coconut donuts, to go please, I am on bicycle. That is why I am sweating at 6:00 AM."
When I reemerged as a backyard hero, my wife and children clapped for me and neighbors sung my praises. Just kidding, everyone was still asleep. The birds cheered. I ate my coconut donut in peace, sipping on coffee and the sweet nectar of Mother Nature. Then, the beasts wobbled out of our monstrous blue tent. Sunday is on like Donkey Kong.
After I watched my offspring devour the nourishment I heroically provided. It was time for me to leave once more, this time by vehicle. I attended a Sunday morning small group that has become an essential ingredient to my earthly existence. It is often fathers talking, laughing, and lumbering through life's challenges. It blends faith, humor, travel, hope, and a wellspring of coffee. The fellowship truly only has one essential ingredient - a belief in a Creator, a gratitude for this opportunity.
So, it was I that came home as Donkey Kong post-fellowship. My wife reminded me that she and my daughters had to take a church picture at high noon. I told her, "what if I hike through Stackhouse Park and meet you at the church that I just left an hour ago". She said "Brilliant, you lunatic" with her eyeballs. I love that look. I get it often. Also, I want to point out - dear readers - I was not going to be in this photograph. My hike was justified.
The girls took a gorgeous snapshot while I made my way through the forest. Once reunited, my oldest locked in with what I was thinking...
"NOW WHAT TO DO WE DO?!?!"
And then suddenly the Laurel Highlands called out to us - my eldest daughter and me - "Head to the hills of Donegal" (deep voice, not heard by wife and youngest child). Let's Subaru Ascent to Caddie Shak! My wife and youngest daughter jump on board after we explain the calling.
When I was a young buck, Caddie Shak was Donegal. If you were in Donegal, you were at Caddie Shak. And here I was on #7 at the Olde Mini Golf Course, back in my glory. Sunshine, glorious. Wife, glorious. Children, glorious. Pond frogs, glorious.
Shot #1: Ball rolls back to me (Out of Bounds, Penalty Stroke)
Shot #3: Ball rolls back to me (Out of Bounds, Penalty Stroke)
Another family of four closing in on me. Awkward silence from my wife. Awkward silence from the family waiting on the tee box. Oldest daughter "encouraging" me not to give up. Youngest daughter can't watch any more of this ramp torture.
Shot #5: Ball rolls back to me (Out of Bounds, Penalty Stroke).
Pick up ball. Card "7".
I was silent and fine until I saw the sunglow on my wife's smiling face. She was fighting laughter... poorly. My kids were already on Hole 8. I was an emotional fragile 8-year-old school boy wondering where it all went wrong. Good news, I recovered. Bad news, my wife got a Hole-In-One on #18 and slammed the door shut on my comeback attempt. Victory is hers. Humility is mine. There was little time for emotional processing. Onward to Grand Prix.
When we got in line for Go Karts, I did not know what to expect. I did not expect my oldest daughter to qualify as a driver. There I was watching my life flash before my eyes. The Go Kart roar echoing over Donegal like it was the Indianapolis 500. My wife and youngest in the opposite lane, buckling in, a formidable tandem. I was directly behind my first-born, who was equally astonished by being behind the wheel. It was a full lineup of Go Karters. You could feel the energy. A teenage Go Kart expert announced race rules that I could not decipher over the firepower and angst. AND WE ARE OFF!
Here comes a true Dad comment - those Karts have some zip! If Caddie Shak captured my face on that first lap, it would have been a frozen face of "Oh, wow!, Oh, wow?, Oh wow!?!, Oh no!?, Oh yes!, Oh!"
And you just keep going. It felt like we did 500 laps. To see my 9-year-old commanding a Go-Kart amongst other Donegal drivers went from bewildering to blissful. She may or may not have spun out another preteen, breaking the "no bumping" rule.
"Officer, it is hard not to bump when you are going 100 MPH."
When we left Caddie Shak, my oldest believed she was a better driver. My youngest believed she was a better putter. I don't know what my wife believed. It is hard to read women. I believed we should head to Rockwood and get a bite @ Trailhead Brewing. After trailing most of the day on both the mini golf course and race track, my new nickname could be "Trailhead".
The drive from Donegal to Rockwood was an open country experience; a field of longhorns, an oriole chasing a crow over corn stalks, the sale of maple syrup, topsoil, and firewood around every twist and turn. Upon reaching Trailhead, we were graced with the final songs of a live musical act. I ordered delicious and hearty Italian paninis from The Fat Squirrel Restaurant while my ladies set up shop. Once the music ended, I filtered through the brewery's games, finding the card game, WTF (What The Fish).
13 hours after hopping on my bike, we were in fast-flowing water, shouting What The Fish! in Rockwood. God Bless America.
The girls fell asleep on the ride home. My wife and I looked back on the day that was. We had a lot of laughs. We did not talk about Hole #7. We had a lot of fun. There was one thing left to do before we slept in the house.
We took down the tent.
With Father's Day around the corner, I am grateful for days like this one. For my wife, who is our engine. For my kids who provide the spark. Crazy about my family, my faith, Mother Nature, and the adventure that is every sunrise.
Rest up, Johnstown.
Love lunacy.
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