Lately, I have been doing my civic duty by volunteering to guide little kids through the air museum.
And sometimes it gets interesting, even before we get in the door, but let me take a moment to explain.

A little kid was intently walking around my Mustang convertible in the parking lot the other day.  When I asked him what he was doing he said he was counting the horses. (Mustang logos.) When I asked him why, he said that he wanted to see how many horsepower it was.

Then there were the two pre-teen girls, who were convinced that my neat wheels really belonged to my grandson.
Once inside the museum, the WW II airplanes awe my small charges, but most are convinced that I am much older than the planes.

And everyone knows that little kids ask innumerable questions. But you wouldn’t guess that the most frequent question is “When do we eat?” And running a close second: “How do the pilots (in fighter planes) go to the bathroom?”

And who says little kids aren’t smart. Some eight-year-old girls gave me a pretty good performance the other day.  They were pretending they were showgirls accompanying Bob Hope on a WW II visit to the troops. And nobody had even mentioned Hope or his beauties.

But the ultimate was the day I had a group of six-year-olds finger painting an airplane.  I got distracted for a minute, and before I knew it, they had fists full of paint, and were painting each other and everything else in sight. After I restored order, sort of, I ran them into the rest rooms to clean up. And during this scrub down, it seems that liberal amounts of paint somehow migrated from the kids to the restroom walls, fixtures, etc.  Which, understandably, didn't please the management.

Anyway, within a month the story had grown to: "Fifty kids with no supervision, running wild, throwing buckets of paint around the place, with the cops called in to restore order."  My comment, when told this tale, was "Wow.  I'm sorry I missed that."