It’s become an annual pilgrimage, this trip that my younger son and I make to spend time with my older son wherever he is. We’ve visited him in Illinois, Arizona, and North Dakota. And, considering we usually schedule this get-together for March, Arizona definitely holds the record for the best weather.
But weather never has been a consideration for where Kevin lives; rather he’s bound to academic environments. The University of Illinois, Arizona State University, and now Minnesota State University where he is a professor.
We could meet elsewhere, but Kevin has a house whose only other companion is Harold, a geriatric cat who’s the last remnant of when the three of us lived together years ago. Harold is a definite draw. The room rates accommodate our pocketbooks; and, in many ways, it’s like coming home.
So Keith and I bundle up in our heaviest winter gear and leave our own lives and mates behind for three or four days. We enter Kevin’s world, which includes a myriad of friends who are apt to tag along on various outings, intellectual discussions where we hardly hold our own, and bowling. Yes, bowling.
I don’t recall which son suggested we go bowling the first time, but I mentally rolled my eyes. I once bowled a total of eighteen points for an entire game, so I could see that I would be buying the beer. Nevertheless we headed for the bowling alley.
This year, Kevin has informed us that he’s already scheduled the Bowling for Fargo evening and that some friends are joining us. I’m not surprised, but I’d better bring extra beer money. Ah what we don’t do for our children, even when they are grown up.
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