Daddy Don’t Know Jack

May 3, 2007

To preserve the last shreds of his dignity, let’s call him “the Dad.” Last Saturday, his son was having a birthday party - something that involved driving considerable distances to pay money to walk across wires strung between trees. The Dad was carpooling three 11-year-old girls, none his own.

“We were driving along when we heard, zzzz, zzzz,” says Beatrice Hodgkins, who has blue eyes, freckles and a honey-blond ponytail.

Kate Thomas-McNeill looked out the window. “There’s this guy waving frantically. He was completely spazzy,” says Kate, who weighs 60 pounds and is also a blue-eyed blond.

She informed the Dad, who, thinking he was too slow, shifted lanes. Oddly, unlike the typical, irate Greater Toronto Area driver, the other guy kept jabbing his finger down, not up.

At which point, the Dad clued in as to why his teal-blue Toyota Camry had been bobbling along, making odd, thumping noises. A rear tire was flat.

Happily, they were across from a Canadian Tire outlet with lavish auto-repair facilities near Barrie, Ont. Unhappily, the wait was 45 minutes.

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