Driving northwest from Dallas into the desolate Texas panhandle we finally came upon a sign announcing our entrance into a place called Dumas.
The boy read it aloud.
“DOO-mahs,” he said correctly.
“That’s not quite right,” I told him seriously. “You’re mispronouncing it but it’s not your fault. The name of the town used to have a ‘B’ in the middle. This is the town of Dumbass.”
Well, being eleven years old our grandson, Isaiah, thought that was very funny and he giggled for a long time. We all did.
Then, for the rest of the trip to Wyoming and back to Dallas, Isaiah, CarolAnn and I called each other “Dumas” from time to time and then we all giggled and snorted for a few more miles.
Shared laughs of our own creation are moments we enshrine in our hearts.
It’s the stuff a boy will remember his entire life.
Today is the Dumas Kid’s 15th birthday. We’re going to phone him and tickle his memory.
