Car Horns

Each Sunday, a group of protesters collects on the corner of our local Target and Albertson's shopping center corner, holding up signs calling for the end of the war and a recall of our troops. They don't shout. They don't even disrupt traffic. They just share their thoughts on giant poster boards.

Each Sunday as we drive by, I comment to Jason that he should join them the following Sunday. He usually acknowledges my suggestion with a nod and a grunt, and that's the end of it. We both know he probably won't. Not because he doesn't feel strongly enough-- he's very well read on the war (and has actually even read the Iraq Report). But more because Sunday at noon is a time for family.

Each Sunday, while passing the group of war protesters, Jason honks the car horn in support.

But it's been a couple weeks since Casey was awake during our drive past the protesters. (And as a side note, I'm pretty impressed this small collection of people protests this way each week because San Diego generally is a very pro-military, and perhaps more significantly a very pro-defense-contractor town.) So this Sunday, as we drove past, Casey participated in our ritual. And made us laugh.

As we drove past, I made my weekly comment, and Jason grunted and nodded at me, and beep-beep-beeped the horn in support of the poster board carriers. And Casey, from the back seat, shouted out: "YOU CRAZY DRIVER! GET OFF THE ROAD! LEARN HOW TO DRIVE!"

And Jason and I burst into laughter. We talked over each other to explain to Casey that the horn was not an admonition (no, we didn't use that word with our five-year-old), but a honking of support for the people standing outside with the signs. Alas, it was lost on him. Casey looked me square in the eye, after I'd finished saying my part, and said, "Yeah, Mom. Crazy drivers," and shook his head in exasperation, as he must have seen us do a million times.

Now I'm not much of a horn-user. And I'm not much of a yeller. So where do you think he got it from? I'm not pointing fingers or anything . . .