Famous Last Words

The Pennsylvania Turnpike is bad enough when you have to watch your speed like a hawk to keep it within the range above 65 miles per hour deemed unworthy of attention from the state police. This is a small range, mind you. What counts as speeding on the Pennsylvania Turnpike is only just fast enough to avoid being tailgated on Michigan freeways, where Hemi engines roam freely and enjoy frequent exercise, eliciting little more than an approving grin from local law enforcement.

What's worse than the Pennsylvania Turnpike on an ordinary day? The Pennsylvania Turnpike on the last day of a holiday weekend, when it slows to a crawl as expat midwesterners make their way back to DC, Philly, and New York. After an hour of clutch-roasting stop-and-go, I wondered What could be worse than this?

Then it hit me. It hit Sarah about the same time. Then Ben. A certain familiar smell, which grew to a stench, which grew to a fog of war on our olfactory glands. Sarah and I exchanged knowing glances, then looked back at Ian, who remained stoically silent. "Aw, did you have to?" I said. We rolled down the windows to no avail. Ben started to cry, then to gag. I started to look for an emergency pull-off while wondering whether the car's hood would be too hot to act as a changing table.

As luck would have it, a sign appeared indicating an exit two miles ahead. I thanked the fates, then moved into the right lane. As I crept forward, I noticed something odd about the truck we had been following. Holes in the side. A glimpse of - what - a tail?

Cue enlightenment.

Then shame.

Then hilarity.

Ian just turned three, so I doubt he'll remember being scapegoated for the wafting odor of livestock. Heck, if we were lucky, it might have shamed him into using the potty. Alas, such was not the case. But at least we have another good story to tell at next year's Thanksgiving dinner.