Fall campout last night for the scouts of Rye, at the reservation in Putnam County. Not too wet, despite torrential rain over the last two days. Overnight temperature a surprising low-40s, but Secundus and I are snug in our sleeping bags and two-person tent. (He should be. I woke in the middle of the night to find him lying sideways, using my stomach as a pillow.) He's very happy, having caught the biggest fish of the afternoon.
But who drives a Porsche to a campout?*
Back home, later in the day, Secundus volunteers to work the self-service scanner at the Stop & Shop checkout, while Tertius insists he needs no help with the bagging. I step back and relax, luxuriating in a rare bit of successful dadding.
The checkout computer voices the price as items are scanned, and for produce without a bar code, names the food, so you can be sure you pushed the right button. It does so using that vocal ransom-note technique that pieces the sentence out of separately recorded snippets: "Place your . . . [apples] . . . on the belt.
Excuse the vulgar duplication of end-stops, but I swear that I heard this intonation when the moment came: "Place your . . . broccoli??!! . . . on the belt."
*Not me, I had the minivan. Another dad. This is Rye.