"Don't know why you care how I make my money," my daughter Poppy said during a quarrel about spending cash, hard work and the injustices my wife and I endured under parents whose version of a surprise party consisted of signing you up for jobs you never asked for.

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"That place burned down," an old man told me when I asked about the best route to get to Greer, Ariz. We were sitting in a makeshift reception area at the Tucson Book Festival, drinking coffee and gnawing on sweaty danishes.

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Just last week in one of my English classes, the highschooligans and I were discussing a central character in Toni Morrison's novel Song of Solomon. When this fictional woman was born, her father chose her name blindly out of the Bible, and she ended up with the unfortunate moniker of the judge at Jesus' trial, you know, the big guy who authorized that whole crucifixion deal. 

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This is how cute I think I am: Before I go driving with my 15-year-old daughter, Poppy, I burn a CD of songs loosely related to piloting an automobile. The playlist runs the gamut from "Sober Driver" by Dengue Fever to one of Poppy's favorites: Arcade Fire's "Keep the Car Running."

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This Christmas, in addition to jeggings and Nerf hatchets, my children Poppy and London also received gifts from a friend who had been in the Middle East visiting family. Poppy's bounty included sweets from far-off lands, a tube of Jordanian lipstick that changes color with your mood and a neon green headband that could be worn under the hijab if Poppy owned one. 

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For some men, it's a 1969 Shelby Cobra GT 350. For others, it's a 10-point whitetail buck. What gets my blood moving is different from that of most great American males of the new millennium. Grocery stores make my heart race. Case in point: On Thanksgiving morning, my friend Connie and I had to make a last-minute run to fetch some eggs to finish a pecan pie. We were in Las Cruces, a locale known more for its discount pedicures than its epicures. Maybe it was fate or that the emporium gods were smiling on me, but Connie said, "We should try this new place that opened up a few weeks ago."

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Schools have to be creative when fundraising, especially in a tough economy, so I shouldn't have been shocked to see a trailer and two large metal ramps parked where the crossing guard usually stands in front of my son London's elementary.

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 From the Passenger's Seat: what goes through my mind as my daughter learns to drive

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Uncle Duke’s Beach Bar is a tiny dive hidden in the hippie neighborhood of Leucadia, Calif., just north of San Diego. Duke’s offers what most dive bars need: a good (and deep) jukebox, stiff drinks, a pool table and the type of clientele that provides entertainment for free or, at most, the cost of a PBR.

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“Dad, come in with us.” My son London hovered over me, dripping water on A Separate Peace, a book I hadn’t read for 30 years. We had driven over 1,000 miles to get to the Pacific Ocean, and I wanted my own separate peace just for a little while—soak up the sun, read about boys falling out of trees and watch the surfers catch the knee-high waves rolling in.

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