Shotgun

A rap on our apartment door, and our daughter sticks her head in.  “Hey Dad!  Do you want to ride shotgun for a couple of hours this morning?” 

Flashback

Riding shotgun was a coming-of-age experience, a teenage pecking order ritual, and a regular feature of our car culture.  Heading to the beach with your high school buddies, or to the mall for some trolling, or just piling into the car for the five-minute ride to school; everyone wanted to ride shotgun, the front passenger seat.  It was like musical chairs, and the odd guys out had to cram into the back seat, which nobody wanted.

Riding shotgun meant you were the co-pilot, with extra legroom, extra elbow room, extra fanny room, and most importantly, control of the knobs on the radio.  When your friends in steerage shouted out, “Oh, turn it up; I love that song,” they were at your mercy.  Since everyone shouted “SHOTGUN” at the same time, it was generally agreed that the driver had the last word as to who rode up front.  This led to bribes of all kinds, from the cookie in your lunch to a compromising picture of your big sister. 

Flash Forward

Riding shotgun today is a reward for living long enough to have three adorable grandsons, whose mommy needs frequent help from Poppa to avoid going crazy.  Today we are running an errand and then heading to the working farm where you can take a hayride, pick a pumpkin, get lost in the corn maze, and talk to the goats.

When Mommy runs into Target, she does not have to get three little boys into strollers or a shopping carts; because co-pilot Poppa stays in the “Town and Country” to mollify the wild things with yummy snacks and endless verses of “The Wheels on the Bus.”

When we get to the farm, we meet up with Mommy’s bestie and her munchkin.  The older boys (ages three to six) dart hither and thither with the mommies in tow.  The baby (fifteen months) waddles and toddles like a penguin with Poppa in tow.  Davey and I check out the real chickens, and then the animatronic chickens who are singing children’s songs and sea chanties.  We are both mesmerized by “What Do You Do with a Drunken Chicken?” and other ditties.

When he starts to fade, he crawls into the stroller and we roll over to the goat pen where there are about 20 nannies and kids.  I push the stroller right up against the fence, and Davey leans forward to get a good look.  At first the goats are not doing much, but that changes when I break up a pretzel stick and toss a couple of pieces over the wire fencing.  My daughter will later scold me.  She says that we are not supposed to feed the animals.

Really?  Do goats have a restrictive diet?  Don’t goats pick up and swallow anything off the floor, just like my grandson does?  Are pretzels bad for goats? 

Not according to the goats.  By the time three or four chunks of pretzel hit the ground, the entire herd is up against the fence, with many of them balancing on their hind hooves, with their fore hooves on the fence.  They are staring right through the fence at Davey, just two feet away.  Oh, the bleating and the butting as the pecking order comes into play … the goats moshing before a deliriously happy audience of one little human kid.     

When you leave the farm, you experience what everyone experiences when they visit a tourist attraction.  You exit through the gift shop.  Today that is a good thing, because the strawberries were picked this very morning and are delicious. 

Not much to do in the shotgun seat on the way home!  The sun and the running around and the fresh strawberries are soporific.  The natives are dozing off in their car seats.  Once upon a time there was competition for the shotgun seat.  Now it is by invitation.  With the grandsons nodding off in the back, I sit up front, keeping my daughter company, sampling a fresh strawberry. 

How sweet it is!