July 02, 2009 08:26 pm
—
I got to the end of the street just a bit late, so I wasn’t able to give John a piece of advice.
John was explaining a few rules for our eighth annual neighborhood Fourth of July Bike Parade. John was explaining the rules to a throng of kids whose ages ranged from 12 to 1. The kids were preparing to zip off down the streets on their bikes. Well, not all of the kids would be zipping off down the streets on the bikes. Many of them would be pushed, or pulled by parents.
The advice I wanted to give to John before he began explaining the rules to the kids was this: “They won’t listen.”
I remember the first year we organized the bike parade. At the time, Bill was the one doing the explaining-of-the-rules. I remember that Bill cautioned the kids to be careful.
“It’s not a race,” is what Bill said.
While Bill was saying “It’s not a race,” every kid lined up in front of him was thinking, “It IS a race.”
On Wednesday night, one of the things John talked to the kids about was the importance of staying behind the golf cart carrying the parade grand marshal, Laurel Rosenthal. So, of course, when the parade began, half of the kids on bikes sped past the golf cart.
Oh well.
By the way, my wife doesn’t read my column very often (no, really?), but if she reads this one, I’m in real trouble. See, about five paragraphs earlier I wrote the following sentence: “I remember the first year we organized the bike parade.”
See, technically that sentence is incorrect. The part of the sentence that is incorrect is the part where I wrote “we organized.” Again, technically, “we” didn’t organize the bike parade. My wife and Bill’s wife, Lana, organized the bike parade. We mainly stood around and said, “Yes, dear.”
But I think that counts for something.
Wife: Mike, you need to air up the tires on Emma’s bike.
Me: Yes, dear.
Wife: You need to go get ice.
Me: Yes, dear.
Wife: You need to put that beer down and come help me.
Me: I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.
My wife and Lana came up with the bike parade idea years ago because they thought it would be “fun.” I thought the bike parade would be a “pain in the Limbaugh.” And, initially, I was correct. But over the years, my wife and Lana have sort of got the whole organizing-the-bike-parade deal down pat. In the past few years, the whole organizing-the-bike-parade thing seemed to sort of take care of itself.
Of course, it’s possible that the reason I think the organizing-the-bike-parade thing is taking care of itself is because I — again, technically speaking — am a moron.
When I got home Wednesday evening, someone had already set up and decorated a picnic table and placed it in the parkway. Someone else had already made a big cooler of lemonade. Someone else had baked roughly 2,874 cookies and decorated our 11-year-old daughter Emma’s bike and set up a line of chairs in our front yard.
When I climbed out of my car, I saw my wife staring at me.
“So what have you been doing all day?” I asked.
“*&^^&,” my wife said.
Apparently, my wife is “Someone.”
Fortunately, before my wife could politely explain to me what she had been doing all day, folks started arriving for the parade. I immediately jumped in to greet the early arrivals. The main way I did this was to seek out Laurel’s husband, Malcolm.
Malcolm: Do you still keep the beer on your deck in back?
Me: Yes.
Malcolm (walking toward my back yard): Good.
So while my wife, Lana and a host of other wives scurried around taking care of the last-minute parade details, Malcolm and I sat on my deck and talked about important things. Malcolm had read a book about the Anheuser-Busch family, so we talked about the book for a while. We enjoyed our conversation so much that I almost forgot about the parade, which is why I didn’t have time to give John any advice before he talked to the kids on their bikes.
But that’s OK. I can give him my advice before next year’s parade.
I just hope someone gets all the parade work done before I get home.
Copyright © 1999-2008 cnhi, inc.