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Who has to go?
I'm in charge.
I can stop whenever and wherever I want.
Somewhere in the hereafter my father is sitting behind the wheel of a station wagon, trying desperately to beat his all-time record to New Jersey (which at this writing stands at four hours). That time is, of course, was without restroom breaks.
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My Dad was 40 or so then, younger than I am now. I cannot fathom how he did not kill us all with his bare hands. Five kids, the wife and dog, packed into a Falcon station wagon, all singing, "John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith LALALA LALA LALA ..."
All day.
LA LA LA LA LA LA LA.
We would leave two hours or so after the announced time of departure. If my father commanded that we would be leaving the next morning at precisely 6 a.m., we would roll when my Mom told him we were ready. My father made rules for the sake of making rules, and my mother, who ran the house, packed the suitcases, dressed the kids, cleaned, stopped the newspaper and mail, filled the cooler, and told us when it was actually time to leave.
Those of you from large families will testify to the next statement. You have, as a member of a clan or brood, no secrets. You have no privacy because you are constantly forced to undergo the public inquisition. On the day of the annual New Jersey trip, the questions began shortly before the car was shifted into reverse.
"Does anybody have to go?
Did everybody go?
Who has to go?"
Who was going to put up their hand at that point? Nobody. Who wants to be held responsible for holding up the wagon train? Who wants the blame for not beating the heat? Who wants the weight of that world record four-hour time hanging over their head?
Let it be my sister.
Not me.
We piled into the wagon.
The wheels started rolling.
I knew that my father was not going to stop. And that thought alone triggered something inside my digestive tract that summoned all liquids to convene in the bladder.
One did not want to be the person responsible for bringing his world-record crossing to New Jersey to a standstill. Four hours, door-to-shore, was right up there with 61 home runs, one worthy of the record books, but it was a number that was destined to fall. Woe be to the child who was the reason it did not.
That is why, decades later, on summer days like these, I stop often while on the road, even if I don't have to.
Just because I can.
To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com. He can be heard each weekday afternoon from 3-7 p.m. on 1250 ESPN Radio.
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