Now I will readily admit that remembering historical dates is not one of my most intense forte's. Nor was it during middle or high school when I was actively learning it. How I managed to get through those classes without failing, is still a mystery up there with MJ's toxicology report but at least it's over, right? However, I do have some sort of sentimental need to visit historical sites and imagine myself living through whatever battle or march or wagontrain adventure that once took place there. Hence my intense desire to see the Alamo when we were in San Antonio a few weeks back.
My best friend from high school, (and coincidentally college as well) and the only one who can make me scream laugh instantaneously by imitating yours truly, got married to the cutest Texan podiatrist you have ever met. And we all know how those guys grow on trees down there, am I right? So we trooped the fam down south for the main event and had an awesome 3 days catching up with friends, tubing down the Gruene River, and 2-stepping our pants off at the reception. It went way too fast and everyone was gone before I even had the time to get sick of them. The nerve.
When I booked the trip to the Great State, I decided to give us a late flight out on Sunday so we didn't have to rush around totally hung over in the morning only to realize we missed our flight which left us time to sightsee for a hair or two. All weekend we had been trying to find something to do that day until someone casually mentioned they had went to see the Alamo the day before. WHAT? You mean there's actually an ALAMO? And it's in my near vicinity? And there followed several straight hours of me chanting: MUST SEE ALAMO. MUST SEE ALAMO. So that together with Griffin screaming about the heat and his dislike of his rental car seat, directly led to Grant's head exploding several times that day. Holy Matrimony, Batman.
Eventually, we worked our way to downtown San Antonio and found a parking garage relatively near where we thought the Alamo was. ALAMO. ALAMO. ALAMO. We pack up Grif in the stroller and laden ourselves down with 80 million pounds of shit and no I don't know why, but we're parents and that is what parents do. And we've walked two steps out of the garage before the heat of Satan's Inferno descends on the 3 of us and we almost spontaneously combust right there on Main Street. Did you know that about San Antonio in July? I guess I should have been tipped off when I learned San Antonio actually means Satan's Inferno. (Yeah-huh.) Somehow we make it the 3 blocks to the ALAMO and we enter the grounds. The gardens are beautiful and there are these huge big billowy trees giving shade to the crumbling old stone walls that you can tell were hand stacked way back in something-07. The place was packed and we tried in vain to wander around taking it all in as quickly as possible before death overtook us in the form of a Flaming Grim Reaper. Grant kept asking to leave but I hadn't quite had my historical site fix so I kept inventing things to show him so we'd have to stay a little longer.
Finally, after a grueling 2 hours of the heat I give in and we walk back to the car. We're sitting in the cool of the air conditioner waiting to pull out of our parking spot when Grant goes, "What the hell happened at the Alamo?"
Though I really wished I could scream at him for an insensitivity to the sweat, toil, and sacrifice of our forefathers, I could only say, "Hell if I know, that's why I picked up this brochure".
Ah history. I can only hope to impart such a keen sense of nostalgia to our son someday.