I stood patiently at the door while the cement truck driver stood framed by our doorway. He was a large man, as drivers of the behemoth trucks usually are, not fat, mind you, well more than a little around the middle, but muscle abounds through his shoulders and neck. Picking up and attaching the cement slide sections day in and day out created strong trap muscles that bulged from the driver's neck, making his shirt's top button stretch tight across the seam.

"Can I help you?" I asked, the driver hemming and hawing as he apologized for bothering me in the middle of the afternoon. I was on my lunch break after just arriving a few minutes ago at our new rental house. A month ago, I accepted a new job with a new company, and thankfully, not a new town. I was born in Cedar City and grew up here. My dad and sister still reside here; however, it has been fifteen years since I moved away, and things have changed drastically in the once-small community.

"I know it's none of my business, and I generally don't like to stick my nose in where it might not belong," the cement driver said. He seems embarrassed to be in my doorway for such a big guy. I take a peek over his shoulder (moving slightly to the right to see around his trap muscles), making sure our family car doesn't have a cement truck sitting on its hood. Or worse, the interior flooded with the wet soon-to-be rock substance. "Did I roll up the window?" I question myself while the driver continues his apology.

I assured him it was okay and wondered again about the point he was trying to make. "It's just that I was across the street working," he turns and points toward his cement truck, "if it were me I'd want to know," he kind of mumbles the last few words as my two daughters run from the kitchen to wrap their arms around my waist, each peering up at the large man.

With my interest peaked, I asked, "know what?" "I don't like to get anyone in trouble, but," he said; however, I was already glancing around the room, "where is Christopher?" I thought. Christopher is the third child and our first boy; we had made the grueling trip driving from Oklahoma to Utah with our new baby Sean, Christopher, Desiree, and Linda driving the truck while I drove the U-Haul. (Jessica had remained in Oklahoma for a final dance recital).

Christopher has no fear, and after a single day of swimming lessons, the instructors assigned him a personal lifeguard. We've received calls from Sunday School and preschool teachers telling us stories of our climbing, shimming son and all the predicaments he finds himself in despite himself.

"Know what?" I repeated, "Your son's in the back of your truck with a ball-pein-hammer, smacking the edges of the bed," he finally spits out. "What!" I cry and try to run past his bulk; he steps aside as I rush to the driveway beside the house. Sure enough, my wife's loving son is smacking the top portion of the truck bed with the hammer and having the time of his life. The dents resemble the damage caused by hail storms in Oklahoma, and I catch his arm before a final swing.

Lifting him out of the back of the truck, I smack his butt as he makes a bee-line for the house. "Thanks," I say to the driver as he crosses the lawn heading back to his truck. Truthfully, the damage is minimal; how hard can a five-year-old hit with a hammer? Thankfully, the dents are limited to the upper flat portion of the truck bed, which is robust by design leading to minor divots. Had he been leaning over the side swinging the hammer, the damage would have been extensive and noticeable.

As a family, we have laughed at the Calvin and Hobbs cartoon depicting a similar event, and even years later, in the local Walmart parking lot, I pulled in behind a truck with "I love you dad," scratched into the paint of the tailgate. So, sons, we love you too.

Written October 16, 2022