Adventures in Parenting: Wilderness Edition

For this installment in our Family Adventure series, we’re going camping. That’s right: camping. Our style is to rough it to the hilt, as you will soon see. We are Expert Campers. That’s right: Expert First-Time Campers.

Sure my wife and I have camped before, growing up. We even camped together. Once. And we pitched the tent with our kids in a friend’s backyard a time or two (NOTE: That doesn’t count as camping).

We knew this trip would be enlightening. We would learn fun facts, like “How fast can you unzip the tent door in an emergency?” (Answer: Not fast enough. Keep reading, if you dare.)

Step one for a fun family camping adventure: Packing.

We brought: Tent, tarp, sleeping bags (4), pillows (4), air mattresses (2), blankets (3), flashlights (3), fan, cooler of food (eggs, bacon, cinnamon-swirl bread, fresh-cut veggies, fresh-cut fruit salad, sliced turkey, lettuce, brats, hot dogs, home-made slaw and chili for the dogs, buns, ketchup, mustard, paper towels, trash bags, salt, pepper, a rhubarb pie, a Buckeye pie, some nuts, and Dorito’s Cheeseburger-flavored chips (NOTE: Yes, they do taste like cheeseburgers. No, that does not make them good)), cooler of beverages (wine (red and white), beer to drink, beer to boil brats, water, Gatorade, ginger ale, Fresca, lots of ice), camp-fire skewers to roast hot dogs and marshmallows, guitar, lawn chairs (4), sparklers (6 boxes), fishing poles and tackle (2 each), duffle bags of clothes (2), duffle bag of towels, and bathroom kits (3).

Can you believe it, we forgot the kitchen f*&^ing sink. Like I said: Roughing it.

Step two toward a fun-filled camping trip: Getting there and setting up.

The kids enjoyed the ride there because I drove fast over the rolling hills and it tickled their tummies. My wife didn’t enjoy the ride there as much because I drove fast over the rolling hills and it tickled her tummy.

My aunt & uncle were already there with a pop-up camper set-up and dinner on the grill. I spread out our tarp and unpacked our tent, and just as I exposed the tent to the air it started raining. The faster I worked, the harder the rain came down. I think it’s important to tell you that the top of the tent is all screen, and before the rain cover is attached it’s kind of like a giant cup.  I’m glad we brought the duffle bag of towels.

Step three to a relaxing time in the country: Food and activities.

We brought some food with us (see Step One) and ate well for every meal, except lunch Saturday because we ate so well for breakfast we weren’t hungry. It happens.

My wife and I took the boys canoeing. I asked for a three-hour tour, but we settled for the five-mile trip. There were several places where rope swings overhung the river. We stopped at one and the boys and I climbed 5-6 feet up the bank and swung out and dropped into the river. It was cold, but fun!

Step four to an exercise in sleep deprivation: The wake up call.

At this point in the story, those of you with weaker stomachs will find out that you have a lot in common with my elder son. It started all evening long, when he ate a chili dog, a bratwurst, rhubarb pie, buckeye pie, a brownie, and a s’more. Then, at precisely 2:35 a.m. he began moaning and kicking my air mattress in such a manner as to deliberately wake me and/or my wife. It took some time for him to convince me that there truly was something wrong, for this child has called wolf a time or two in the past. I made a quick deduction: he had been complaining about the bathrooms since we arrived the day before, so he must be holding something back, and it reached critical mass. (NOTE: Man, that is one complicated way of saying he had to take a shit.)

We loaded into the car and drove to the main bathroom / shower facility. I will put it loosely and tell you everything came out all right (read all the way into that one). Our drive back to the campsite was exciting, as we came very close to scoring some fresh venison on the way.

At exactly 4:32 a.m. my son woke me up again, kicking furiously and saying he needed to go to the bathroom again. Since it was Father’s Day, I poked my wife and suggested she take this shift. Then my son got up really fast and yanked on a zipper on the tent door. Unfortunately the zipper he pulled was to the flap covering the screen, not the zipper to open the door, so he was still stuck inside the tent.

What followed was a sound similar to a bucket of slop being dumped on the ground. Twice. I sprang into action.

First order of business: Open that door. 

Second order of business: Get a flashlight and assess the damage. Luckily a blanket we had laid out by the door caught most of the…let’s just call it a chili dog, a bratwurst, rhubarb pie, buckeye pie, a brownie, and a s’more.

Third order of business: Get rid of that stinking blanket before any foul odor has the chance to permeate the tent (NOTE: I almost made it).

Final order of business: Clean up, helped him rinse his mouth, and get back to bed.

Step five to a camping adventure: Packing up and heading home.

‘Nuff said. 

Stayed tuned for the next installment in our Family Adventure series: The 5k Race…

You're Not Supposed to Tell Me...

"Victor," I called.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"Where are you?"

"In the bedroom."

"What are you doing?"

"Hiding from you."

"Okay."  A pause.  "Do you want me to come and find you?"  No answer.  He's getting better.  "I take that as a yes," I said as I climbed the stairs... 

WARNING: Overwhelming Cute!

We were sitting at the kitchen table playing Apples to Apples with some friends when my 6-year-old son came in with a special announcement and follow-up question.

The announcement: “We found a bunny in the yard!”

The follow-up question: “Can we catch him?”

We took a moment to visualize a pack of jubilant children being quickly outrun by a frantic hare before offering responses, which ranged from “Knock yourself out” to “Good luck with that one.”

You might imagine our surprise when, a few minutes later, the aforementioned 6-year-old came back inside with another special announcement:
 
“We got him!”

But there was another follow-up:

“But he got away.” 

We kind of saw that coming.  But not this:

“He’s still in the garage.”

Enter parental intervention.  I went into the garage with him, and he told me the bunny ran behind the stuff on the side of the garage…folded beach chairs, cornhole boards, sleds, brooms, etc.  Behind the beach chairs I found a small baby bunny.  I moved the chairs slowly.  The bunny didn’t move a whisker.  I picked him up gently, and he jumped from my hands.  My son grabbed him…not rough, but I’m sure it wasn’t comfortable for the bunny.  He gave him to me, and I held him in one cupped hand, the other hand closed over his body so he wouldn’t jump again.

The other kids gathered round.  The air reverberated with seven-dozen Can-I-Hold-Hims (there were only 6 kids, you do the math).  I took a moment to imagine myself in the bunny’s soft brown fur, getting grasped groped and squeezed by a dozen grubby mitts.

“No,” I said out of the kindness of my heart.  “But you can pet him.”

The grubby mitts reached out to pet the bunny, still safe in my hands.  Then the same complaint was repeated from all six mouths: “I didn’t get to hold him yet!”

“None of you have,” I explained.  Then they asked the inevitable: “Can we keep him?”

I explained how he was scared, he missed his mommy, his mommy missed him, he could get sick, he could get eaten by our neurotic schnauzer, etc.

“So we can keep him?”

I fixed up a box, and we put the bunny in it with spinach, carrots, and a tiny cup of water.  The bunny didn’t move.  To its credit, it didn’t produce a single little rabbit pellet through this entire ordeal (NOTE: I would have produced several thousand.  These kids were terrifying.)  I taught the kids how to hold him…not to grab him around the middle, but to let him sit on their hands.  Each got a turn to hold the bunny before we released him into the woods behind the house.  There’s a big pile of old brush insulated with fallen leaves that I’m pretty certain houses a dozen bunnies and countless squirrels.  The kids were sad they didn’t get to keep him, but overall it was a good experience for everyone.

 

Amster-DAMN!

I'd heard many things about Amsterdam before I got here, so naturally the first thing I did was [REDACTED].

After that, what else could I do but [REDACTED]?  So that's what I did.

I was surprised the [REDACTED] was so [REDACTED].  But that's the way things roll in a foreign land, you know?

I want to come back here someday so I can [REDACTED] again.

Off to Nether-Nether-Land

One of the interesting things about my job is the travel.  In 2008 I flew home from Germany on my birthday. It was my birthday for 30 hours that day. Longest birthday of my life.

This week I'm off to the Netherlands.  I'll spend my time in two cities.  Because this is a family-oriented blog, I'm going to call them Amsterdarn and Rotterdarn. 

Going to Europe is great, because a day-and-a-half meeting takes a full week when you bundle in travel time.  I leave today, and get in tomorrow at 2pm, but it will really only be 8am.  Then I'll try to stay up until 9pm, but I know I'll wake up at 3am or some ridiculous time in the dead of night.

Then I'll spend my day-and-a-half in meetings, and my body will adjust, and right when it's firmly calibrated I'll fly home, making it to my house at 8:30pm, which will really be 2:30 am. 

Good times.  I'm expecting at least one good blog post to come out of this trip.  Hopefully I'll be able to publish it.  That family-oriented thing might be a show stopper, from what I've been told about Amsterdarn.

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The Craig’s List Killer

Alarming title for the post, I know. Rest assured, faithful readers, that I survived my close brush with certain death. But it was a harrowing experience to say the least.

It started innocently enough with the purchase of a new sofa. But with the pending delivery of said sofa, weeks ahead of schedule, we were pressed for a solution to rid ourselves of the old sofa. And some tables, while we were at it. Enter Craig’s List.

We snapped three dozen photos, kept two, and created an ad for a leather sectional and table set. Priced to sell, apparently, because within 30 minutes I had three offers. They kept coming in, and I had more than a dozen when I went to bed. Enter the scheduling complications: people wanted to come to my house the next day, but I was leaving for Detroit first thing in the morning, and my wife had to work that day.

I know better than to advertise my home’s vacancy to strangers on the Internet (NOTE: not like you, of course, my most respectable blog readers. The key’s under the mat and you are welcome any time). I used vague language to push my availability back to Thursday.

I returned from Detroit to find over 30 new emails plus two voice mails. One person was very excited. He really liked the way the couch looked in the pictures (NOTE: that meant he liked the other merchandise in my house, too). He wanted to come over Thursday afternoon. With some friends.

What if he’s The Craig’s List Killer? I thought. I had read many headlines about The Craig’s List Killer, but never clicked through to the articles, so at this stage I used my overactive story-telling imagination to fill in the gaps. Here’s what happened next…

We agreed that he would call me at 1:30pm, I would give him directions and he would come for the couch, ca$h in hand. And a gun in the other hand. He would murder me in cold blood, take the couch, tables, and whatever else he wanted. My kids would be surprised when I wasn’t at the bus stop, but they would think I was stuck on a conference call.  They know the garage code so they would just come home and find…

Luckily he never called, and someone else came over ca$h in hand and bought the couch and tables at our asking price. I can only assume that somewhere in Columbus there was a Dexter-style kill room where a minor complication delayed the killer and saved my life.

It was a very close call.

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I guess he takes after me...

I was at basketball practice with my nine-year old son the other day, and my wife was home with my six-year old, cuddled up on the couch watching a movie.  Very tender moment.  She hugged him tight.  "I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he said.  "Now let's get back to the movie."

What a Pain in the…

Funny thing happened at the airport this morning.  (NOTE: We all know airports are hotbeds for humor.)  So there I was, sitting on my seat in the plane, all settled, ready to push back from the gate and begin my journey home.  I powered down my phone and my iPod* and reached to my laptop bag to dig out the book I am reading.  I checked the back pocket, where I always keep my books when I travel.  No book.

I checked the front pocket, where I never keep my books.  No book. (NOTE: Duh. I just said I never keep them there.)  I checked inside where the laptop is.  Just a laptop and chargers/cables.  No book.  I checked the other zippered pocket in the laptop case, where I keep documents / receipts/etc.  No book.  I bent down and looked all the way under the seat in front of me, in case it had fallen out of the pocket.  Lots of smegma, but no book. 

I checked the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me.  No book.  Looked on the seat beside me.  No book.  WTF?  I must have left it on a chair at the gate.  All other passengers were on board, but the door was still open.  I got up and asked a flight attendant if I could go out and check real quick.  Since I still had my boarding pass, it was allowed. 

I ran up the jetway and to the seat I had been sitting in.  No book.  I asked the people sitting there if they had seen it.  They shook their heads.

I hurried back to the plane and went straight to the overhead bin on the other side of the plane, where my travel bag was stashed.  No book in the side pocket of my travel bag or floating around the bin.  I resigned to sit through two flights with only an iPod to entertain me.  I would have to buy a new copy of the 557-page novel I was reading.  The novel I read roughly 350 pages of.  The novel I had been looking forward to devouring for the next several hours.

I turned around to face my row.  There, on my seat, was my book.

Yes, it had been under my bony ass the whole time I was looking for it on the plane, and when I got up to check the gate I didn’t bother to look down.  I don’t blame this little mishap on the fact that I woke up at 5am this morning for my flight.  Or on my urgency to get home after cancelled flight on Tuesday and an extended stay in Atlanta. 

I blame it on the fact that airplane seats are so uncomfortable that you can’t tell if you are sitting on a f*&%ing 557-page novel.   

*Yes, I still have my iPod.  Although I am getting a new laptop (NOT a Mac) and it may get flushed (the iPod, not the new laptop) in the very near future when I try to sync.

It was awful...

I can't take it.  The high-pitched screams.  The pounding.  The inability to speak. 

Of course I'm talking about the new season of American Idol.

It was awful.  Randy had no viable input.  He's the show veteran, but he seemed more interested in watching his new judges react than judging an audition himself.  His motto seemed to be, "Whatever you two think, I guess."

For several candidates, Steven Tyler screamed along and pounded on the table.  Kara used to groove sometimes, and Paula danced on occasion, but they never overshadowed an audition the way Steven Tyler did, where the kids auditioning were demoted to his back-up performers.  At least Mr. Tyler didn't stand up and grab his crotch, or if he did the producers mercifully edited that out.     

Jennifer, "OMG I can't say no!" Lopez (hereafter to be called J-No) needs to develop another reaction to an audition.  Watching her judge contestants is like watching Adam Richman take a bite of anything on Man vs. Food (NOTE: he only has one reaction after his first bite of food, which is chew once, close eyes, roll head, and simulate an orgasm, even to the point where he says "Oh my God!").  

There was no honesty in the feedback.  Everyone wants to be the nice one, but in reality each one is just lame, and the level of lameness grows exponentially when combined as a group.  Now I'm not asking for someone to act like a Simon clone, or to go all Ricky Gervais on each contestant, but someone must have the guts to be honest. 

The thing I miss most is Simon's dramatic pause, though. 

"You just sucked," he would say, and then pause for effect, making you wonder if he was finished, before continuing with, "the life out of that song."
 
On Wednesday we watched the first half of American Idol as a family, and when the kids went to bed, my wife and I switched to Modern Family.  On Thursday I had DVR set for AI, The Big Bang Theory, and Wipeout.  Problem is, I can only record/watch two out of the three.  Sorry, new AI, we recorded Big Bang, and watched Wipeout. 

You were voted out.

Kiss My Apple

I have wasted hours of my life that I will never get back trying to accomplish a seemingly simple task: sync my wife's iPod iTouch to her new PC.

Perhaps my expectations are unrealistic.  I admit, I am a dreamer.  My dream (in this isolated case) would be to connect the iPod to the new PC, authorize the new PC to the iTunes account, and then have them sync up so I could use the new PC in the same fashion as the old PC.

Apple has other ideas about this, though, and has turned my dream into a nightmare.

Apple will allow transfers from the iPod, but only items purchased form the iTunes store.  The many gigabytes of music from CD's I bought won't transfer, because Apple doesn't like them.  Apple also has a vendetta against the playlists, and refuses to sync them, too.


I checked online and found an incredibly useless article that detailed how to use the iPod to transfer all your music from one computer to another, boldly proclaiming the wonders of the iPod as a high-capacity storage device.  The article was good for all iPods...except the iTouch.  This inspired me to make up several creative new bad words.


I called support and told the automated system my name, but the robotic voice and I had difficulty talking about the device serial number, so I was transferred to a representative, who asked me my name again because the robotic voice refuses to sync its info with the representative, just like the iPod refuses to sync information with a new PC.  At least Apple is consistent in this approach.

I calmly and politely described my issue, and was immediately put on hold because the representative was totally clueless and had to "do research".  She came back about 5 minutes later and asked a few questions, the answers to which were all given in my initial description of the problem.  She put me on hold again, and my call was dropped.

She must have been using an iPhone.

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Headline of the Day

An inquisitive journalist wonders:

"What Caused Thousands Of Dead Birds To Fall From The Sky?"

The short answer:

Gravity.

You see, suspending dead birds in the sky is rather difficult, since dead birds can't flap their wings (NOTE: flapping is a very important part of flying, so I am told.).  So when there are thousands of dead birds in the sky, they will fall like Newton's apple.

It's like the old joke: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?  Because it was dead.

Let me know if I can answer any other questions.  I'm here to help.

Happy New Year!

Holiday Toasts- Wine and Friendship

Yesterday my wife and I were getting a gift package ready for some friends, and one of the presents was a wine journal.  We wanted to write a nice quote about wine and friendship, and while Google provided ample results to our search, none sufficed, so I made up several of my own: 

The vine begets the grape
The grape begets the wine
Our friends be gettin’ glasses
And I be fillin’ mine

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With our friends we raise our glasses,
And watch another New Year’s pass us
Uncork the wine, my lads and lasses
And we'll get drunk off all our asses

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Friends and wine go hand-in-hand
Or glass-in-hand, as it may be
I really can’t tell right now
For I’m so drunk I see in threes

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We count our blessings
For our friends
And toast until
The bottle ends

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Fine wine is to be cherished
Like a friend’s familiar face
So let us gaze upon each other
And have wine brought by the case

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Let’s raise our glasses, raise them high
Another year has passed us by
And once the bottoms reach the sky
Fill them again so they won’t dry

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Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!  

A Hairy Situation

I've decided to grow a beard.  Like many of the finer endeavors of my life, it was my wife's encouraging that spurred this decision.  It was not taken lightly.  For me, growing a beard is wrought with challenges.

First is the general patchiness of my facial hair.  That's why my first shot at facial hair was limited to a mustache and goatee.  I'm proud to say that over many years, this patchiness has evened out.  Mostly.

The real issue is my shaved head.  I let the hair on my head grow for a full week when I first started Project Beard (NOTE: one of these times I'm gonna misspell beard as bread.  I just know it. And spellchecker won't catch stuff like that.)  I studied the growth - and lack thereof - and remembered why I started shaving my head to begin with.  Chia-pets are not attractive, not matter how awesome they look in the commercial.

So now I have hair on my cheeks, and a sudden transition to nothingness at the top of the sideburns.  My goal is to ease the suddenness of that transition. My wife encouraged me to Google pictures of Chris Daughtry.  I think it is cool that I can get compared to him, because he's rich and famous and good-looking, and I'm just bald, too.  But I don't want to look just like him, because I'm a decade-and-a-half older than he is and I will come across as a poser (NOTE: 1987 called and it wants the word "poser" back).

For now I have a solution that I convinced myself is decent:

A hat.

Ha ha!  Just kidding.  But seriously, maintaining this look requires a skill and/or patience that I don't have.  Or at least, if I do have it, it has yet to fully manifest itself.  It's a lot easier to clear-cut a whole cheek than to gently taper the point as it rounds the top of the ear.  Trust me on that one.

But for now my wife likes my bread, so I'm keeping at it.

Rudy Toot-Toot Goes to School

Last week my older son came home from school and told me his teacher wanted me to email her.  Fearing the worst, I pressed for clarification.

"I told her you write books and she said you can come and read one to us," he said. 

Interesting.  Not knowing what he really told her, or what she really said, I took it upon myself to email his teacher and clarify my status as "someone who writes books."  I explained:

My son Max told me that you were interested in having me read one of my books to your class.  I would love to, but let me clarify where I am in my writing career.  I have attached the manuscript for one of my books so you can give it a glance first.

I wrote a chapter book, RUDY TOOT-TOOT, that a literary agent has submitted to several major publishing houses.  I don't have an offer on it yet, but I'm hopeful one will come...
 
RUDY TOOT-TOOT is a 16,500-word (75 page) chapter book. Rudy has a special power, almost like a superhero: he can fart.  It comes natural when you're born on a bean farm.  His talent often gets him in trouble.  After one monstrous emission scares all the customers away from the Toot-Toot family bean market and the bank threatens to take away their home, Rudy must find a way to use his power to lure the customers back.  As Papa always told him, "There's a right time and a right place for everything."

Un-phased by the premise of farting, she still invited me into her classroom to read to the kids.  She even invited the school librarian.

I love reading to kids.  I have a background in theater and a good amount of experience in public speaking.  Plus I'm totally immature, so I can connect with them on that critical level.

I read the first 23 pages of RUDY TOOT-TOOT to the class.  I had them laughing out loud on page one, and kept their interest until I finished the excerpt.  I left them wanting more.

That was cool, but not as cool as what happened next...

When my son got home from school, he handed me a sheet of paper.  "Ethan wants you to publish this for him," he said, like it's that easy.  I mean, I made it clear I haven't been able to get my own books published...

Ethan wrote a page-and-a-half continuation of my story.  It is one of the coolest things I've ever read.  I emailed my son's teacher to see if she gave them an assignment to write about my story.  She didn't.  He wrote it in his free writing time.  She also said I inspired several of her "non-writers" to write stories.

I never knew how to define success as a writer, until now.  It's not about money, or being a bestseller, or even being represented by an agent or published.  It's about that connection to a reader, and having the ability to make an impact on someone's life.

I am glad to say I succeeded on that level.  It doesn't kill my dreams of actually being a best-selling author, but somehow it makes that part less important. 

I've been invited back to the class to finish the book.  It will probably take two more sessions.  The kids are really looking forward to it...but not half as much as I am.

The Evolution of a Bike Ride

We bought our bikes soon after my first son was born.  My wife and I got matching Giant cross-road bikes, ones that would be comfortable for a long ride down a paved path, but could also bounce along off-road.  We also bought a co-pilot seat and helmet for our son, and a rack for the mini-van.  (NOTE:  Dude seriously, a mini-van?  You are soo cool.)

When we got home I attached a wire frame to the rear of my bike and slid the co-pilot seat onto it.  We were set.  Many of the rides in those early days were along paved trails.  Being new parents, we were totally paranoid about riding on the open roads with our baby.  Even in the neighborhood.  We eventually conquered our fears, and whether the rides were short jaunts to a neighborhood playground or several miles of pathway at a local park, we got good use out of our bikes.

Later my son got a bike of his own, and it worked for the rides in the neighborhood, but for summer trips to Hilton Head or rides along the river he still sat in the co-pilot seat.

Then his brother was born, and there was an issue with seating capacity.  It all worked out, though.   Right around the time my second son was able to ride comfortably in the co-pilot seat, a friend sold me one of those attachments to turn a regular bike into a tandem.  Since the co-pilot frame was attached to my bike, my wife’s bike became the tandem, and my older son was just big enough to ride it.  We could still go out as a duo, each with a child in tow.

Then my older son grew big enough to ride on his own and we hit the trails as a trio.  When my younger son was finally big enough to ride the tandem I retired the co-pilot seat to its hook on the garage wall.  I didn’t bother to take the frame off the back of my bike, mainly out of laziness, a quality in which I am abundant, but also out of foreshadowing, which you will understand in the next paragraph, so please read on…

This year my younger son was finally big enough to ride his own bike, and our trio became a foursome.  We took our bikes to Hilton Head this summer and rode them to the beach every day.  I found a way to strap two boogie boards together, and attach them to – you’ll never guess – the co-pilot frame.  We bought new beach chairs that had straps so we could wear them like backpacks, and each chair had a small cooler-pouch and a pouch for books / magazines.  Our beach umbrella came in a sack that I could sling across my chest like a bandolier, and my older son wore a backpack with our beach toys.  We didn’t have to hunt for parking spots, or get the car (okay, mini-van) sandy and salty.  We were the mark of efficiency.

We have a BMX park nearby home, and both boys are big enough to ride the course, something I really enjoy doing with them.  We still go on long rides, there are several trails that cross town, each with a number of parks along the way.  Nowadays our rides are slow paced…they must be, so the young one can keep up.  But I have a feeling that our rides will soon evolve again, and both boys will be able to keep up with us.

And then…then my wife and I will start to slow down, and the boys will pull ahead.  We’ll be the ones struggling to keep up.  The kids will be turning back to us, impatiently telling us to keep moving, pedal, don’t stop, this was your idea…after all, we’ve said the same things to them enough times.

But you know what?  As long as we’re still riding together, I don’t mind.

Got Milk? Bugs Found in Baby Formula

Abbott recalls baby formula.

Help! Everything's gone Helter Skelter. Imagine, a Beatle in the formula. Yesterday was just A Day in the Life for Abbott, but now the have to Carry That Weight, the media just won't Let It Be. Infants can't quit formula Cold Turkey, you know, we would see babies detoxing Here, There, and Everywhere. We need to Come Together and find a solution, not start a Revolution. We Can Work it Out.

The End.

On the Loss of a Good Friend

Yesterday morning my phone rang with bad news: my friend Mark passed away over the weekend.

I knew someday I would get this call.  I haven't spoken with Mark directly for many years, and the recent news I heard of him was rarely positive.  Back in the days at OSU, we all partied pretty hard.  Mark never stopped.  In recent years he accelerated.

Mark had been a roommate, a co-worker, and a good friend; I'd go so far as to call him a brother.  Not having been there to witness his indulgences in the latter years of his life, I spent the afternoon inundated with memories of the times we shared.

Like the time he was eating Chinese food, and he gave me a bite.  I had never eaten Chinese food before.  "Rick, you like hot stuff, don't you?" he asked.  Of course I did.  "Try this."

He gave me the pepper from his General Tso's chicken.  The little peppers that you aren't supposed to eat.  The infernal little buggers that make food hot by just being in the same room.  Not knowing any of this, I popped the pepper in my mouth and bit down.  It was like chewing rope.  I munched harder.  If he could eat one, I could eat one.  Seeds flowed through my mouth, and apparently they were holding blowtorches.  The sound of a steam whistle filled the room as smoke billowed from my ears.  I ran to the trash can and spit the pepper out, knowing it could cause all the garbage to spontaneously combust but not caring.  I didn't curse at Mark or anything, because it hurt too much to breath.  Good times.

I'm not the world's fastest learner, so it should not come as a surprise to you that several years later there was a near-repeat occurrence.  I happened on Mark enjoying Asian cuisine again - this time sushi - and he offered me a bite.  Of wasabi.  "You'll like it, it's like guacamole," he assured me, and even used a tortilla chip to scoop up a generous portion. I don't think I ever ate off his plate again after that.

We went on a road trip once.  We were going to meet some of Mark's old friends in North Carolina to go camping.  We had no real time line and no real agenda, though.  Mark came home from work the day before we were going to leave.  "Do you want to go see the H.O.R.D.E festival?"

"Where is it?"

"Cumberland, Maryland.  We have to leave right now if you want to go."

Ahh, those were the days when you could just pack up and take off for a week on a whim.  We drove through the night and kicked off our road trip with some amazing music.  There are many stories I could tell from that trip, but two stand out in my mind, and the rest are probably incriminating...

At one point we were driving around Virgina rather aimlessly.  We were somewhere outside of Richmond when we both ran out of cigarettes.  Miles of highway passed beneath us as we searched for an exit so we could buy more.  We were both engulfed in hardcore nicotine withdrawal when we saw something up ahead.  A giant pillar, a hundred feet high.  Too small to be a building.  As we closed in on it we could read the black letters against the red and white background: MARLBORO.

Yes, it was their manufacturing plant.  This fit in perfectly with our agenda-less travel plans.  We stopped and took the free tour.  And at the end of the tour, we each got a free pack of cigarettes.  In times of sadness and loss it is important to remember that sometimes fate smiles on us all.  Just hold on and keep heading down the road.

(NOTE: That plant makes enough cigarettes in 2 1/2 minutes to reach from Richmond, VA to San Francisco, CA if they were laid end to end.  That's an impressive amount of cancer.  It's even more impressive that I actually remember that fact.  Also worth noting, I quit smoking many years ago, the day after my bachelor party.  No patches, pills, or special gum.  I used the only thing that really works: will-power.)

Later, on the way home, we were driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway.  Mark was behind the wheel.  A light rain was falling.  We were both tired; neither of us spoke.  I saw something in the road ahead, lying in the middle of our lane.  As we got closer, I could see that it was a puppy, perhaps a beagle.  Its eyes were open, and I looked right into them as Mark drove over the dog's lifeless body, careful not to hit it.

Several minutes passed in silence.  I turned to Mark.  "Are you still thinking about that puppy?"

He nodded.  Several more minutes passed in silence, both of us contemplating life, death, and how cute puppies can be.  And regardless of circumstances brought that puppy to its end - lying in the road, in the rain - it looked peaceful.

Mark, wherever you are, I hope you also found peace.

And I'm still thinking about that puppy, too.

#

Some Thoughts...

Thought at 10:30 pm: Why certainly I would like another glass of wine.

Thought at 6:00 am: Please stop thinking at 10:30 pm.

Last Day of Vacation

My artwork from yesterday's trip to the beach. 

Reading the Waves

I was at the beach yesterday, standing waist-deep in the water and watching the surf roll in.  I had my eyes trained a hundred yards out, reading the waves and waiting for the best one so I could body-surf back to shore.

As each wave approached I evaluated it.  How big was it?  When was it going to break?  These were my two most important criteria.  If it broke too early, it would be ideal for someone a little further out, but I wouldn't get the same push from it.  If it broke too late those closer to shore would get a great ride but I would be left behind, floating in its wake.  The small waves were great for the kids, but I wanted a big wave. 

Some of the big waves broke at the right distance, but I didn't ride them.  You see, a wave doesn't span the whole beach; one wave is roughly twenty yards wide.  It has an arc, and it breaks best in the center.  If you are too far to the side it breaks later and smaller.  Some waves had a perfect arc for the people to my left or right, they just weren't right for me, so I let them pass on by.

I looked out into the ocean and kept reading.  Earlier in the day I had read the waves from afar - I used the tide clock.  The peak of low tide was the perfect time to go for a run, the long expanse of hard-packed sand made for an ideal track.  But at high tide, there was no room to run.  As the ocean pushed its way on shore the waves got bigger, and the beach, in turn, got smaller. 

I kept reading the waves.  A big one came at me.  It had a perfect arc, was just the right size, and I was right in front of the break point.  I turned and swam and water bubbled around me as the wave pushed me.  I accelerated until my belly scraped the sand and drug me to a halt.  I stood and looked back toward the ocean.  More big waves on the way.  I ran back out and caught three more good rides before the surf settled back down.  Then I waited for the next round.  A few minutes the big waves returned.  The waves come in waves, you know.

My kids played in the waves, too.  My older son was on his boogie board.  He wanted to ride the bigger waves.  He could stay on the board but he needed help getting started, so I held him steady and launched him out on some huge waves.  My younger son couldn't hold on to the board on those waves, though.  He kept flipping over.  I let him climb onto my back and he held onto my neck and rode the biggest waves with me, and I launched him solo onto some smaller waves.  

I think back on all the waves I didn't ride.  They weren't bad waves, they just weren't right for me for where I was at that moment in time.  I could have moved up or back or left or right, and I could have enjoyed the other waves, but then I would have missed the waves I did ride.

And I'm going back to the beach tomorrow.  I'm sure I'll ride more waves.  I might build a sand castle, and then sit back watch the advancing waves slowly knock it down.  That's a long, slow read.