Lewis and Clark? No, clue us and lark
Published: September 23, 2004
Thursday, Sept. 23, 2004
Lewis and Clark? No, clue us and lark
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Absurd spoonerisms uttered at maximum volume are the one thing that always elicits some sort of verbal response other than the all-encompassing "All done!" from my eight-year-old son with autism. Unfortunately, the number of locales in which one might shout, say, "Poctor Depper," a.k.a. "Doctor Pepper," are limited to:
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Here are all the sordid details of our last trip, made on a day when, gosh, let me gin up a goofy simile ... ah, yes, a day when the skies were as blue as the eyes of a Viking bride. Anyway, here's the narrative, which is based loosely on chronology:
The Drive: Nothing to do with John Elway breaking Cleveland Browns' fans' hearts here. My two sons and I began the journey in the family minivan, which I rarely drive. Before leaving the driveway, I searched for suitable music for the trip. I could locate only two CDs: Sarah McLachlan's "Mirrorball" and "Singles" by The Smiths. Aural wasabi, folks. The trip was made sans music.
Meadow Trail: It's the newest trail in the park. According to the brochure, it "showcases native plant life and critters that call the prairie home." Apparently, a mastodon of some sort roams in the area if animal droppings are any clue to the variety of wildlife that reside in the trail's vicinity. "Dad, look at that poop," my youngest son exclaimed as we encountered a Bill Brasky-sized specimen. I urged him along, not anxious at that particular time to share in his delight of all things scatological. Plus, one feels the need to get through the trail quickly: Several apartment units overlook the trail, and, well, sometimes paranoia just kicks in. Plus, the boys were quickly exhausting the supply of water we'd brought.
Prairie Dogs: Or Dairy Progs, whatever you like to call them. As we watched them duck and skitter and chirp, my oldest son offered in an inimitable sing-song his first unprompted verbage of the journey: "They're eating the grass. Don't eat too fast. You'll get the hiccups." Aforesaid unprompted verbage provoked me to seek a continuing of the conversation with a timely, "Hit the giccups." The boy laughed and screamed, "Get the hiccups!" My fantastic peripheral vision noticed an elderly couple whose less than fleet-footed maneuvering said, "Maybe we won't visit Sod Poodle City after all." Sorry about that.
Trail A: It's the longest of the trails. For the first time in a long while, I spotted a jogger. Actually, the jogger bumped into my oldest son with nary a nod or "Excuse me." Look: While we all need to do our part to keep ourselves fit and impress all the nature-lovin' ladies out there, I couldn't help but inaudibly express scorn. The trail is far too narrow to go playing Rudy the Rabbit (Chris Makepeace, "Meatballs," the outcast who makes buddies with Bill Murray and wins the hearts of all via a stirring cross-country victory) in an environment meant to induce a Zen-like feeling of leisure and peace. Once Rudy passed by, my youngest son said, "Who's chasing him, dad?" "Karma, I hope." But maybe it was payback for the loud back-and-forth between my son and me. Hmm ...
Big Bridge: That's what it's called in the brochure. From the heights, an array of carp or catfish -- what am I, Don Wallace? -- can be viewed, especially if one takes the trouble to bring along a large bag of cat food or other vittles suitable for bottom-dwelling aquatic life. We dropped handful after handful into the creek, the fish thrashed and the turtles arrived, as did the aforementioned elderly couple, intent as they were upon braving the spectacle that was us. My oldest son said to them, "They're eating Rice Krispies," which he'd actually eaten for breakfast that very morning. Two wan smiles, one empty bag and one empty water bottle later, it was time to move on.
Office/Museum: Always the highlight of the trip: For one, there are ancient exhibits to toy with. Also present: a machine that dispenses cold canned beverages for a paltry 55 cents. The idea: Bribe the boys with non-caffeinated sodas (7-Up) before they tear the joint apart.
Leaving: At the park's entrance, we ridded ourselves of the empty cans. Always curious, I asked my youngest son if he'd had a nice time. "I especially liked the 7-Up," he said. I then asked the same question of my older boy. "A tice nime," he said, then laughed. Not until we were in the van and well on our way home did I shout the expected response. Karma, you know? -- posted 11:56 p.m.
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