Probably because I spoke with my dad on the phone today, I fell into kind of a reverie about a family car trip from 50-some years ago. We stopped some place for lunch. For some reason, I remember it was in the town of Presho, South Dakota. No, actually I think I do know the reason I remember: when my dad was paying the bill, the teenaged girl ringing it up boasted, in reply to some comment of his, "Yup, Presho, the best little town in South Dakota!" She'd be around 70 now.
Anyway, I'd gone to the men's room by myself a few minutes earlier. When I returned, my dad told me that for about the first two-thirds of the way from the bathroom door back to the table I'd been tugging at my zipper, trying to get it to the top of the tracks as I walked along. He said, very levelly, that protocol required I take care of that while still in the bathroom. A lesson I've generally remembered through all these years.
I'm sure that within about three days I'd seen Mount Rushmore, the Calamity Jane Passion Show in Deadwood, and Devils Tower in Wyoming, but the only thing I distinctly remember of the trip is that little restaurant in Presho.
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