One day in late April, Colton and I had stopped at the Sweden Creme for
a snack. The Sweden Creme is the kind of family-owned drive-in joint that
is the small-town answer to the fast-food chains that all pass us over
because we’re too small. Every little town in Nebraska has one of these
places. McCook has Mac’s; Benkelman has Dub’s. In Holyoke, the little
burg just over the Colorado state line, it’s Dairy King. And they all serve the
same thing: hamburger baskets, chicken fingers, and soft-serve ice cream.
That day, I bought vanilla cones, one each for Colton and me. True to
form, when we walked out the door, he took his treat and darted out into
the parking lot, which is only a couple dozen feet from Broadway.
Heart in my throat, I yelled, “COLTON, STOP!”
He put the brakes on, and I jogged up to him, red in the face, I’m sure.
“Son, you can’t do that!” I said. “How many times have we told you that?”
Just then, I noticed a little pile of fur right out in the middle of Broadway.
Seizing what I thought was a teachable moment, I pointed to it. “See that?”
Colton took a lick of his own cone and followed my finger with his eyes.
“That’s a bunny who was trying to cross the street and didn’t make it,” I
said. “That’s what can happen if you run out and a car doesn’t see you! You
could not only get hurt; you could die!”
Colton looked up at me and grinned over his cone. “Oh, good!” he said.
“That means I get to go back to heaven!”
I just dropped my head and shook it, exasperated. How do you scare
some sense into a child who doesn’t fear death?
Finally I bent down on one knee and looked at my little boy. “You’re
missing the point,” I said. “This time, I get to heaven first. I’m the dad;
you’re the kid. Parents go first!”