Dad's museum mania

On each museum trip, my sister and I were handed a quiz. If we did well, we got ice cream.

from the June 13, 2008 edition

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My mother would tell my father she wanted to go to Hawaii, to which he would say, "Hawaii, why would anyone want to go there? There's nothing to do."

But what he really meant was that Hawaii wouldn't be intellectual enough. So we went to places like Colorado. And not to ski, mind you, but to explore more innards of concrete buildings. Like the Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame.

After a half hour at this cowboy museum, my father was studying the information on the third cowboy, which was unfortunate because there were 40 featured, so I tried the snoring approach. But the bench in the museum was wooden and not fit for sleeping. So I wandered into the courtyard. My sister followed. Then my mom. Soon, the only one left in the museum was my dad and 40 dead cowboys.

The courtyard was nothing but a slab of concrete and a couple of benches. But then, to our surprise, the most entertaining subject of the cowboy museum showed his beady eyes.

Normally, people run from mice. But given that we had nowhere to go but back into a museum with a devoted learner, we stayed put. I had crackers, my sister had Sour Patch Kids candy, and the mouse had both.

After our 2,000-mile road trip, my father asked what I had learned. I tried to remember any little tidbit, any fact about flora, fauna, or cowboys that I had read but came up with nothing. Then, suddenly, it hit me.

"I learned that I'm not afraid of mice," I said.

I hadn't regurgitated any hard facts or demonstrated superior intellect, but somehow it was the best thing a Father's Famous Field Trip had ever taught me – something about myself. As my father shook his head and walked away, I couldn't help but smiling.

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