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Aaron reflects on his childhood visitations with his father and how, in just a couple of hours each week, his dad transformed ordinary moments into unforgettable adventures. From blasting Springsteen in the car to battling "giant squids" in the car wash, this story captures the magic of a parent making the most of limited time.
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Unlock the power of storytelling in just one hour with Aaron Calafato. Gain actionable insights and tools to transform how you connect and communicate—in work, life, and beyond.
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Birce
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Music: thomas j. duke
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
My dad only had a couple of hours with us for visitation during the week. And in that time, he became somewhat of a magician—and not in the way you might think. Lean in, and I'll talk to you after the music.
The visitation agreement between my parents was that my dad, besides every other weekend, would get my brother and me once a week—usually on a Wednesday—for a couple of hours. We were always excited when he came to get us.
If you're a parent picking up your kid for visitation, if you're the one doing the driving and the picking up, it can be difficult.
I mean, for all the obvious reasons. But logistically, even if you’re lucky enough to live close, time starts flying by.
Now, there are two types of parents.
There are parents for whom those two hours are never enough. They try to fill every minute with as much love and warmth as possible, but they wish they had more time. Dropping their kids off is painful—especially driving away.
And then there are the parents for whom two hours is just enough. They still fill it with love and togetherness, but when time’s up, they’re good. Gotta get out of there.
So, without judgment—whatever kind of parent you are, or even if you’re not in this situation—you can empathize.
It’s like that scene in Mrs. Doubtfire. You know the one. Robin Williams finally gets visitation with his kids. He’s trying to get dinner together in his crummy apartment. Time’s running out. And then Sally Field—their mom—shows up. "Time to go."
Time’s up.
How do you prevent that? How do you make the most of the time you have?
You have to be a magician. And my dad—he was amazing at this.
Imagine it’s a spring day. He picks us up between 5:00 and 5:30. Before we even get in the car, we can hear the music—Bruce Springsteen, probably The Beatles.
Windows down. Wind in our hair. Music blasting. He’s singing. We’re singing in the backseat. And as we drive, he tells us everything about the artists—their background, what the song means, how it connects to our lives. It’s like a college lecture and a rock concert at the same time.
"Where to next, Dad?"
"How about the car wash?"
Sometimes in the summer, we’d go to the self-serve one, spraying each other like we had laser guns. But sometimes, we’d go all out—the deluxe car wash. The kind where you sit back, and it feels like a mile-long ride. Neon lights, loud machines, water rushing over the windshield.
It felt like we were in the future.
And my dad would play on that.
We’d pretend we were fighter pilots going after the Death Star. Or that we were 20,000 leagues under the sea. When the giant spinning brushes rolled over the car, my dad would go—"Here comes the giant squid! Look out!"
Next stop—the mall.
Man, the mall in the ‘90s? It was it.
We’d ride the escalators up and down, timing our jumps so we wouldn’t get "eaten" at the bottom. My brother and I would find the fighter jet arcade game, pop in a quarter, and start blasting away.
My dad and I? We’d people-watch. He’d point out Cleveland Cavaliers players who sometimes showed up at Summit Mall. If you were lucky, you might see Larry Nance Sr., Hot Rod Williams, Brad Daugherty, or Mark Price.
And when we got hungry, we always knew where we were going—Scotto’s Pizza.
I thought Scotto’s was out of business, but apparently, some are still around. You know the type—the little pizza shop in the mall with the mustached chef on the sign, kind of like Chef Boyardee 2.0.
The smell? Incredible. Maybe it was just our hunger.
We’d sit down with the biggest slice, sprinkle on red pepper flakes and parmesan, fold it up, and dig in.
The dinner of champions.
And then—just like that—time was up.
Dad would say, "Hey, man, we gotta get going."
And that’s when I’d start feeling sad. But I always looked forward to next time. The next adventure.
So, how was my dad a magician?
Well, he took a simple car ride, a spring day with open windows, an AM/FM radio, some songs, a mediocre car wash, a crusty mall that smelled like stale popcorn and feet, and a halfway decent pizza chain just west of Akron…
And he transformed it into an unforgettable night of adventure.
And you know what? Even back then, I knew it wasn’t magic.
I just wanted to believe.
But what was magic—what did make it special—was that I was there with my dad.
