Puppy love & text-message-madness meld

In the spirit of not being redundant, we cannot have that, don't you know, I am not going to prattle on about the new evolutionary part that has attached itself to the ears of our youth, as I did a few weeks back.

Instead, I shall let loose about actual text messaging, which was mentioned briefly in that aforementioned piece. So see, this genuinely isn't being repetitive, it's just expanding on a subject that was gently, yet effectively, broached recently.

See how clever I can be? Or, am I a big old liar, or “B.S.er” as my father used to fondly call himself, among others? (No clue how to spell the above euphemism for the male bovine and the waste he produces so, I faked it.)

As I type this, I am in a hammock, atop a sleeping bag with a blanket on top of the body, as several layers of clothing drape my frame. I am about 2.5 to 3.5 hours from home, depending on whom one asks.

The kid and I are currently in a place called Prince Gallitzin State Park, which is right around 20 or so miles from Altoona PA. The reason for the journey is a simple one, and yet one that every parent either dreads, loathes, loves, some feeling in between—or a mixture thereof, actually.

See, my son has met his first real love and, conveniently, she happens to live the 2.5 or 3.5 hours from home. I confess that I am actually all for this union, as long distance relationships lead to less grandchildren, if you receive my vibes.

Anyhow, I told the child that if he really liked this chick AND if there were any chance that she lived near a PA State Park, I'd bring him since I could camp and blah, blah. So yes, this was MY idea. Should I be jailed or commended?

Well, it turned out that she lives literally 7 miles from this breathtaking park. That has turned out to be quite handy, since I've driven him to her house, several times, where he endures the third degree and evil eye from the very strict father. I love that part.

You have to understand that my offspring did not inherit my infatuation with camping. He is too logical about the endeavor as he claims, (and kind of rightly so), that one should not have to pay to live like they did in the wild west days of no indoor plumbing and the like.

He is a Boy Scout, well on his way to Eagle, and must attend camp for a full week every summer. The yarns he spins when he comes home from said camp put me in the mind of some sort of work camp, during WWII, to hear him explain it anyway.

So, for this person to want to camp, or at least agree to do so, must mean true love is in the air, complete with the hearts dancing about the head and the ever-present bluebirds landing on shoulders right and left. I must confess that it's kind of interesting to watch this unfold.

You know how critical most women are about the girlfriends, wives, partners, etc., that their sons pick in life? Well, I love this chick as she is absolutely darling and is a “good girl.” Her dad, as was mentioned earlier, keeps a tight rein on the situation. It's kind of a hardship for the kid but, that's quite OK with your humble columnist.

Moving along, the youngster has been able to spend total time with this itsy-bitsy, bashful, precious specimen of womanhood, or teen-hood, at her house—under supervision, of course. (I was totally content at camp, by the by.)

Are you wondering when I might get to the texting part of this piece? Well, I'm heading there eventually, so hold on. Actually, I've decided to concentrate on several themes and sort of switched the main focus about two paragraphs in to this column. What fun.

Let's review: My progeny would rather have his big toe smashed by a draft horse than to go camping. Also, he has never been much for high school football games. Another thing is that he generally, not always, but GENERALLY, can at least follow instructions for a very simple task.

For just one example, he used to be able to, when asked, perform an easy chore like placing the garbage in the van, at night, as to avoid raccoons, and the like, throwing wild parties as we slumber.

Keep that in mind throughout the rest of this young-love-first-love novel.

Friday evening consisted of his attending a HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL game with her family. After which, he returned to camp and had to be told about 17 times to mange the garbage. The conversation went something like this:

Mom: “Put the garbage in the van on your way to bed.” (The kid isn't as hearty as his 47-year-old mother, and actually slept in the van whilst I roughed it in my tent and never ran any heat.)

Head in Cloud Boy: (While answering text number 689 of the evening, from the girl, whilst wandering aimlessly about the camp site.) “I'm sorry but I know you asked me to do something but what was it again?”

I told him ONCE again and he ended up taking the dirty dishes to the van, as the garbage dangled from the back of our little travel cargo trailer.

Another football game unfolded on Saturday, (I swear, he would have attended the opera as long as he could have been with her), after which he was dropped at our site and I attempted to carry on a conversation.

This would have taken place in between hearing the now suicide inducing, (picture a ring tone or music), “ding, ding, ding—dong.” Which, my dear readers, indicates that a *&$#@ text message is coming in.

The text, of course, was something earth shattering from the girl, whom I shall call Ms. Petite, hence forth, as she weighs as much as my left leg.

She needed, yearned even, to say something along the lines of: “Hi, how are you? I miss you so.” Yes, that was the message of the day, or evening, after having spent an entire twelve hours with Ms. Petite.

Do you know what it's like to converse with a helium balloon? Well, I think I do now and honestly, I would have had more input from a balloon. If nothing else, I could have at least inhaled some of the gas and talked to myself with a goofy voice for a bit.

He hovered above the fire, couldn't follow any kind of direct orders, such as the above-mentioned garbage request, and was basically good for entertainment value only.

I tried, in desperation, to share some wonderful pictures and videos that I had taken but it was all in vain. I was simply not as important as the plethora of texts coming in with rapidity comparable to massive gunfire in a war zone.

Skipping over a bunch of jazz like a visit to a museum about the Johnstown Flood, la-di-da, blah, blah, it was finally Monday and time to exit, stage left.

For some god-forsaken reason, even if a person gets no actual phone service in the mountains, text messaging still works. Oh boy! Isn't that fantastic news?

So, I will leave it up to you to imagine the ride home. Between that evolutionary deal, that was the focus of another column, hanging about the ear region, and that sing-song-sound of an incoming text, nothing was more elating to me than seeing that Geneva, PA exit looming in the distance.

So, there you have it ladies and germs. I'm sure many mothers and fathers out there can relate to the puppy love virus that hits around age 16 and the sheer delight that it brings to entire families—communities even.

I'm buckling up for the hard ride ahead when things go awry, and they will, but, I figure if I can live through the text message madness that has swept the nation, and invaded my van, I'm prepared for an eventually brokenhearted kid.

Actually, I'm not sure which is worse—just joking, for crying out loud. We all know that the text messaging wins that debate.

THE END

P.S. You know that I oft exaggerate due to artistic license right? I have to confess that the kid and I did have some really great conversations on this trip and I must give some credit where credit is due. He is pretty open with me and for that, I am grateful enough to even choke down the insane text messaging and other atrocities of the day.