RENAISSANCE DAD
Photos courtesy of the author
By Perry P. Perkins Wearily I stood, every bone crying out in protest as I gazed across the muddy battlefield.
A little backstory may be in order . . .
When was I last warm and dry? I could not remember. All was wet and dreary, icy rain spitting from iron skies, chilling my bones. And everywhere I looked was cold and mud.
It’s late October and, we, along with a dozen other parents, had been herded onto a school bus with approximately 11,000 first graders, all of them hopped up on Froot Loops and shrieking like Valkyries.
Around me, as far as my eyes could see, the sodden fields were littered with the crushed and broken remains of the fallen, trodden into the earth by our merciless boots. She appeared out of the fog in front of me, as weary and mud streaked as I; her face set and grim as she clutched a severed trophy of war in her arms. Clearly, she had seen as much of the horror as I, but she marched on, resolute. “Come,” she said, her voice cracked and broken from bellow orders over the cacophony of battle, “it’s time to leave. We’re going home . . .” “Home?” I murmured, finding no meaning for the word in my tortured brain. “I cannot remember home . . . Let me die here in peace.” “Spare me the drama, Hemingway,” she spat, trudging past me. “I need a latte, a handful of Advil, and a long, hot bath so just pick up your pumpkin and get on the bus.” The bus. Oh, no, not the yellow torture chamber again . . . I couldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . “Shake a leg, Perkins! We ain’t waitin’,” my beloved growled over her shoulder. I got on the bus.
You see, at our daughter’s school, every parent, in addition to submitting an exorbitant tuition, is also required to “volunteer” for a number of events throughout the school year. They call it, “giving back.” I call it extortion. We’ve agreed to disagree. Muttering about, “Taxation without representation,” I climbed aboard. Now, I am a man of healthy proportions, and no longer designed for school bus seats. Knees to chest, I sat, my nose inches away from the hard, green seat in front of me. The whole vehicle reeked of plastic and cleaning fluid. Having once been a short, vaguely gourd-shaped child with Coke-bottle glasses and K-Mart clothes, I do not have fond memories of riding in school busses. The door slammed closed with the grim finality of a coffin lid. By the time our bus lurched to a stop at the edge of the pumpkin patch, I couldn’t feel my legs anymore and I was fairly certain that I had permanent hearing damage. Stumbling out into the gray morning light, I fought the urge to drop to my knees and kiss the sweet, sweet ground, but there was no continued on next page
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Vancouver Family Magazine • www.vancouverfamilymagazine.com • October 2019