How to Land in a Stranger's Lap (A Symphony Prequel)

Robin, my daughter‑in‑love, invited me to join them and her brothers for the Stardew Valley Symphony. I’d never been to a symphony before. I had questions — lots of questions.

In my mind, a symphony is pure elegance: white‑gloved ushers, velvet seats, soft golden lighting, formal gowns drifting through the aisles, and music that promises sophistication before the first note even plays.

BUT — and I do mean a big but — these are gamers. Do they know what a real symphony is?

Do I know what a real one is?

I’d only seen symphonies on television and once attended a very proper choir performance in Cincinnati. We dressed nicely for that. Shoes were involved. So naturally, I wondered if we should shop.

They arrived from Hobbs, New Mexico, and we all met at their grandmother Shirley’s house. No one even unloaded at the motel — everyone was starving.

“Just follow me to Hefner Grill,” I said.

Shirley, never one to miss a moment, tossed out a challenge:

“Try to keep up.”

And just like that, the race was on.

I made sure Montana was behind me until I turned to get on the interstate. I was watching traffic, minding my business, and suddenly… he was gone. Vanished. Like a toddler in Walmart.

I slowed to 54 in a 65 — basically standing still — waiting for that boy to reappear like a magic trick gone wrong.

Still nothing.

Then — out of nowhere — he appeared beside me, waving his arms like he was directing airport traffic on a windy day.

I called him.

“WHAT? I don’t read shouting in sign language.”

“Why are you going so slow?” he said.

“I thought I lost you!”

“No, I’ve been beside you trying to get you to go faster. When are you getting over?”

That boy always thinks he has to be the lead car in the parade.

“I said we’re getting off here.”

Get in line, little duckling.

Apparently my driving bothers Montana. the next day he suggested we all ride in his Tahoe — three rows, one driver with NASCAR fantasies, and absolutely no escape routes.

After lunch, stuffed like Thanksgiving dinner, I crawled into the third row with Seth — Robin’s single, 35‑year‑old brother who works hospital security. Talk about stories he could tell. I could write a whole book from his night shift alone.

Montana, meanwhile, was driving like Dale Earnhardt Jr. on a comeback tour, swerving in and out of traffic like he was trying to pass invisible competitors only he could see.

From the way back I yelled, “I’m getting sick!”

Then I muttered, where I thought he couldn’t hear me, “At least there aren’t any roundabouts around here.”

We turned toward a car wash, and right in the middle of a quiet little housing addition…

there it was.

A roundabout.

A tiny, evil, perfectly circular trap.

NOOO—yes. Yes indeed.

We went round and round and round.

Montana kept shouting, “I don’t know how to exit!”

And he said it with the same panic as Chevy Chase in European Vacation:

“Oh look, there’s Big Ben again!”

We were going so fast and cutting corners so sharp, I slid right into Seth’s lap like a bowling ball headed for a strike.

Talk about getting better acquainted.

I apologized, just thankful I didn’t redeposit my lunch at his feet.That would’ve been a whole different kind of bonding.

I thought that would be the end of Montana’s stunt‑driving for the weekend.

But oh no — that boy had a sequel planned.

The next night, after the symphony, we left the venue with about 500 other cars. Montana slipped right back into race‑mode, driving like Lewis Hamilton trying to set a lap record in downtown Tulsa.

Robin said, “Hey babe, you’re supposed to turn right here,” and Montana jerked the wheel so hard Seth flew straight into my lap this time.

“Paybacks aren’t fun at all — they’re just embarrassing, especially when they involve someone landing in your lap,” I told Seth as he moved away.

If we weren’t acquainted before… we were now. His face turned redder than a brake light.

Poor Shirley ended up on Reese’s lap, and he had to help her get upright like he was assisting a toddler into a booster seat.

At that point, I decided Montana should really reconsider his career choices — NASCAR, Uber, demolition derby, something. Because clearly, he was born to launch passengers.

Next up: actual symphony. Hopefully we survive the ride there. 

Note to self: Never ride with Montana on consecutive days. Lesson apparently unlearned.