I feel bad for Mike Slater. I know. Who is Mike Slater? His Dad dies every 5-10 minutes on the radio and TV. Then he tells us how his father’s life insurance helped out “my mother, my brother, and I.”
And furthermore, I blame myself for noticing the real problem. I’m sorry about his Dad, and for the pain his mother, brother, and him are going through.
But, for crying out loud, I’m going to lose it if I hear him mangle the English language one more time. It’s “and me,” not “and I.” I can’t even think about his Dad, dang it!
Now I’m thinking about my Dad. Not insurance, just my Dad. And some of our vacations. We rented a Winnebago, and my parents took my brother, my sister, four cousins, and “me” to Mexico. We were setting up at a motorhome park.
Dad was having trouble pulling out the electrical cord, which was stored behind a heavy panel on the side of the Winnebago. Apparently, we’d shoved it a little too far inside the day before. He asked me to hold up the panel while he ducked his head underneath to reach it.
Then, I felt it—an electrical charge on the cover. Of course, I let go. It’s amazing how much speed and force can happen in just a few inches. “Bam!” Right on the back of his head. He went down like a beaten boxer—a knockout in the first round.
I killed my Dad. (I wasn’t old enough to know if he had life insurance.)
Days later (20 seconds), he woke up. He was alive, but very unhappy. He got over it, but never asked me to hold up anything above his head again.
Another vacation, this time in Florida. We stayed with my Aunt Mary. Each day we traveled in Dad’s van to watch my nephew pitch in the Senior Little League World Series.
These were the days before we all had the advantage of GPS with turn-by-turn audio help. So, of course, the first night after the games, we traveled using word-of-mouth instructions from Aunt Mary to my Dad.
Dad spent twenty years in the United States Air Force as an air traffic controller, directing traffic in some of the world’s busiest airspaces. Even with that experience, something went wrong, and we took the wrong gate on the turnpike.
Shortly after we left the toll booth, Dad realized we were headed away from our intended destination. We drove about twenty miles until the next exit, turned around, and finished the hour-long trip in just over 100 minutes.
This wouldn’t happen the next night because, unlike the first night, Aunt Mary was accompanying us in person. We approached the toll booths. Dad calculated it and moved into the proper lane.
Aunt Mary was in the navigator’s seat to the pilot’s right. I was in the back seat, and two of my kids were in the van’s third row.
Panic set in. There were doubts. When we were a few vehicles back, Aunt Mary screamed, “We’re in the wrong lane…switch lanes now!”
“Are you sure?” Dad questioned. “I think we took that lane last night.”
Then it happened! Dad veered to the left and paid the toll. We got at least five hundred feet from the booth when Aunt Mary exclaimed, “Oh, no! You were right. This is the wrong lane!! I’m so sorry!”
Remember in “A Christmas Story”, Ralphie’s Dad filled the air with a string of expletives? Well, it sounded kinda like that.
“I had it all figured out! Now we’ve got to drive an extra hour again!! @#%^#^&&!!!”
This, of course, brings Aunt Mary to tears and a stream of apologies. Ashley and Finch, in the very back, are doing an amazing job of pretending to be asleep. It’s time for me to intercede.
“Dad, let’s just look for an opening in the median and make a U-turn.”, I suggested.
“It’s against the law! You can’t just cross over. All the connections are for police and emergency units only!!” Dad is adamant that we will not compound our problems by adding a reckless driving citation to the calamity.
Finally, after several more attempts to encourage traffic law violations, I offered to drive the vehicle through the median myself. I’ll take the hit for the violation if we’re nabbed.
With my Dad, there is a point where it’s best to shut up. This was that moment, so I did just that.
After about ninety seconds of silence, it happened. A sharp left turn, down an incline, back up an incline, another sharp left, and here we are…on course, on glide-path!! (That’s air traffic controller speak for “looking good!”). We completed the remainder of the trip in silence.
So, that would typically be the “end of the story.” The following day, I didn’t know who had apologized more to each other, Dad or Aunt Mary. To make matters even more edgy, it’s Aunt Mary’s birthday. We returned to the World Series to meet with the rest of the family.
Dad pulled me aside. “I need you to go to the grocery store’s bakery section and get a huge sheet cake made with the words, ‘Happy Birthday, Mary!’ and a dozen roses.”
I carried out my appointed duty and returned to the hotel room in Kissimmee. Aunt Mary was truly surprised and touched. This called for memorializing the moment. Picture time!
My sister-in-law, Angela, grabbed her camera. “Let’s step outside where there’s plenty of light.”
“Oh, that’s almost perfect,” Angela tells her. “Just tilt it a little forward so we can read the writing…”
And then it happened. Angela gasped as she focused the camera and tilted the lens downward…too far downward.
As we consoled Aunt Mary, she fought tears and apologized profusely.
We assured her that all we were missing was the top layer of icing. “Look! None of the actual cake touched the concrete, and the rest is absolutely delicious! We’ve scraped up the best parts! There was way too much icing anyway!”
Well, Mike Slater’s Dad, my Dad, and my Aunt Mary have passed away. As Mike says in the commercial, “We’re all gonna die!”
Maybe Mike Slater has accomplished exactly what he set out to do. He’s reminded me of my Dad, my Mom, some wonderful family vacations—and even the importance of having enough life insurance.
So, Mike, I’m sorry I was so hard on you.
But it’s still “my mother, my brother, and me.”
Dang it.