The Tale of the Sharkey

The story of a boy, his chicken, and his bewildered dad.

Some kids carry around a teddy bear. Others  rely on a toy rabbit or dog.

Us? There’s no easy way to say this. My son has a stuffed chicken. And his name is Sharkey.

I think it’s pretty much a given that when your kid’s favorite toy is a stuffed chicken, your life isn’t going down any normal path known to man. But instead of me telling you about it, I’ve asked Sharkey to share his side of the story . . . sharkey 1

Hey, how are ya? So the kid’s dad asked me to write his blog for him today. Lazy SOB. Oh, sure, give the job to the stuffed chicken. He doesn’t have anything better to do. Hey! I’m about to watch wrestling here!!

ANYway . . . So, where should I start. I guess you want to know where the kid fits in with my story here. So, uh, here it is.

A few years ago, I was sitting around, minding my own business and chatting up a cute chick at the fair, and here comes the kid and his dad. They sit down to play that awful bingo. And let me tell ya, the kid was nervous. Waaaaaaay too nervous. He was all on edge about winning. I’ve never seen anything like it. They lost a couple of times, and the kid was pretty disappointed. But then . . . well, let’s just say I thought the kid was going to jump up on the counter and start dancing. The closer he got to winning, the more he was jumping up and down, could hardly contain himself.

So then he finally wins, and gets to choose a prize. A PRIZE. Like that’s all I’m good for. And what does he do? He picks me. A chicken. I mean, what are the chances? No one has ever picked me before. So, before I even had time to tell my date goodbye, I find myself being dragged around by this kid I’ve never seen before. And his dad kept looking at me all skeptical like. And I’m like, “Hey! Haven’t you ever seen a chicken before, lunkhead?! You should be darn happy to have me around!”

Anyway, I wasn’t too happy at first. But I gotta admit, it hasn’t been too bad. They’ve never tried to cook me or anything. And the kid is ok. He used to carry me around a lot more than he does now. And I had to help keep him calm during thunderstorms. But I’ve got a nice bed to sleep in, which is more than I can say about a bunch of his other lame toys. And he gives me about half his food and ALL his vegetables. Hey! Don’t laugh. A chicken has to keep his feathers looking good and healthy, don’t he?

And sure, there was a period of time there when the kid ran around yelling Bok, Bok,Bok.” Boking all the time. I mean, what’s with this kid? If I could have shaved his head, and he woulda looked like a patient in a mental hospital. I mean, all that boking nonsense. Then I found out, he’d been doing the boking before he met me.

Ok, I gotta admit. That was a bit strange. But hey, I try not to judge my fellow chickens. And I’m sure not gonna try to figure out what makes humans tick. They always seem strange to me.

And speaking of strange, you should meet this kid’s dad. Man, some of the stories I could tell ya . . .

But not now. I’ve done my part. I’ve done what I was asked to do. Now run along. Find some other animal to annoy for a while. I’ve already missed the first part of wrestling. Go let your dog tell ya a story. Ha! A dog tell a story. That’s rich. Ha! Dogs . . . Now there’s a critter I’ll never understand. I don’t know why you people put up with them! Get a real animal . . . like a chicken!

The ghost in room 231

Visiting a relative in the hospital never ranks very high on the Fun Meter, but this trip was especially difficult.

It was to see my grandmother, who for so long had done so well, struggled with her health in the last few years of her life, staying in a nursing home for a brief time, with a couple of visits to the hospital.

One of my visits stand out. She had been struggling with her memory as well, but on this day she knew exactly what was happening. And she knew she was in the hospital. And she wasn’t happy about it.

“I don’t want to be here,” she told. No big surprise. But it wasn’t just because she didn’t want to be there. But she felt like she didn’t matter.

“I’m just a ghost in here. No one sees me. People come and go – the doctor, the nurses. But no one really sees me,” said Allie Mae. Then she let out an eerie, “Whhhoooo-hooooo-hooo,” which sounded creepy in a way that she probably didn’t expect.

It was hard to see my grandmother in that condition. And feeling the way that she did.

She seemed so small and frail beneath the covers of the sterile hospital bed. It was hard to believe that this was the same person I had shared so much with.

Allie Mae was, after all, my cherry pie grandmother. She knew that was my favorite, and would make it for me from time to time.grandma 2

And she had an incredibly fun way with words. My favorite saying of hers involved food. She lived in a small house my grandfather built near where I went to college. And she would often cook up something for me. Sometimes it might just be some leftovers she had on hand. But every time, after apologizing for not having more, she would say about her meal, “It beats nothing all to pieces.”

Sometimes she would want me to pick up a pizza for lunch. Always a supreme. She always thought that was a great treat. And any time we were going to eat something like that, she would say, “Oh boy. Now my stomach is going to have some fun!”

I once took her to the horse races at Oaklawn Park in Hot Springs. We bought seats in one of the upper sections. By sheer luck, I won the Daily Double – almost $200. Needless to say, she made me buy lunch. (The funniest part was that was the only time I had ever won any money at races. But everyone around me the rest of the day wanted to know which horse I was betting one. Not that it did them any good – I didn’t pick another winner the rest of the day.)

One of our wildest adventures was learning to drive. She didn’t have a license, and had always depended on my grandfather. But after he passed away, she wanted to be able to get around on her own. Things were fine for a couple of lessons. But after a near fatal collision with a log truck (I still don’t think I’ve ever matched the volume of my scream that day), neither of us felt like continuing the lessons.

Probably the thing I remember most was a simple letter she sent me. Having grown up during the Great Depression, my grandmother always thought before spending money. During one of my first jobs after college, I was living on my own in Little Rock. One day, I received an envelope in the mail. In it was six $1 bills and a one-page letter written on a white legal notepad. The letter instructed me to buy a watermelon, bacon, and tomatoes (for bacon-tomato sandwiches) Farmers Market so that my “stomach could have some fun.”

The letter from my grandmother, containing $6 and instructions for my "stomach to have some fun."

The letter from my grandmother, containing $6 and instructions for my “stomach to have some fun.”

It was great that we could share so many wonderful times together. I’m glad that I got to know her. I’m glad my daughter also knew her for a short time. I wish my son could have known her, too.

My grandmother may have felt like a ghost on that day, but  not to me. I always saw her as a part of my life. And I’m glad her memory can live on through me.

Always the right time for a pillow fight

If there’s one thing my son loves, it’s a good pillow fight.

Actually, he’s ok with even a bad pillow fight. It doesn’t really matter, as long as pillows are involved.

My son, always dangerous when armed with a pillow.

My son, always dangerous when armed with a pillow.

I’m not really sure how we ever started on pillow fights (but really, how does anyone ever start?). But if there’s one thing he is always willilng to do every night, it’s have a pillow fight.

Our fights usually start with two pillows, and then it somehow mushrooms into four, six, or more pillows as he runs to each bed to find additional “weapons.”

And at some point during each of these battles, we also start engaging in wrestling as well. There’s nothing quite like someone holding you down and hitting you with a pillow at the same time.

I’m not always energetic enough to feel like pillow fighting every night. But even when I try to decline, I sometimes find myself on the receiving end of a pillow.

And then it’s on – whether I want it to be or not.

We’ve been lucky. So far neither of us have been hurt. Well, not seriously hurt, anyway. And nothing (valuable) has been been broken . . . yet.

I’m not sure what it is about boys and wrestling and rambuctious play. I guess it’s a chance to take out some energy. But my son comes home from school and goes almost non-stop until bedtime. He’s one of the few people I’ve seen who can work up a sweat reading a book. So in our pillow fights, he always has the energy advantage over his dad.

He’s also gotten where he wants to arm wrestle all the time. So far he hasn’t beaten me. But what I haven’t told him is that I can feel him getting closer to it all the time.

It’s kind of like on Lion King, as Simba slowly grows up, preparing to take over one day for Mufasa.

It won’t be long until my son’s too old to enjoy playing around like this. And beating me at arm wrestling or some such sport when he does.

But in the meantime, I’ll enjoy the time I have with me now. Even if it means getting hit in the face with a pillow a few times along the way.

“The Best Hamburger in the World”

I love traveling through small towns. And I especially love stopping at local places to eat. There’s just something about sitting down at a small restaurant, and listening to the conversations that are taking place all around me – conversations about the daily life in a town I’ll never really be a part of.

And meeting the people. It’s always fun to meet people on these stops. I’m sure they think it a bit odd when a stranger strikes up a conversation about . . . well, about whatever.

Stopping to eat in small towns is the perfect complement for one of my other favorite interests: the Quest for the Best Hamburger in the World. I still think the best hamburger I’ve ever eaten was in one of the most unlikely places – McCaskill, Ark., population 96.

Pat's Country Store as it appeared in better times in McCaskill, Arkansas.

Pat’s Country Store as it appeared in better times in McCaskill, Arkansas.

I was working at a newspaper in nearby Nashville, and as I drove through McCaskill on various trips, I noticed Pat’s Country Store. I bet that place, I thought, makes a really good hamburger.

On a cold Friday following Thanksgiving in the early 90s, I finally stopped at Pat’s for the first time. I had been visiting my future wife and her family, so I wasn’t really hungry. But once inside, I was struck by the smell of what had to be the best hamburger I had never tasted. Looking around I saw why – an old, black grill that’s worn and charred from the cooking of thousands of burgers over the years.

I paid for my grape soda and resumed my journey. Driving down the road, I was tempted to turn back and place an order. I knew I had to have one of those burgers. The question was, when . . .

I finally had the chance to try a Pat Burger in 1992. It was everything I knew it would be, and then some – the meat more juicy, the bun, lightly buttered and toasted, and the vegetables fresher. And there was something else. A taste I wasn’t quite familiar with, yet it made the burger what it was. It was some kind of seasoning, which I later found out was Pat’s Secret Sauce.

A little over a year later, I was working as a sports editor for a daily paper about an hour away. It was a slow time in sports, high school baseball long over, and football still nothing more than a mirage on the horizon. I decided to write a column on Pat’s burger, which I dubbed “The World’s Greatest.” After getting the words out, I figured that was that.

I forgot about the column until a couple of months later when my dad told me he had stopped at Pat’s and finally tried one of those burgers I had bragged so much about. When he placed his order, he noticed a piece of newspaper taped to the wall – it was a copy of my column.

Over the next few years, I finally got to know Pat and her husband, Guy. On one of my last trips there, I remember opening the door and being immediately flooded with the familiar sights and smells: the hardwood floor, the wooden and glass cabinets, and, of course, the aroma of cheeseburgers filling the air.

I hadn’t been inside in a few months. Pat stared at me for a minute before a smile crossed her face. “Well, look who it is.” Her face was red from standing over the heat from the grill and the hot Arkansas spring that overpowered the small window AC in the metal building. “It’s sure been a while.”

Guy came over to shake my hand. “It’s sure good to see you again,” he said. Depending on the day of the week, Guy is either the owner, manager, or employee.

“I bet I know just what you want,” said Pat as she took a patty from the refrigerator. “I’ll have you a cheeseburger ready in no time.” It felt good to be back, to be with friends on this hot May afternoon. Back in a familiar place, the kind of place you think will always be there for you to enjoy day after day, year after year. I asked how she was doing.

“Well,” Pat looked at me seriously for a minute, “not too well. Since last time I saw you, I found out I’ve got diabetes. I’ve been on a special diet trying to get that under control, but I’m tired. I’m going to have to shut down for a while.”

When I heard those words, I knew I had better enjoy this Pat Burger, because there probably wouldn’t be many more in the future.

I asked her about the grill that day. Her answer was surprising. “You’re not going to believe where I got that old grill,” Pat said with a smile as she ate one of her cheeseburgers with me. “I bought it from someone in Blevins (6 miles away) who’d junked it. I only paid $100 for it.

The three-burner, 36-inch grill stood on my left, cooling off from the day’s activities. It was only 1 p.m., but the grill, and Pat, were through cooking for the day.

“I just can’t handle this heat anymore,” said Pat. She and Guy planned to close down for the summer months that year – to relax, travel some, and visit family. But as soon as people in the community learned of those plans, they began to call. Friends who weren’t sure they could live without a Pat Burger for the summer called trying to coax her into staying open. And that didn’t include the people who visited the store each day: some to play pool, some to listen to a song on Guy’s guitar every now and then. But most just come to visit with Pat and Guy. And eat a cheeseburger.

There was a small, handwritten sign at the back of the store, weathered and wrinkled with age, that simply read, Pool lessons, $5 an hour by Guy. Call for Apt.

I wasn’t sure if Guy still taught pool. I started to ask, then decided against it. Reluctantly, I put the last bit of hamburger in my mouth. It tastes as good as the first. I immediately want another one, but by the look on Pat’s face, I know better than to ask. She looks as tired as she’s told me, but I know she would cook that second burger for me if I asked. She wipes away a bead of sweat as she finishes off her lunch.

“I’m not going to retire retire,” she stressed. “We’re going to open back up. I love to cook too much to close down for good.” But even as the words left her mouth, I knew I’d eaten one of my last hamburgers at Pat’s Country Store.

I had two or three more burgers at Pat’s before she closed down for good. Today, Pat’s Country Store stands abandoned, a shell of what was once a favorite hangout for neighbors in friends in the community.

As I drive by, the sight of the former store makes me sad. I realize that it wasn’t the black grill that made that cheeseburger special. And it wasn’t the special sauce. What made Pat’s burger special was Pat and Guy. Without them, the store was nothing more than a rusty metal building with hard, cement floors.

And a black grill, junked once again, that stands alone in the back of a dilapidated building in the tiny town of McCaskill.

A shorts-sighted view of parenting

I like to wear shorts. Or it could just be that I hate wearing pants. I’d wear shorts year around if my boss would let me.

My favorite thing to wear when it’s cold is shorts and a sweatshirt. A friend in college called this “Dressing for Hell.” I’m still not sure what that means, but I always thought it sounded good.shorts 1

I wear shorts so much, that it’s become kind of a joke for those who know me around the Nashville High School football games – the team I cover on the radio. I begin each year by trying to wear shorts to every game. It’s pretty easy in the first half of the season when it’s not uncommon to see the temperature at the start of a game in the 90s (for the first couple of games) or 70s or 80s (for the next few games). It does, however, get a little trickier as the season goes on. I have made it a whole season before, but not always. Last year, I finally surrendered on the Friday after Thanksgiving when I was broadcasting a game from an open press box in northwest Arkansas.

This used to be harder to make it through the season when I worked for a newspaper and stood on the sidelines for all of the games. Once, on the final game of the season, I was wearing my normal attire of shorts and a Nashville High sweatshirt. The game was on the road in Little Rock. And while I was eating at a Mexican restaurant, I continued to watch in dismay as the temperature dropped into the 30s and the wind was steadily getting stronger.

It was then that I realized the restaurant was right next to a Walmart. I went inside, bought some pants and a big, warm jacket, and never looked back.

Wearing shorts year around has also become a bit of a joke with my kids. They know I’m going to be wearing shorts about 99 percent of the time around the house.

Of course, this can lead to some awkward situations. Like the time last winter when the heat was out in our house and we weren’t going to be able to get it back on. I stubbornly continued to wear my shorts around the house, which led to this great exchange between me and my daughter:

Me: I’m cold.

H: Why don’t you put on some pants?

Me: What?

H: Why don’t you put on something warm, like some pants?

Me: I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.

H: Pants. You know, like shorts, only longer.

Me: That’s what I’m wearing – long shorts.

I probably wouldn’t wear shorts all the time if I didn’t have good legs. Well, they’re good in my mind anyway.

But hey, when you’re already dressed for hell, what’s wrong with telling yourself a little lie . . .

“I love you, too.”

Four simple words.

And like every school day, I heard them this morning when I dropped my son off at school. As he was getting out of the car, I told him I loved him. And his reply was, as always, “I love you, too.” I thought it was especially a good sign because he was about nine-tenths out of the safety of the car. It was possible, you know, that some of his friends might have heard him.

Dropping off my son at school, as he gets set to head to the playground for some early recess time.

Dropping off my son at school, as he gets set to head to the playground for some early recess time.

So we’re still in good shape in this area. But he’s nine now, almost ten. I wonder how much longer I can expect this response. I hope a long time, but I know it might end, and sooner rather than later.

It’s been kind of a ritual for us – taking my kids to school. My daughter rode the school bus for the first couple of years, and for some reason I started taking her during her third grade year. That continued just about until she graduated from high school.  Now it’s my son’s turn.

Driving to school in the mornings is usually a good time for conversation. I’m not sure why. Maybe kids aren’t fully awake at that time and aren’t aware they’re divulging any secrets yet. Or maybe they just feel like talking, too.

Sometimes the topics are serious. Sometimes pure nonsense, just joking around with the kids. And, of course, there are those mornings where we don’t say much of anything.

But no matter what, every day when we get to the school, there’s an “I love you.” I think that’s a common thing for all parents. We want our kids to know how we feel before we let them out – that no matter what the day may bring their way, there is one thing that they can count on in their lives, and that’s the love of their parents.

And I guess there’s always that part of me, too, that thinks (but hopes it’s not) that something tragic could happen. After all, who knows what the day will bring, who knows what might happen to any of us. And I want to make sure that if they didn’t know anything else about me, that they at least knew how I felt about them.

I’m sure the day is coming (and probably soon) where my son is too embarrassed or too “grown up” to respond. But I’ll always end our car rides with my “I love you.”

And I’ll know he loves me, too . . .whether he says it or not.

Football Friday – a glimpse of small-town America

I love small towns. I like driving the countryside and passing through different towns as I go, wondering about the people in each town and what it would be like. Luckily for me, I have a second job as a broadcaster for a high school team in a small town.

I’ve been involved in covering high school football in some way for almost 30 years now. And to this day, I still get excited every Friday during football season. There’s nothing quite like it. I love both the football, and seeing a part of small town life each week.

One of my favorite moments - a Nashville player celebrates a state title following a controversial win with the scoreboard telling the story in the background in 2006.

One of my favorite moments – a Nashville player celebrates a state title following a controversial win with the scoreboard telling the story in the background in 2006.

I started while I was still in college. During a high school game for my alma mater, I went to the press box, introduced myself to Tom “Terrific”, who was broadcasting the games, and he asked me if I’d like to join him on the air for the game that night. From there on, I was hooked.

Today marks the first Football Friday for high school teams in Arkansas this year. And I’m just as excited to be broadcasting a game tonight as I was back in 1984.

For me, every Friday is an event. Probably because it involves more than just a game. For years I I’ve covered the football team for Nashville High School – the Nashville Scrappers.

First, there’s traveling to the game. And that’s followed by one of my favorite parts – the pregame meal. One of my favorite things to do is try small, out-of-the-way places to eat. So my football travels fit this perfectly. Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to find some really good food, in some really small towns. Yeah, there’s been a bad meal from time to time, but usually the food is good.

And I always enjoy watching the locals – the families come in, usually wearing their team’s colors. They, too, are getting set for the game, excited is they get set to watch their son play. Or their daughter cheer. Or their son or daughter in the band.

It is, at its core, small town America at its best.

Then the game itself is just as fun. I have a number of people I like to visit with before the games. For the first game tonight, there will be some that I haven’t talked to since last season ended. There will be coaches I’m looking forward to talking to, and fans who always expect the best as the season gets underway.

There’s nothing quite like high school football in a small town. It’s hard to beat for the tradition at each school, and the pure excitement and enthusiasm of the players and fans.

I’ve covered and broadcast games around the state, once entering a closed-up pressbox that had to be close to 150 degrees on a hot day in late August, to shivering through a broadcast a game on top of a press box in November in northwest Arkansas, where the temperature hovered around 20. And it seems I’ve been to games everywhere in between.

And I’ve been fortunate to see some excellent games, so great young players (with several who went on to play in college, and a handful who have gone on to play in the NFL). And I’ve seen some great endings – some wins, and some losses for the teams I’ve covered. And some even controversial.

I saw one such game in the quarterfinals of the state tournament last fall. Nashville lost to Prairie Grove, on a cold Friday following Thanksgiving. The stands were packed, and fans for both teams were on their feet, cheering the entire game. It might have been an attempt to stay warm, but it made for a great atmosphere. Players for both teams played hard, and a back-and-forth game ended with Nashville losing.

Following the game as I was making my way out of the stadium, most fans had already left. But there was a small group of fans from Prairie Grove talking near the exit. As they saw me leaving, they said something about what a good game it was. I told them, you know, you just can’t ask for a better game. Great fans. The kids giving it their all. It was games like this one that made me love high school football.

Last year, I added a new dimension to broadcasting high school football – my son went to his first game and joined me in the press box. And he loved it. I think part of the appeal for him was getting to sit up high in the press box. And, of course, the pizza and snacks from the concession stand.

I’m looking forward to another year of broadcasting high school football. (If you’d like to listen to the game, you can tune in at And with my son going, it’s going to be my best season yet.

“Everyone has a plan . . . “

Facing the unexpected adversities that life throws at us is never easy. I’m reminded of a quote by, of all people, former boxing great Mike Tyson.

I’m a sports fan. I like almost every sport there is. I suppose that’s why when I was younger, I wanted to be a sports writer or announcer. Football has always been my favorite, but I like about everything, even boxing.

I used to love watching boxing when it was still popular and the big matches were on TV (I attribute a big part in the decline of boxing’s popularity to a bad marketing decision, but that’s for another blog and another time).mike tyson 1

Probably my favorite boxer was Tyson. Before the ear biting, before the face tattoo, even before Robin Givens, Mike Tyson was a phenomenal boxer. He was, as some might have said, the Baddest Man on the Planet.

During his run as world heavyweight champion, he would enter the ring wearing only black shorts and black boxing shoes. And a scowl.

He was intimidating. He was fearsome. And he was a great fighter. I remember once going to a friend’s house to watch a fight. It was going to be on HBO or Showtime or some channel I didn’t get. We were all set to watch what was supposed to be a great fight between Tyson and his top challenger, Michael Spinks.

A mere 91 seconds later, the fight was already over. Here’s a link to the fight on YouTube:


Tyson was fun to watch in those days. But I also found him engaging, often more open and honest than most celebrities in front of a microphone.

One of his quotes always stood out to me. Before one of his fights, a lot had been made about what his opponent planned to do during the fight; he had a plan that he felt sure would work. Tyson was asked what he was going to do about his opponent’s strategy. To paraphrase, Tyson said, “Everyone has a plan . . . until they get hit.” (His actual quote was “. . . until they get punched in the face”).

And I thought, how insightful is that. Not just in boxing, or even in sports. How often in life do we have good intentions, a great plan to face the day. Only to watch it fall to pieces once one hit derails us?

Times when circumstances deliver a blow to our lives and whatever plan we had is now worthless. And leaves us with no plan at all. Times when health issues, or economic of financial hardships hit close to home.

And other times when we bring hardships on ourselves. Times when you make a stupid mistake, and then watch your best plans crumble. I’ve proven quite adept at this, sometimes losing people or things I care deeply for.

As parents, we face this situation almost daily (sometimes hourly!). We have plans of how we’re going to raise our kids, or handle them in certain situations. Or how we want them to turn out.

What becomes important isn’t so much the plan we had, but how we handle the adversity. How do we handle the new situation that we find ourselves in. It’s in times like these that patience and adaptability become key. And our kids are watching us in how we deal with these situations, whether the issue is one that concerns them or us, or even the entire family.

Yes, it’s good to have a plan. But how we deal with adversity is equally important.

Entering the world of business

There’s nothing quite like doing something for the first time.

My son stands proudly in front of his first business.

My son stands proudly in front of his first business.

For my son, getting his first taste of business was almost more excitement than he could handle, and it was more excitement than I could handle.

It started on a Friday as we prepared for a yard sale with my mom and sister. (I say “we” in that I was involved in mind and spirit if not always physically present.)

You would have thought it was my son’s birthday and Christmas with snow predicted to fall the next day. He was non-stop, talking, running around the house, looking forward to being a part of something that was, to him, new and exciting.

His enthusiasm carried late into the night, and brought him out of bed at 5:30 the next morning. Let me tell you, this boy was ready to go.

He was almost too excited to eat breakfast as the yard sale was about to start. But then a new idea formed: what if he set up a lemonade stand. A business of his very own! It was a good business, too, with the early temperature quickly climbing into the 90s.

It was hard not to be excited just watching his enthusiasm. He was nonstop motion until we closed. And the smile on his face when he made a sale and earned money of his very own.

He took each customer seriously, and was slow and deliberate in filling each cup with the same amount. He was very proud of his business – and of the money he was earning. He was already looking forward to when he could possibly sell lemonade again.

I love my job. I’m very fortunate to have a job like that. I know because I’ve had jobs that I didn’t love. And that’s being nice. For those that don’t know, I teach marketing courses at a local university. It’s great because I get to spend my day talking to students about a subject I love. And I try to come into each class with some enthusiasm.

I just wish I had as much enthusiasm as my son showed on his first day as a business owner. Maybe this is another one of those times when I learned something from him.

By a little after noon, with the lemonade and yard sale packed away, he was showing the toll of the day. He stretched out and took a much-deserved nap.

Luckily, that’s one skill I’ve already mastered.

My son, guest blogger – the story of Pizza Hut and 1,000 boxes

Pizza Hut

Pizza Hut (Photo credit: JavierPsilocybin)

Today my nine-year-old son sits in for me as my guest blogger. He wanted to tell one of his favorite funny stories.

This is one of my favorite funny experiences with my family.

It was my birthday. After we opened the presents at home, my cousin, my grandmother, my sister, and my dad, went to Pizza Hut.

We had all these leftovers. There was so many of them.

The manager wanted to save money. So instead of giving us one or two big boxes, the waitress gave us a bunch of little boxes. We thought it was funny because you could only put one or two pieces in each box.

When the waitress came back, she could see we were having trouble. So we asked her again if we could get a big box instead of having to use about 10 little boxes.

So she went and talked to the manager. Then she came back, and told us she was sorry, but she wasn’t allowed to give us one of the big boxes.

We thought this was so funny. So we started putting slices of pizza in the little boxes.

Then the manager came by and said, “I see you’re having trouble. Let me get you a big box.”

Finally, we were saved. But we thought it was funny that he didn’t just give us two big boxes to start with.