So I had a conversation with Connor Monday, after his taekwondo class. It wasn't so much a conversation as it was a discovery. And instead of a real discovery about my child, it was perhaps only a realization. Even at that maybe it was simply a verification of an underlying truth. That truth being that my son holds it all together about as well as his dad does.

And I blame the woman buying the lotto tickets.

Some background, why don't we? Because Connor has been taking taekwondo for about a month now, on Monday and Wednesday evenings. Five o'clock as a matter of fact. Down in Windsor Forest. Just past that Truman Parkway construction on White Bluff. You know the area? Good. Because a half hour before class starts I am on Skidaway Island. At work. To get up to Montgomery Crossroads from the Diamond Causeway, and across to White Bluff and all the way down to Windsor, in half an hour, would be a feat in itself. But that doesn't take into account the side trip I need to take in the middle of the journey.

Connor goes to school at J Smith. It is an awesome school, a traditional program where he is learning Latin twice a week alongside cursive writing and long division. If we wish to take a mental side route here for a moment, and I do, Connor has broken all the reading records for the school now. They test on Lexile scores now, and if you have children you may be aware of the schools. It lets you know what reading range your child is in, and some appropriate books for that level. For two years now Connor has been at high school levels. The kid enjoys reading text books. History and anthropology in particular, but just about anything at all non fiction and he devours the words. What has impressed me the most the past few years is the retention level of what he is reading. He flies through books and then reads them again. I mean, a hundred words in two hours. And even though he is not the most critical reader and he does not like to review what he reads, he gets a solid understanding of the material. And this is what shows up in those Lexile scores. So he does not ever need to take another Reading test again, He skews the results, and they will keep testing him just to see how far he can go.

And he isn't even the smartest kid in the school.
"I know Daddy. But I am the best reader."
Smartass.

But all this is in the past few months anyway. And I guess it does not have much to do with taekwondo either, or the sheer amount of time and energy my child is absorbing from my time. He has been talking about Karate for about a year, and wanting lessons. I promised and finally made good on the promise, and found an academy that seems to fit my standards, limited as y'all think those may be. But the classes are twice a week, at five o'clock, out on the edge of Windsor Forest. So I go across the drawbridge out toward the landings at four thirty one every day and fly up the parkway and across DeRenne to get to Jacob G Smith out near Red and White, shuffle him into the car where he puts his seat belt on and somehow manages to take off the school uniform, shirt and pants, and get into the taekwondo pajamas while I race back across DeRenne and do my best to sidestep the mall traffic and get down to his academy by five o'clock. We tend to be about three minutes late every day. not too bad of an effort, Dad.

And to be honest here, this has nothing at all to do with the story I am trying to tell. But, as usual, it feels good to be typing. It feels good to be organizing thoughts as my fingers move across the keyboard and a tale of adventure takes shape on the monitor. The only connecting factor to the story is that it was after this taekwondo class last Monday that we stopped at the Circle K here, up by the Food Lion across from the Red Lobster and such, if you know your way around town at all. And for another side note, if you go across Montgomery Crossroads again toward the north, turn behind that gas station on the right, and about three doors down (yes, actually, exactly three doors down and nothing at all to do with the band, except that his sister and I, when she was about seven, did this little dance singing routine to Kryptonite, but that was before this house that I am trying to refer to in here), was where we lived when Connor was born.

But again, getting back to Monday night, and that Circle K, where Connor wanted some Cheetos and I wanted an Arizona Raspberry Tea (which is still sitting in the fridge, as a matter of fact), and I was in line a long time behind someone buying lotto tickets. Somebody who I happened to let get in front of me, too, as we got there about the same time, and there were already about four people in line. Wait. Wait. Waiting. There was a police officer inside. He had pulled into traffic a few minutes earlier, in front of me traveling on White Bluff. My seat belt was unfastened at the time. It usually is. I was slowed down in order to not catch up to him, and he pulled into the gas station in front of me by about fifteen seconds. He was inside, maybe waiting for the bathroom. I was in line a full two and a half minutes, waiting, before I saw him heading nearer to the line.

You see I was in Parker's once, downtown. Okay I have been in there several times, but during this particular trip I had Connor with me. He was still in a car seat at the time so think back about six or seven years ago. I parked in front of the store, where I could see him the entire time, while I got my cup of coffee, got into line, paid for it and left the store. About the time I got into line I saw a Savannah PD officer walk up toward my car. He took the keys out of the ignition (the car was off, I just like leaving my keys where I know I will find them again) and leaned himself against my passenger door, next to my son, and waited for me to come out of the store. He very likely knew who the father was, as I was staring at him and my son the entire time. I went out and he had words for me and threatened me with child protective services and quoted some bible old testament type stuff at me for good measure. So my experience with gas stations, and Connor, and police officers, all wound up together in the same quaint little anecdote, isn't the best of times, to say the least.

And here we are, once more, on this most recent of Monday nights, with Connor hanging out in the car, the keys to the car down on the floor mat, an officer in the store, and me in line behind several people taking a good four or five minutes now instead of the one or two I had planned. Finally this lady gets her tickets and I take that half step forward when she asks for a money order. At this point even the cashier gets that look, you know the one I mean I assume, where she wonders quickly if she is in some hidden camera show and this lady will never leave even as the line to purchase goods is out the door now? Yeah, that was the look she gave while I was taking my forward half step and freezing in place while holding my balance and looking at the police officer two or three yards away, a cup of free coffee now in his hands, and wondering when he was going to get out the door and accost my now ten year old son for being unaccompanied in my car.

And before we get any further let me at least ease your fears and tell you that nothing bad happened. This is the last sighting of the police officer I have for whatever undiscovered reason found the need to so closely scrutinize. The car was fine and Connor was fine and this entire build up was only an exercise in typing, an excuse for a blog in order to talk about my conversation with Connor, and nothing more than the prequel to that conversation.

Then again, it is in reality a story about his own conversation, I guess, because that's what he was doing this whole time I was in the store, amusing himself with his own thoughts, not a concern at all for what I was going through. Selfish buggar. It has been a month now since I started this post, so the particulars are a bit lost in the translation now. In any case I do remember coming out of the store, into the car, and putting it into reverse while noticing that Connor was having said conversation, snippets of which reached my ears and spiked my curiosity. Because of the lapsed amount of time, from 'Last Monday' six weeks ago and today, I will avoid the quotation marks. his dialogue is priceless, mind you, but if I cannot remember exact specifics, i do not want to misquote my own son. But the conversation involved The Wizard of Oz. The movie. He was rewriting it, updating it, adding his own Connoresque spin to it.

The Scarecrow's head exploded. And the Lion was eating the Tinman's heart. And maybe another dozen or so scary elements to it. I should call him and ask him, i suppose. But I started this blog a month ago, already asked him about it the day after I started typing, and dinner is ready and this is April. My blog every day in April post for the first. But to return to the opening paragraph, my son holds it all together about as well as his dad does.