My daughter Tess turned 30 in August. She lives by herself in Chicago, travels via public transportation and walks from the train stop after dark. She is independent, and it kind of bugs me. To be honest, I don’t like that I don’t know where she is every minute of the day because, well, Chicago is a big city with big city problems. Shouldn’t I be able to track her?

When Tess was in college, I asked her to add a tracking app to her cell phone; she said no. I could call her friends in case of emergency. That provided me some peace of mind, but the friend I know best recently left Chicago so there went that peace. I asked her again. She said, “I am 30 years-old. Leave me alone.” This little exchange reminded me of an occasion when I was very glad my own parents couldn’t track me.

Growing up in the ’70s my parents were never overly concerned about where I was and who I was with as long as I got home by midnight. It is one of the benefits of being the youngest of six. I never really gave them any problems, but that did not mean I didn’t get into some shenanigans.

One Saturday night, my friends and I headed to Dupo, Illinois, where the drinking age was 18, to buy beer. All was well until we realized the keys were locked in the car. We were stuck. No way any of us were going to call our parents. One of my friends suggested I call one of my brothers for help.

I called Dennis, well, because I knew his number, and he was the most mischievous. I explained the situation, telling him what I needed him to do: Go to my friend’s house, lie about why he needed a second set of keys and drive over to Dupo to deliver them. It took about 40 minutes, but Dennis pulled up in his little sports car, barely slowed down, threw the keys out the window and said nothing about it.

I forgot about this little oops until my friend reminded me about it 10 years ago. I mentioned it to Dennis, and he looked me dead in the eye and said it never happened.

I thought about my need for control over Tess and then about how I had successfully gotten myself out of a lot of messes. I realised where she is isn’t any of my business. I also stopped to thank God for my siblings. We never ratted on each other. So here I am at 66 knowing my 75 year-old
brother will never tell on me. If you know Dennis, ask him about it. He has my back—you will get nothing from him. Peace my Peeps.