This year’s Father’s Day Death March was the best ever.
Since the fateful Father’s Day hike about ten years ago (It was long, hot and very wearying), we’ve carried on a tradition of a fruitless and terrible trip as selected by Tod’s father. We’ve driven for hours to walk for ten minutes in a grassy ghost town, we’ve visited oil fields, ridden steam trains, and even found the southwest corner of Pennsylvania.
But now that he’s a grandfather, Pete’s mellowed. This year we went bowling only a few miles from the house. Justin (the newest father in the family) won with a score of 145 and Pete came in second at 116. My score? A pitiful 74.
