Recently, my daughter and I visited Silver Dollar City (SDC) in Branson, Missouri. As usual, our trip wasn’t without an interesting moment.
Before we left to go home, I wanted only one thing, she wanted two. We both wanted a crushed lemonade drink for the ride home, and she wanted a funnel cake.
But, first things first, Dr. Lovely Daughter bought a funnel cake. After that, I found a stone ledge that encircled flowers and a tree to sit on, just off of Main Street. This was a good idea since there was a shootout on Main Street between lawmen and outlaws going on.
“You’re not going to be able to eat all of that,” I say, sitting next to my daughter on the stone ledge.
“I know,” she says. “Have some.”
“I don’t like funnel cake,” I say, pinching off a hunk of cake and eating it. “Didn’t they have anything smaller?”
“No, this was the only size.”
“You won’t be able to eat all of that. It’s huge.” She offers the cake again, and I pinch off another hunk, popping it in my mouth. “I won’t be eating much. I really don’t like funnel cakes.”
“I know,” she says, pointing behind me. “There’s a squirrel behind you.”
“Where?” I turn to look, but I don’t see him.
“He ran over there.” She points to another stone circle of flowers directly across from us.
When I finally spot him, I see that Mr. Squirrel’s beady eyes are focused on my daughter. “He’s looking at you. Why is he looking at you? Wait, I think he’s smelling the funnel cake.”
The squirrel takes one tiny step forward, tilts his head and lifts his twitching nose in the air.
“He smells the funnel cake,” I say again. “He’s eaten it before and knows that the funnel cake smell means it’s something good to eat. I hope he doesn’t leap across the pavement and fight you for the funnel cake.”
We both laugh.
She stops laughing and says, “I hope not either.”
About then a lawman appears and says something, but I can’t hear him so I just nod and smile.
“Where is he?” I say to my daughter. The lawman points behind us.
“I think he’s behind you somewhere.” My daughter continues to eat the funnel cake.
I don't like that she's not keeping an eye on the squirrel, so I watch him. He's now in the middle of our stone circle, only a couple of feet away. Then he inches closer, turns sideways and stares at her with one eye and takes another step--closer.
“I'm telling you that he's going to end up in your lap or in the middle of the plate,” I say this a little too loudly. “He’s right there.”
She looks again at the squirrel and then at me. “I don’t know what I can do about it.”
At that moment, I did what any other mother would do to save her daughter and a funnel cake. I pinched off a big hunk of the cake and tossed it near the squirrel. It was obvious that this wasn't his first funnel cake rodeo. He grabbed the cake, ran back to his spot and proceeded to eat it between his tiny rodent hands.
I did this two more times before we left to find our lemonade drinks. Between my daughter, Mr. Squirrel and I, we ate about half of the cake.
Moral to my story? I got nothing. What do you think the moral of my story is?