ArcaMax

I refuse to try to build any more precious childhood memories for my kids. I'm just giving them fuel for the therapist's office (and I'm sure they already have enough of that).

The camel's back-breaking straw came the other day, when my husband and I took our kids to an open-air concert at a venue near our house. I packed us a cooler full of fried chicken, potato salad and chocolate chip cookies, and another, smaller cooler of drinks and ice. There were camp chairs and a picnic blanket.

I checked the weather, which was supposed to be hot with a slight chance of a short, 15-minute-long rainstorm, which I figured would be refreshing in the heat.

What a swell little summer treat we had in store!

Yes, my husband and I were loaded down like Grand Canyon donkeys as we climbed aboard the packed train to the venue. And I did keep trying to surreptitiously sniff my underarms, worried that the terrible B.O. I was smelling was mine. But, no, it was just coming from one of the other 200 sardines crammed into the train car.

We got to the concert site, and it promptly began to drizzle.

"Here's the rain," I told the kids with a self-satisfied air.

Soon enough, it stopped, and we settled ourselves, ate and then sprayed ourselves with insect repellant. There was another brief spot of rain, which we weathered under the picnic blanket, which had a waterproof backing.

"How much longer until the concert is over?" one of the kids asked at the beginning of the opening act, a 6'8" crooner, dressed in Pagliacci clown gear and wearing white makeup. I'd been hoping for summertime family fun, but so far, all my sons had experienced was the startling crush of humanity, sputtering rain and cold fried chicken.

"It hasn't even started," I responded.

I had no idea how right I was.

Just as the main event hit the stage, it started to shower again, lightly at first, then harder. We moved back underneath the picnic blanket, which we had now begun referring to as "the shelter."

My husband went looking for covered spots, taking my older son with them. While they were away, the sky darkened, thunder growled and water began to fall in torrents. Another nearby family, who'd been smart enough to bring a tent, offered us an umbrella to borrow.

I kept checking the weather, each time seeing that the storm was forecast to last longer than the last time I'd looked. My son came back without his dad, and I took the two kids to huddle under the overhang by the men's restrooms.

"Can we go home now?" our youngest asked, and I was tempted to say, "Yes," even though the real answer was, "I don't know." I wasn't sure when the train was coming back, and to get to the station, we'd have to walk a significant distance in the heavy rain. I stalled and checked again to see when the rain was going to stop, my heart falling as it now promised at least 50 minutes more of thunder and lightning.

My husband finally got back, with no good news. The next train was scheduled to arrive in two hours. There was no shelter to wait out the rain.

"We're going to die of hypothermia!" my oldest son shouted in alarm.

We decided we had to try to leave, calling family members and begging them to pick us up. My brother-in-law agreed, and I went back to our picnic site, finding puddles of water on the seats of the chairs and coolers. I packed us up while my husband stayed with the kids. I gave up trying to avoid the rain, realizing there was no way I could get more drenched than I already was.

Walking to the pickup location, the kids began to shiver and cry, blaming the musicians for having the concert, me for buying the tickets and God for making rain. After trudging through ankle-deep mud and collecting rainwater for 20 minutes, we emerged into a clearing near the train station parking lot. We got to a shelter and instantly, as if it knew that we were finally protected from it, the storm abruptly stopped.

As my husband and I bickered about where to go next, my brother-in-law magically appeared as if in a divine chariot driven straight from Olympus itself.

As he loaded us into the car, he asked the kids how they were doing.

"We learned an important lesson," my younger one answered solemnly. "Never go to a concert again."

I was of a mind to agree, but I'd go one further: Let's never leave the house. I thought we were building memories, and we were, but it turns out they were the wrong kind.

Memories are overrated, anyway.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

----

Copyright 2025 Creators Syndicate Inc.