Many years ago, Josh and I usually rose a little earlier than everyone else, and that meant he often attended to chores with me. Recycling. Booting the computer labs. Scouting for breakfast at the Golden Corral on Sunday morning.
Yes, we went to the Golden Corral for Sunday breakfast, just he and I, for more Sundays than I'll ever count. We arrived early before most of the rest, and picked a table near the bar where I'd get him situated in a seat and gnawing on some bacon or sticky bun while I chowed down on an above average breakfast. (I was running a lot then and could afford the calories.)
So we headed over one Sunday morning in the little Ford Ranger my parents gave me. We're cruising down MacKay Road. He's gazing about as a boy will from a car seat perched up front in a truck, and we lock onto a sight together: A mama wood duck walking across the road followed by a near endless stream of baby ducks. I slowed down.
As the truck stopped and the parade of ducks waddled across the road, Josh intoned in all seriousness: “Don't knock them over, Dad.” We didn't knock them over.