Family Time

     Mr. Richards was sitting in his favorite armchair reading the paper when his son Timothy bolted through the door and ran up the stairs, carrying his instrument. No less than a minute later, Timothy ran back down the stairs with a skateboard.

     “Hi Dad. Bye Dad.” Timothy barely looked at his father as he reached for the door he just entered.

     “Whoa, slow down! Where’s the fire?” Mr. Richards set his paper aside. “Don’t you have time to talk to your old man these days?”

     “But Dad, Bobby and the other guys are going to the skate park. I don’t wanna be late.” Timothy started to pull the door open again.

     “It won’t ruin your day to spend two minutes talking to your father,” said Mr. Richards. “Now, why don’t you tell me how your banjo lesson went today?”

     Timothy gave a loud sigh and marched into the living room. He took a seat on the sofa, opposite Mr. Richards. “It was okay, I guess.”

     “You guess?” asked Mr. Richards. “Did you learn any new songs.”

     “Just one,” said Timothy. “An old colonial tune. And I played it all the way through the first time without any mistakes.”

     “That’s wonderful, son!”

     Timothy beamed with pride. “Yeah, and it was a tough one. The instructor said I had natural talent.”

     “I could have told you that,” said Mr. Richards. “You picked up the banjo in no time. Are you and your friends still thinking about starting a group?”

     “Oh, for sure,” Timothy said. “We’ve got my banjo, a washboard player, a fiddler and a harmonica, and we’ve already hashed out a few songs. It’s all mellow folk music, but that’s what we like. And we think we can play at the farmer’s market next week for our first performance. The only problem is, we can’t agree on the band name.”

     “Well,” said Mr. Richards, “What are you considering?”

     “I like The Vomitorium,” said Timothy, “but Bobby just wants it to be Hurl.”

     “Hmm…” Mr. Richards mulled it over in his head. “They’re both strong, but I think you can do better. What do you think about Puke Bucket?”

     “Puke Bucket?” Timothy’s eyes lit up as he thought about it. “You know, Dad, that’s actually pretty good. I think that might even be better than The Vomitorium.”

     Mr. Richards smiled. “Well, I used to be a folk player myself, back in the day.”

     “Wow, Dad, I can’t wait to tell it to Bobby. He’s gonna flip out!” Timothy jumped out of the sofa and ran toward the door. Just before he disappeared through it, he turned back to his father. “Thanks pop. I’m glad we took the time to chat.”

     “You’re welcome, son. And thank you.”

     Timothy smiled at his father and ran off. Mr. Richards picked up his paper again and opened it to the Real Estate section. He cherished these special moments.