A losing fight with a dead cow

Well, we made it to Oshkosh, though not without a little bloodshed.

I don’t know when Sara first came to the realization that her father wasn’t infallible. It was probably around the same time that Santa ceased to slide down the chimney we don’t have. So I shouldn’t be that worried over any loss of respect from yesterday’s incident with the rented minivan.

“Watch, I’m going to show you how we’re going to make all these seats disappear into the floor” I told Sara as she stared at me though the open side door. The first row vanished as promised and I crawled on my knees inside to tackle the remaining third row. I was looking up at a whole cow’s worth of black leather seat when I noticed the strap with a cryptic pictorial of a seat folding down. With a level of confidence that only a father demonstrating a complex mechanical system to his daughter can muster, I pulled the strap.

As advertised, the seat folded, but not before scribing a blindingly fast arc of dead cow hide in the direction of my face. The headrest struck my glasses which sliced open the bridge of my nose. The ever-observant Sara reported, “Dad, your nose is bleeding”. I’d like to think that a diagnosis of such accuracy means that she’ll end up in Med school, but more likely it was just her subtle way of saying “I’m glad this happened in Chicago where none of my friends could see this”.