Years ago, back when I was in kindergarten, my teacher used
to read the class a short story now and then. (Probably every day but I don’t
really remember for sure). One day she read about a family that took a weekend
trip to the ocean. It was a nice little story that centered on all the fun
activities the family did: swimming, boating, beachcombing, looking for
seashells, etc.
But me, contrarian that I was—yeah, even way back then I was
a little cantankerous—focused only on the part of the story that made no sense.
Right at the beginning, the story said that after packing their bags, the
family got into the car and drove about an hour before reaching the beach. That
would be fine I suppose, but I lived in Missouri and I knew it was a lot longer
trip to the ocean than just an hour. I said as much after the teacher had
finished reading.
I remember the teacher sort of laughed and explained that
not everybody in the world lived in Missouri; that some did indeed live an hour
from the ocean. What’s more, she said, some people actually lived on the beach.
I was unconvinced. Nowhere in the story had it said they
didn’t live in Missouri, and as any five-year-old knows, if something isn’t
explicitly stated, it must not be true. Besides, I thought, who would live on
the beach anyway?
True to my already established nature of not letting things
go, I kept insisting that the story was wrong. Finally—just to shut me up, I
now realize—she told me I was right and the book must have had a misprint. That
would never satisfy me now, but it did then and I dropped it.
But recently, it all came rushing back. I was waiting in
line at the store, and overheard a slightly annoyed guy telling his antsy kids
that they needed to settle down and learn to be patient. They’d be to the ocean
in about an hour, he said.
Problem is, the town we were in is a good three hours from
the ocean. So, unless he planned on driving like Mario Andretti, an hour just
wasn’t going to cut it. Now, I know the guy was probably just giving them a
little spiel to make them think it wasn’t going to be a long ride—and it
appeared to be working—but me, being me, couldn’t resist pointing out that an
hour was a very low and ultimately inaccurate estimate. Okay, I didn’t use
those words. What I actually said was, “You ain’t going to make it to the ocean
in an hour, not from here.”
I’m sure the guy appreciated my commentary. Or, not. After
telling his kids to go wait in the car, he asked, “So, how long is it going to
take?”
Normally, I would answer such a question with, “Depends on
how fast you drive.” But, since I’d already sort of alienated the guy, I told
him it would be about three hours, give or take, depending on traffic.
“Great,” he replied, though I could tell he really didn’t
think my answer was all that magnificent. I got the distinct impression he wasn’t
exactly enjoying this trip so far, and apparently it hadn’t even started. Then,
he added, “Should have never moved.”
Moved from where? That’s what I was wondering but I didn’t
say anything.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to because he answered it
anyway. “We used to live on the beach.”
I kind of laughed, which probably wasn’t well received, but
I was thinking, “Apparently, my teacher was right.” ~
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