Today I visited South Carolina to talk with a prospective client. The fact that I was in a foreign land was reinforced as I drove from the airport the 50 miles or so to my destination. Billboards, those reflections of the heart of a culture, advertised Big Zack’s Fireworks (BIGGEST ON I-85!), Shelton Fireworks (THE BIG ONES!), Big-Hearted Bob’s Used Cars, Adult Novelties and Toys (COUPLES WELCOME!), and Hot Boiled P’Nuts. Not exactly sex, drugs and rock and roll, but size certainly does seem to matter (at least when it comes to fireworks and the compassion of your used-car dealer). The big orange paw prints painted on the road as I entered town (I suppose that gives it away, doesn’t it) were another sign that I was in a land serious about its college sports teams. Heading back to the airport this afternoon, I passed a different billboard that confused the hell out of me: SATURDAY = THE LORD’S DAY; SUNDAY LAWS = MARK OF THE BEAST. So is somebody lobbying for a Saturday Sabbath that I don’t know about?

Last week the local fire company hosted a carnival at the park in town. When the kids were little we would sometimes drive out of the way so that they wouldn’t see the carnival, or later, when they could read, wouldn’t see the signs advertising its arrival. This example of dishonest parenting is one of many survival tricks that you learn when you’re trying to juggle kids, work and your own very tenuous hold on sanity. This avoidance mechanism was all due to my aversion to all things carnival or circus-like (clowns included). There is just something creepy about the rides and the games of chance (worse odds than any casino) and the seedy atmosphere. Since I was not entirely Cruella DeVille, we did occasionally succumb to the kids’ begging to attend. Caitlin would ride the Dragon Wagon (I crammed myself into the Lilliputian-sized cars more than once) and Rebecca would spend her college savings trying to win a goldfish (which would invariably go to meet its maker less than 48 hours after joining our household). This particular carnival is also where I learned that my aging brain will no longer tolerate rides that in any way spin or revolve or rotate. This lesson was learned in a particularly colorful, projectile manner. All of this sets up saying that one of the few joys of having teenagers is that you can drop them off at the fringes of the fair, return for them at an appointed time, and not have to subject yourself to the funnel cakes or the Zipper or the memories of the time you and your child both fit into the Dragon Wagon.