Tell me about: field trips.
Topic submitted by CC, who was chasing her son around campus on a field trip.
The first field trip I ever went on, I forged the signature to go. For some reason I can’t quite recall now, I didn’t remember to get my parents to sign the approval slip. There was a small chance that they might have signed had they known about it; but in hindsight, since I was still about seven or eight, it was unlikely. My Mom was at that time in the Americans are Evil phase. Granted, she had grounds for that, as Utah on our arrival was going through a period of child abductions, but man, that did surely cramp my style.
My Dad’s signature was insanely easy to fake, a little scribble he learned to jot down as he was doing jet maintenance; a bit of a J, a hint of an M, very, very easy for a little kid. I think what lured me into my life of forgery was the chance to get to ride a bus. Buses were this illusive thing to me when I was little, it wasn’t until I was about 12 that I got to ride one with any regularity and there was a big, yellow-orange one waiting to take us to the garbage dump.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the garbage dump. I’ll leave it to you to speculate why you would take a group of second graders to the garbage dump and I don’t think that sort of dirty (literally and metaphorically) socialism was on our learning agenda.
Now, given that this was almost two decades ago [Holy crap], I remember only bits and pieces. Climbing on the bus, gleeful and impressed with myself that they had accepted my ruse, the large swaying magnet that pulled up blocks of compressed metal and dropped them onto a conveyor belt, and telling my Mom at the end of the day, “Guess what I did today!”