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’ve never been to a symphony before. I had questions — lots of questions.

In my mind, a symphony is pure elegance: white-gloved ushers guiding guests to velvet seats, soft golden lighting warming the room, formal gowns and tuxedos 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 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 all the way from Hobbs, New Mexico, and we all met at their grandmother Shirley’s house. The kids didn’t even take time to unload at the motel — they were starving, we were starving, everybody 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 down to 54 in a 65, which is basically standing still on the freeway, waiting for that boy to reappear like a magic trick gone wrong.

I slowed even more, scanning my mirrors like a nervous mother duck counting her ducklings. Still nothing.

Then — out of nowhere — I saw him 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.”

Montana said, “Why are you going so slow?”

“I thought I lost you!” I said.

“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, because 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 just 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 under my breath, 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 I swear, 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 over 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. 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 said to 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 out of 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.

Stay tuned for the next post where we actually make it to the symphony (and discover the $13 wine)."