A few years ago, my dad and I talked about going to England so he could help me do research for the book I’m writing about him, his brother, and my grandmother.

It was one of those pipe dream things that you talk about doing, but you kinda know deep down that it won’t happen, just because life gets in the way.

We put a pin in it and said, “maybe next summer….”

And here we are in “next summer.”

And guess what?? We booked our trip, baby!

In just 27 days, my dad and I will head to Manchester, where he was born, and stay in a flat* for 10 days to visit his brother’s family and to fill our days conducting research for my book!

I am giddy with excitement because it’s a dream come true of a trip.

Seriously: who gets to go on a trip like this with their dad when they’re 48 years old?

Oh that's right:

You know how when you’re sitting around with family, talking about stories of your grandparents or your parents and their childhood, and you say, “I wish we’d have asked him ______,” about what life must have been like when they were growing up, but you can’t ask them because they’re gone?

I experience that all the time working on this book because my Nana is gone, now, and can’t answer any questions that come up while I’m writing.

She would have just lied, anyways.

But that’s not the point.

The point is, I won’t have to do that because my dad is going with me and can show me exactly where he was born and the exact area of the river that not only his mom saw every single day growing up, but also where the Germans looked for the moon’s reflection so they could bomb the ever-living shit right out of it.

I’m so looking forward to letting my dad tell me everything he knows about post-WWII stuff because history is his forté, but I’m most looking forward to capturing some "Barryisms" that I can bring back and share with my mom and brother, because you just wouldn’t even believe the shit my dad says.