The Best Fifteen Hundred Bucks I've Ever Spent

I love Amsterdam. Mention the destination in mixed company and there will undoubtedly be snickers about hazy cafes and the red light district, but what really titillates me are the many modes of transport that the Dutch enjoy. Reaching your destination in Amsterdam can involve any number of wheeled or floating apparatuses. It is also quite flat, so even on trains (all above ground) you can simply identify the destination and aim accordingly. Drive a car if you dare, but the humble bicycle rules the streets of Amsterdam. As far as I’m concerned, that’s pretty great.

The automobile is a wonderful invention, but it has brought with it a slew of unintended consequences here in America - notably heart disease, traffic jams and sports talk radio. Suburbs springing up in the heyday of cheap gasoline didn’t even bother catering to pedestrians or cyclists. ‘To heck with them and their tight clothes!’ For why would anyone ever want to move about in such a laborious fashion?

I happen to live in a community that was designed for Buicks, not bicycles. In a more brazen time, I attempted cycling downtown to work. Instead of a relaxing way to bookend the day, it was a highly dangerous, sweaty and demoralizing affair. The route, a mere six miles, went over both Shades Mountain and Red Mountain. That sounds picturesque, but instead of chirping birds and the smell of fresh air, I was privy to dawn breaking over discount seafood restaurants, Big Lots and a strip club. Though I stuck entirely to sidewalks or designated lanes (thus impeding no one), the occasional driver couldn’t help but lob a comment my way in between drags off their morning cigarette. 

Call me a quitter but I gave up on the dream after several attempts. We Chapmans also didn’t up and move to Amsterdam because their words are too long. Aside from infrequent neighborhood pedals (requiring a two hundred foot climb back up), I crumpled into a man who loads his bicycle onto a rack and drives it to places. In what seems in retrospect like a cry for help, I became a self-described “golf-cart person” the same year I turned forty. Concerned friends reached out to see if I was doing okay.

Admittedly, the golf cart did help shift our emphasis more to the journey. Every day for us was so destination-centric (what’s next on the schedule?) that it genuinely helped to make space for meandering. We four Chapmans made a pact to load up as a family after dinner, head down the hill, and simply putter around without an agenda. Our days were noticeably more sociable and pleasant. It was bike-ish.

Then technology offered up a solution to these key problems that have long been a barrier. If you want to safely blend with vehicular traffic and avoid becoming the subject of another angry Facebook post, it’s in your best interest to travel at a reasonable speed. Pedaling that swiftly up the hills around here would be impossible, even for professionals. With the recent advancements in battery science, however, one can now effortlessly ride a bike as fast as Lance Armstrong (in his juicing days) while carrying a case of Budweiser, a golden retriever and a bluetooth speaker blasting yacht rock. 

It all felt too good to be true when I started checking prices this past spring. After years considering every costly gram of bicycle purchased throughout my lifetime, I became intoxicated with the idea of what I could accomplish with such a versatile and reasonably-priced machine.

The only question was which ebike to purchase. There was the electrified version of a mountain bike, which would be fun and capable, but not awesome for smooth road riding. I looked hard at commuters, which are the most popular choice. Then a particular cargo bike caught my eye, as did its carrying capacity of a whopping 450 lbs. The promo pictures featured happy families, loaded to the gills with all their stuff and joyously pedaling their way to a picnic or something equally endearing. More than anything I saw giant racks, a huge wheelbase and a butt load of potential. Oh and it was on sale!

The first thing I noticed when my new bike arrived was its sheer size. Conventional bike racks would splinter under her largess. Instead of the attentive riding position I’ve become so used to, the long wheelbase allows me to stretch out a bit. When you hit the throttle and stop pedaling, it almost feels like a motorcycle. Visions of Easy Rider played in my mind, but only the one clip I’ve actually seen.

My maiden voyage around the neighborhood was the stuff of dreams. Waving and smiling like the luckiest idiot in the world, I passed all kinds of curious onlookers. Mr. Rob, a fun neighbor and local pizza magnate, flagged me down to talk specs. We vowed to go for an ebike ride together. Flying back up the hill with ease, I contemplated what standard protocol even is for an ebike ride. With a full battery and a smidge of gumption, the world is your oyster. 

Back at the shop, it was business time. Not a moment to waste showing ROI on this beast. With all my accessories firmly affixed and ambitions raised, it was time to make a grocery store run.

The trip is a shade over two miles through the neighborhood. Using the kickstart of our hill, I easily kept the speed limit while descending to the creekside shopping center. A strategic list of groceries had been curated to both occupy every bit of surface area (for the pics) and see how carrying capacity equates to handling on this bike. For those of you who don’t know me personally, I’m a “fill it up to the top” kinda guy. That’s why I grabbed the twenty pound box of cat litter. 

With the help of some clever gadgets, I properly secured my cargo and powered up for the return journey. Gravity’s blessings from a while earlier were to be reversed, laying down a substantial gauntlet for what was feeling to be a pretty top-heavy craft. Tentatively, I navigated the parking lot, noting that the steering had a bit more wobble this time around. If there is one thing engineering school taught me, however, is that you can solve a lot of problems with speed and power. 

I pedaled with intention but let the motor give me full beans in turbo mode. The sizable hill up past our  local High School lay ahead. Normally, I would pop onto the sidewalk for this bit, but there were some kids walking down. As I zipped into view, it appeared as if these youths were marveling at my forward-thinkingness. They had stopped on the sidewalk and several in the group of girls were pointing at me. As it turns out, they were doubled over in hysterics laughing.

I was still rather proud to return home successfully with all goods accounted for. Instead of fearing further ridicule on the mean streets of Vestavia Hills, I found myself even more driven to get back out there. There would be a new goal that I hadn’t even considered initially - embarrassing the hell out of my family.

As weeks passed in splendor and I made short work of the first hundred miles, that idiot grin held steadfast. My radius of exploration expanded, as did the bulk items I attempted to transport (mulch day was next level). At the end of each day, I secretly delighted in Allison’s summary of who texted in to say they saw me, riding my bike, looking like a total goober. 

If you see me out there, wave and holler. And yes, I am having that much fun.

The Meat Waits for Nobody

Do you walk around with a constant sense of guilt, or is it just me? I don’t know if it’s attributed to my raising, genetics, or hearing the Old Testament read aloud too many times. If I have a bad day, I feel guilty for feeling bad. What reasons have I to be terrible? If life continually comes up roses, there’s this nagging voice saying that I’m winning only because someone else is losing. There is seemingly no guilt-free awesomeness to be had.  

In a first for us Chapmans, there are two shower heads in our master bath. When we initially moved in, it didn’t even dawn on me that the two could be pointed toward one person standing between them. I tried double blasting, and had a lovely time, but really felt it was too indulgent for daily use. So, only on Saturdays, I’ll treat myself to an awesome double shower. Then I’ll spend a few solemn moments thinking about all the folks in the world who have no access to clean, running water.

It should come as no surprise then that my lifelong infatuation with food has seen regular periods of introspection. My intake will start to feel overly indulgent and I’ll naturally want a  sweeping change in response. People around me will kindly play along as I attempt to appease my soul with yet another more thoughtful approach to eating. Fueled by the rallying cry of yet another documentary on our challenged foodways, I’ll make a declaration that things are changing henceforth. How can I ever go back knowing what I know now?

Prior to sharing meals with our children, Allison enthusiastically joined me in juicing after watching Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead. We gave middle fingers to processed foods for one or two meals a day. I would zoom my Mini Cooper down to Costco every week and spend four hundred dollars on crates of produce we could hopefully squeeze a few quarts from. Our kitchen was sticky all over. Flies abounded. Our growling tummies would interrupt the quiet tranquility of our pre-parental bliss while friends enjoyed their fun brunches. That $300 juicer was quickly offloaded. 

My attempts at plain old vegetarianism were much more sustainable. The first stint was motivated by a Netflix documentary showing all of us dum-dums how we’ve been poisoning ourselves this whole time with meat-based diets. The scene that still stays with me is a visual of how much better the blood flow is (allegedly) to one’s genitals at night without the added viscosity from all that animal fat.

Anyway, that’s all I needed. Sign me and little Chappy up. Every time I watched some poor soul engrossed in a greasy burger, my arteries just felt so flippin’ clean. I’d smugly ruminate on bland mouthfuls of vegetables knowing I was beautiful on the inside. Eyes of passing animals sparkled with gratitude as I enjoyed Chipotle burritos full of whatever a sofrita is. 

Next, it came to me that there is no better way to save the planet than by simply not eating meals. Call it intermittent fasting if you will, but it was really just a fancy way to say I skipped breakfast entirely. Unsure if it was really meant to be done every day, I persisted. I was too busy enjoying how pointy my cheeks looked on zoom calls. There was, however, the nagging problem of not getting enough calories to maintain an active lifestyle. What little butt I possessed nearly disappeared. I was tired and generally sad. My workouts lacked ambition.

In my most recent diet makeover, I decided to go pescatarian. I had to explain this to quite a few people from my high horse, so in case you don’t know that’s eating only fish as far as animals go. My reasoning being that I have indeed milked a cow, collected eggs, and caught seafood that I have then consumed. At no time have I personally slaughtered a cow, pig, goat, or chicken. Yet I have eaten thousands. That’s an out of balance equation in this head of mine. Instead of going on a barnyard killing spree, I decided to cook myself a healthy plate of fish instead of whatever the girls were getting each night. 

On the plus side, I did get much better at serving up tasty sea creatures. We usually only eat seafood in view of where it came from, at least since I ruined every type of fish you can think of in my early kitchen days. Don’t ever ask Allison about the time I tried slow smoking scallops. 

I had a decent run and made it three months as a pescatarian. But once again my will power faltered. For starters, we were spending an obscene pile of cash on something that invites rapid decay. 

Regardless of where I bought our seafood from (and how much I spent), there was always a persistent gamble on the fishy element crashing our dinner party. I tried all kinds of marinades, milk baths, defrosting protocols and preparations. But if there were two fillets, the one with a surprise bite of nasty was inevitably gonna end up on Allison’s plate. These moments did not serve to enhance my marriage. Before you could say microplastics, I saw where this was headed.

Some would say all of these were doomed operations from the start. After all, there’s a prominent sign hanging in my basement (Chappy’s Pub) featuring a flying pig and an inscription that reads “The Meat Waits for Nobody.” But rather than treat each experiment as a failure, I appreciate the perspectives they brought. The meat, and all of your food, should be savored and treated with dignity. The times of going without will help you relish those moments of plenty.

Change is hard, and it has gotten so tough to know if you are even making the right choices for your fellow earth inhabitants when browsing the supermarket. But I do know this: Taking a second to honor where your food comes from and its journey to the plate would help every single person. The mindless distance of modern living has fooled us into thinking we can have exactly what we want when we want it without consequence. Maybe there should be a tinge of guilt when those grapes from Peru spoil untouched in your refrigerator. 

It’s warming up outside. Throw some seeds in the dirt and grow your own food instead of relying on planes, trains and automobiles to bring it to you. Find a local farmer or rancher who will familiarize you with the good, local and seasonal stuff. If you only eat the choices of steaks, check out a butcher’s cut sheet and see how much cow is leftover. A little guilt and perspective might help us all to truly enjoy what we are blessed to have on our plates.

And if you are coming over for dinner, best be on time. The meat waits for nobody.

Call Up Your Dudes

I love being a guy. Just ask my wife, because I proclaim it all the time. Quick showers, urinals, girthy sandwiches. It’s a great way to live. But the flock of ladies in my house don’t seem dissatisfied with their lot in life either. Quite the contrary. And they share many a giggle at my stinky, hairy, and oafish expense.

One difference I’m regularly singled out for is being wholly deficient when it comes to feelings. Not for lack of trying. I’ve read multiple Brené Brown books, enjoyed a pedicure, and tried every confusingly labeled bottle my wife keeps in the shower. Still, my only improvement seems to be in the area of realizing when to shut it. Instead of digging further holes, I save my sound logic and perspective for a debrief much, much later. 

As our lives together have changed with the seasons, one thing my ladies have been consistently better at is friends. They are way more adept at maintaining long-lasting relationships and finding new buddies. But I’ve been wondering a lot lately if, as usual, I’m the weird one, or if this is a widespread dude challenge. 

So I started talking to guys. Once we had thrown back a few craft brews, compared smoked meat recipes, and established who could do the most push-ups, I’d casually ask about their circle of homies. I’d share my view on how connecting with other dudes, for me, had been a moving target since having kids. Heads nodded. Suspicions were confirmed, over and over again.

Simply put, we’re missing our bro time in a meaningful way. It’s not that we no longer like these people. The problem is that our grunts, farts, and physical comedy simply do not translate via a digital world. We’ve struggled to do much more than send text messages or holler at a friend on WhatsApp. The asynchronous ping pong of interacting with each other’s social media posts is far afield from looking a man in the eye and hearing how that Disney trip really went.

My buddy Fritz is the definition of an old soul. He wears analog watches, takes long walks with his dog, and slips casually into any setting. You will not find him staring into his phone. For years, Fritz has regularly called myself and others on the phone. It didn’t matter if you had another preferred medium. He wanted to hear your actual voice and catch up. If you attempted to move the conversation to text, he once again called you in response. Genius move now that I think about it.

I remember gatherings where all of us tech-enlightened bros would corner him and try to talk some sense into the guy. Embrace the future, for crying out loud! This would only spur him on with more calls, along with occasional voicemails to lovingly poke the bear. After being on the other side for many years, my idiot self finally connected the dots between having regular, meaningful conversations and having a better outlook on life.

Because of Fritz, I’ve started prioritizing longer catch-ups. I’m also getting those lunches on the calendar that were never followed through with. Whatever we want to call this trend of asynchronous chatter, I pledge to put it in its place. If a bot could do it, then what’s the point?

There’s also room for more dudes. Oh, I’ve definitely joked that I don’t need any more friends, but that’s frankly asinine. Macho fabrication. If the Chapman girls have taught me anything, it’s that having a myriad of acquaintances you can share hobbies, and interests, or just an occasional back porch with can be cathartic. 

I’m not ashamed to admit that I can do better. You probably can too. Call your dudes and your lady dudes. Quit settling for emoji responses and holler at your peeps.

A Sense of Purpose

Unless we are out of town, you’ll probably find me teaching class on Sunday morning. I volunteered to fill in five years ago and got hooked on having a regular audience. At first I was positively terrified. Getting a room of adults to find interest in and discuss the same old book they’ve been reading since childhood is not always the easiest. I’m no stranger to thousand-yard stares that may or may not be battling the after-effects of a late Saturday night. We are Methodists after all.

After literally sweating through many awkward moments of silence in the early days, I realized that the necessary skill inherently was not in communicating new information. Talk at people long enough and you lose them. The key to success was asking the right questions so folks would open up and explore the topic. People love to talk about themselves. Sharing is therapeutic. I love talking about myself so much that I’ve typed it all out for you to read.

Through our time together, I’ve grown more comfortable asking the tougher questions to my class. They have stuck with me through surprise meditation sessions, optimistic reading assignments, and even a four-part series involving Kathy Lee Gifford. Admittedly, a few visitors have not returned. 

On a recent Sunday, I challenged our group with a question that my 7-year-old had laid on me just days before while walking into a Milo’s. While my mind had been doing the math on how many extra sauces would be required, Libby so casually inquired “Daddy, what is our purpose in life?

Needless to say, I was not ready for this. A mere twenty steps from ordering cheeseburgers and my kid turns into Aristotle. It felt like one of those moments I didn’t want to sear improperly into their beautiful heads, so I sputtered for a second then asked to reconvene later at a less beefy establishment. 

Then naturally, I forgot until Sunday when I realized I could once again saddle the class with my personal challenges. What did they think was their purpose for being on this planet?

With little hesitation, my buddy Steve broke the silence and piped up. “You know, it’s funny you ask, because I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately too. Here it goes.” 

…

My paternal grandfather died at the age of 48. It’s an unspoken rule in our family that you don’t get too certain about one's future. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. This hits harder each day, as my forties seemingly pick up speed. I recall my father and uncle being this age - having a crazy look in their eyes while chasing tornadoes and playing chicken on jet skis. 

Since I was only four when my grandfather passed, my mental image of him has been slowly reconstructed through the relics and stories that live on. Judging by these alone, one can only picture a full and amazing life. In storage behind the underground home he built, I would stumble across the wildest stuff. It was par for the course to find a parachute, an antique crossbow, race car parts, a suitcase full of knives or something equally awesome. The stories that inevitably followed would be told through a smile, and always included a chuckle. 

With a keen eye, you begin to see his sense of humor woven through everything. There’s a  treasured photo of my grandparents as young sweethearts. It’s the quintessential fifties scene, two young lovers holding hands on a swing set, keeping their chastely distance. But when viewed at close range, you’ll see that there is a pair of painties hanging in the foreground of the picture. The story goes that Ed found them in the woods, but in either case, I’ve spent hours upon hours laughing at his artful execution.

And that brings me to the point.

Steve told us that, in this phase of life, his purpose is to do everything he can to facilitate a happy and safe family. Simple as that. He has career ambitions, hobbies and cooks excellent desserts, but the thing that matters most above all else is delivering the next generation to adulthood with good heads on their shoulders. 

I enjoyed hearing this perspective. It was refreshing and frankly pretty badass for a dude to say that out loud. We go through seasons that ask different things of us, but the foundational requirements are generally the same. You can’t fake being a good father just like you can’t fake happiness. Working for the benefit of something larger than yourself, and doing so in the right spirit, inherently helps you understand your own why.

Being honest, I totally punted that day at Milo’s. I promised my little ladies that we would discuss Libby’s question in an environment less beefy. It felt like one of those moments I didn’t want seared improperly into their beautiful heads. I started by admitting to them that I can’t tell them their exact purpose, but that I’d be happy to share mine and maybe that would help.

The last eight months have been a rollercoaster of freedom and fulfillment, but hanging over all of it has been a heaping pile of guilt. I’ve been so fortunate to have this opportunity to figure myself out a bit. Until recently, it was hard to shake the thought that this whole thing is entirely selfish. Each day not spent toiling away at a profitable or hugely impactful enterprise was seemingly wasted. But Steve’s insight helped put things in perspective. What if instead of trying to wrangle some complicated existential meaning from life, I simply live it the best way I know how?

It surely isn’t a coincidence that everything that puts a smile on my face also tends to involve trying to put one on others. Teaching, cooking, throwing parties, playing music, writing stories about how dumb I am - it doesn’t take a thorough psychoanalysis to see what gets me going. For better or worse, I feel like I was put here to show people how fun and funny life can be. Taking things too seriously makes Chappy a dull boy. Besides, I genuinely love being in a place where the bad days at least make for great stories.

So much worry over the last ten years has been devoted to doing all the right things for my kids, as if there are boxes to check. That all felt pretty hollow in moments when their concerned faces wanted to know why I rarely smiled for a long time. What my children (and I would argue all humans) really want is to be around people who are enjoying life. I’d rather be the one dancing like an idiot, hosting tricycle races and pushing the boundaries of sandwich innovation. I’m here to show y’all a good time. That’s my purpose.

“If you are happy, all of us will profit from it. All living beings will profit from it.” -Thich Nhat Hanh

Mr. Bailey's Confidence Building Country Camp

We’re loaded up and headed south on Interstate 65. Dads are in the front chatting. Our eldest daughters are in the back, debriefing from their school week. After a quick stop at the gas station for beef sticks and candy, our crew is leaving the Birmingham suburbs behind for wide open spaces.

Bailey, our host for the weekend, makes regular pilgrimages to the family farm near Greenville. There is always something to do and people to entertain. Maybe that’s why you rarely see him sitting down. When restrained to the seat of his truck, there is a story ready for every landmark along the way.

I’ve been looking forward to this little getaway. Being a father to only girls, I struggle to find the balance between what worked for me as a child and what is best for their growth. Most parents can likely relate when I say that I had a lot more freedom and space to roam as a youth. I’ve been stuck on this idea that if we don’t start introducing this generation to micro-situations where they can test their mettle a bit, we’ll be unleashing an army of unprepared kids into the real world.

So the timing of this father-daughter trip was perfect. Our pack of little ladies were all approaching ten. With no devices in sight, they simply talked in the back seat or listened in as Bailey shared sanitized versions of his own childhood exploits, which frankly put mine to shame.

As we exited and put one final city line in the rear-view mirror, a question arose from the back. “Mr. Bailey, what are we going to do this weekend?”

Lesson One: On the Job Negotiation

One part of country life that I genuinely miss is always knowing a person who can do a thing. Distance from the huddled masses encourages a sort of familial barter system where all are pretty self-sufficient but forces combined could literally rebuild the world from scratch. It takes me a week to get an electrician out, but Bailey’s “backhoe guy” is casually smoking in his Dodge Ram dually by the roadside as we ease up alongside. Drive-through job quoting as the sun sets on a Friday afternoon.

Upon surveying the area in question, a number is given which is way too high. Instead of caving to get this land cleared in a hurry, there’s surely another backhoe guy. Plus “we could always rent one and do it ourselves for half that.” Yee-haw. I wonder how this type of scene processes for a child whose father uses adhesive strips to hang things.

It’s already quite chilly out, so once our gear is unloaded, a fire is the first order of business. Although there is a house, the fire pit and pole barn that surrounds it become the epicenter of all weekend activities. 

Lesson Two: Fire Starting for Beginners

My oldest is no stranger to a good fire. Like any cool suburban dad, I have a Solo Stove, which admittedly is a fun science lesson in how to burn wood as fast as possible. This custom rig before us on the farm was on a completely different scale - logically designed to hold that heat in. Colossal grates would allow a few pigs to slowly roast for special occasions each year. 

But before you can make a big fire, one must begin with a small one. Cold, tiny hands did their best to overcome childproof features on the available lighters. Matches fizzled in the wind. Kindling was broken off of the wall of firewood. Eventually, their persistence, teamwork and ingenuity paid off. They basked in the warmth of achievement, only occasionally straying from the opportunity to throw another log on.

Lesson Three: Welcome to the Waffle House

If you have never been to Butler County, the hottest fashion trend is camo. Same as it has been since forever. People talk about “the rut” in whispered reverential tones while longing for the moment where they can disappear up into a tree and cross paths with a huge lusty buck. 

This wasn’t my first Waffle House, so I didn’t bother to dress up. The girls, free from any critical motherly eyes, were goofily disheveled and a bit smoky smelling. It was hard to tell, though, once we were settled into our booth. The aroma of all that butter and fat had us ready to put those orders in.

While the glossy double-sided menu may not look intimidating, my nerdy friends will tell you there are approximately 1.5 million different ways to have your hashbrowns. Complicated decisions must be be made and clearly communicated above the din of a lively open kitchen. When the time came, chocolate waffles and milk were successfully ordered before our server’s patience ran out. It was a fantastically efficient breakfast of champions. I was also reminded that these kids can’t be too self-absorbed if they’ll happily walk out of a restaurant with chocolate still on their faces. 

Lesson Four: Agronomy & Critters

I love when people are incredibly passionate about something they do. It can’t always be a paying gig, but don’t we all want to find that? 

While deer hunting isn’t my usual jam, I do understand why people love it. I’ve spent three days making what ultimately is an Italian beef sandwich, so the idea that someone puts down hundreds of pounds of seed, months in advance, for the chance at a few deer…well that’s a labor of love. Playing the long game makes for better stories.

The establishment our truck backed up to next does not exist around our usual stomping grounds. Considering the sheer quantities and cross-section of goods, one would need ambitions of scale. The smallest bag crossing our tailgate was fifty pounds. 

You want crickets? How about thousands. When they are mating, they shake rhythmically, so we all realized together that this cricket disco was truly a miniature Sodom and Gomorrah. I nearly felt compelled to buy some just to make space for the next generation that would undoubtedly be here by Christmas. 

The variety of goods on offer was staggering. While Bailey stood in line for deer snacks, I used our rare cell reception to field questions about why someone would buy these things and what their uses might be. 

Seasonality can largely be ignored in the world I normally occupy. I just made a blueberry cobbler in winter for crying out loud. This bustling operation in Greenville couldn’t help but carry what this time of year required. All of the patrons this Saturday morning were operating in step with what you had to be doing now, in the chill of December, to have a chance for results in the spring. I think we all needed that perspective. 

Lesson Five: Firearms

As soon as I could hold a gun without falling over, one was placed on my shoulder and pointed in a safe direction. Not yet old enough to comprehend the methodology of a shotgun, it just seemed like I hit everything! Eventually, I was proficient enough with the steel to earn a rifle shooting merit badge in the Boy Scouts. But we literally moved to suburbia within weeks of that triumphant achievement. 

Whether or not you consider yourself a gun enthusiast, they are legal in the United States of America. Bailey is a responsible gun owner and hunter. That’s why our collective of Dads had no issues with him setting up a controlled range so the girls could squeeze off a few rounds. Instead of a peanut gallery of tipsy uncles and a piece of trash as a target, however, their indoctrination included a detailed safety overview, shooting chair, and an array of targets set up a comfortable distance downrange. 

I anticipated needing to give my oldest a pep talk. Dangerous things are not her usual jam, but I’ve heard tales of her summer camp exploits. Maybe there’s a side I hadn’t allowed to flourish. 

Without hesitation, she casually settled in. Then got down to business clinically putting holes in that target. I must say I was impressed. You could see the little confidence boost it gave each girl to survey their handiwork - wrangling accuracy out of loud and forceful instruments. 

Lesson Six: Off Road Vehicles

Streets can be so boring. Also safe. Everyone has a story about a guy they knew who got hurt super bad on an ATV, Motorbike, etc. And note that it’s always a guy. If you give a dude any set of wheels, he will undoubtedly have two questions to investigate. How fast can I go and how high can I jump it?

I have lived enough years to remember three wheelers bebopping around our family property. These days, commercials have to tell people not to take something if they are allergic to that thing. But back in the good ol’ days, a company could sell a heavy unstable death trap without a second thought.

The farm vehicle of today is comparatively innocuous. Known as a Mule, this thing has a full roll cage, seat belts, and costs more than some commuter vehicles. Notably, the radio also kicks ass on this model. We are bouncing through dormant fields while giggles ring out. Their learners' permits may be half a decade away, but these girls were experiencing the joys of mashing the loud pedal and taming yet another beast.

Also in the stable was an ATV. Four wheels are better than three, but these things are still heavy and super dangerous when used incorrectly. I have come off of a few in my time, but then again I am indeed a dude.

The most experienced rider was limited to a reasonable gear. Slowly but surely, trust was earned and the reins loosened. The girls took turns riding off into the distance two at a time, experiencing that unmistakable bond of putting full faith and trust in one another. 

In the end, there was a near miss or two. Shouts rang out from our Dad collective on occasion, correcting a young driver who had gone astray. I love a good teachable moment, and I was in good company. Go ahead and make those mistakes in a controlled environment. It’s one thing for me to tell my kids that you only brake in a straight line. It’s another thing for them to feel the vehicle pitch sideways when they violate that rule. Nothing gets harmed except a little topsoil. 

Lesson Six: Fishing

Fishing, unlike most outdoor activities, is a pretty level playing field. It used to drive my Grandfather absolutely insane that my younger sister could catch more fish than him. She wanted to be anywhere else, and made little-to-no effort to keep her line untangled, but without fail she’d just drop the worm in the water and impatiently jerk up one lunker after another. 

There are skills to be acquired and mastered, however. These were no snoopy poles. Bailey had the girls rigged up with spin casters. And then to turn it up to 11, we were fishing a pond that was stocked full of mutant bass. These freaks of nature were intentionally bred to be stronger and more aggressive than the lazy bass you are used to.

You should never fish alone, so there is also a need for spacial awareness when casting your line. I don’t know about you, but my kids generally do not have their wits about them. I often lose dad points for using the tops of their heads to steer them out of harm's way. This, I’m told, is embarrassing. 

Rather than micro-managing through the whipping hooks, I felt more content to focus on my own line. We got stuck a few times, but when those first two fish finally came out of the water, it was on the hooks of our little boss ladies. Then we took them to a fruitless pond down the road for a little dose of humility.

Lesson 7: Open Fire Cooking

In the fleeting hours of daylight, we gave the girls agenda space to get weird with it. They gathered assorted deer, hog and bird bones to construct a terrifying mini museum of natural history. Having mastered fire in a controlled environment, they took it upon themselves to start a baby fire at a separate location. When they composed visually stunning vegetarian snacks for deers and lightly smoked them in said fire, the girls were just showing off. And to think, they could have been on the couch watching television.

Our crew did not go willingly when departure time eventually came. Being a passenger once again seemed pedestrian to these hardened outdoorsladies. My child had rarely been so filthy. Bags of mostly clean clothes were returned to the truck bed…

Parenting is hard. The blueprint that molded me into the strange human I am cannot (and many would argue should not) be copied and pasted to my two offspring. The world is different. They are different. As soon as we think we’re figuring things out, the target moves and we are on our heels once again. One thing we forget is the world is a moving target for them too. It’s their first go at being a human. What I know for certain is that just about every kid in my part of the world could use a dose of Mr. Bailey’s Country Camp.