Our Oklahoma Odyssey

Last Saturday morning, I drove along a small two-lane road in my neighborhood and watched the sun rise pink in the east--there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and, although the weather was a little brisk, it promised to warm up.

I had some errands to run that day, but such a beautiful morning helped me decide: It was the day I was going to take Ryan for his first camping trip.

I normally like to plan pretty far in advance, but the opportunity to take off and leave town presented itself and I just had to go with it. We had originally scheduled to go the previous week, but we had record rainfall here in the area so we had to postpone our plans--the backpacks sat out in the garage, waiting for another day.

Ryan scored his first goal ever during his soccer game that day, so it really started things off right for us. We came home from the game, elated, and packed in a whirlwind, throwing our packs and sacks of food into the back of the car and getting out the door as quickly as possible--we had a 250-mile drive to the mountains in southeastern Oklahoma, and my goal was to get there before dark if possible.

On the way, we stopped at a grocery store deep into the rural section of the state, over 100 miles from the nearest interstate highway. It ended up being the Store That Time Forgot--about 1/10 the size of our grocery megastores in the big city, everything seemed to be $1. Box of oatmeal: $1. Can of coffee: $1. 1985 Subaru hatchback: $1. I got a couple of the things that I didn't have prepared and was thrilled to hand over $10 to get them--they loaded it up in one of those thick paper sacks with little paper handles that strangely seem charming these days in light of the mass of plastic I normally end up lugging around and we went on our way.

In the last 10 miles as Ryan and I sped along the road before we got to the campsite, a couple of deer walked across the highway. Dark was coming, and everything around us was soaked in blue light--it was a little difficult to focus on our surroundings.

We got to the site right on the trailhead for our hike the next day, and I could see that it was taken--could see that there were at least a few people standing around a huge bonfire--it made me a little nervous to see that, but we picked a nearby campsite and started setting up camp.

Being Ryan's first campout, I expected him, like most kids, to be obsessed with the camp fire, and want to play around, putting a stick in it, taking it out while it's flaming up--kid's stuff. A friend of his in first grade went camping for the first time with his family and ended up falling into the fire hands-first. He had to go to the hospital with 2nd degree burns, so that was a poignant example to Ryan that I could refer to if I caught him messing around (naturally, it happened a few times). I would say, "Johnny, oh, I mean Ryan, stop playing with the fire!"

It just so happens that I am the undisputed king of toasting marshmallows over a campfire--one of my superpowers. Fran had tucked some graham crackers and a couple of Hershey bars into our groceries, so we made s'mores. Just a couple of these gooey sandwiches was all Ryan could take--he doesn't have a sweet tooth like I do--plus the fact that he seemed pretty tired from the days' events.

The temperature dropped down into the 30's that night--Ryan had on warm pajamas and a stocking cap (you lose almost all of your body heat through your head). He seemed to sleep soundly--I know that there's nothing more miserable than being cold in the middle of the night, just lying there in a sleeping bag waiting for sunrise, and I didn't want him to dread camping for the rest of his life because I wasn't taking proper care of him--the next day he woke up happy and ready for the day--I unzipped the outer door of the tent and we watched the sunrise through the pencil-straight oak trees--it peeked in a yellow-orange, diffuse cloud over the mountains of Oklahoma--a beautiful sight on a chilly dawn.

The next morning, I got the fire going quickly and we sat together and warmed up with hot chocolate, coffee, and oatmeal.

Then the adventure really started.

I have a guidebook that we followed for the Ouichita (pronounced wash' it ah) trail back in the fall when I went on a hike with my brothers. The trail is well marked and extends for 200 miles or so through Oklahoma and Arkansas. There was a line that intrigued me in the guide when I was here before, though. The author writes that there is a small, unmaintained game trail that extends north from the Pashubbe Trailhead where we were camped and runs approximately a mile, which is rumored (the author had never taken this trail) to end at a waterfall down the mountain.

We packed up our tent and all of our gear and I put together a daypack with our lunch and a few other "just in case" items...

Our neighbors were camped right on the trailhead itself, so we had to go through their camp to get going. I could hear them the previous night breaking wood against a tree very loudly--they must have broken enough wood for a week's worth of fire. They were really surprised to see Ryan and me walk up to their camp. It was an older guy with two teenage boys, his sons.

The dad came over to talk to me--I asked him if he had seen a second trail that originated in his camp (I didn't want to have to look around for it in the middle of their campsite)--he looked very surprised and pointed toward the north, saying it looked like a tiny trail and he didn't know it was significant at all. I don't know if he spotted the bear spray in my outside pocket or not, but he mentioned, glancing at Ryan, that he and his sons had come upon a bear the previous year at the 3-sticks monument, about 12 miles away. It was a black bear and it had turned and run away immediately. It actually made me feel a little less neurotic about having bear spray on me. He had no way of knowing that I would have used bear spray on his ass last night if I had to--they had been acting pretty rowdy and making lots of noise--I wasn't sure what they were doing and it made me a little nervous having a "bunch" of guys (sounded like a bunch, anyway) and it was just me and my 7-year-old.

We took off down the trail, which was completely unmaintained and only about 12-18 inches wide. Going in, I kind of felt like the baseball players walking into the corn in Field of Dreams--the woods just swallowed us up and the camp disappeared within 200 yards. Normally, the hiking trails I am used to are about 3-4 feet wide and marked with a spray-painted patch on a tree about every 30 yards or so. Ryan and I were wading through high grass and woody vegetation--we even lost the trail a couple of times and had to backtrack (look at the picture and you can see that you kind of have to imagine where the trail is...).

It was kind of a fun adventure--I hope that Ryan grows up to feel at home in the woods--we made a game out of it--practiced walking quietly by picking your feet up and putting them down straight (seems like all kids like to shuffle their feet in the leaves, which makes a sound like a cow having an epileptic seizure in a styrofoam factory).

It was after about a mile or so, when we were in the middle of the woods with no sign of other people, that it hit me that I was leading my young son, on his first campout, on a poorly marked trail with a very simple map--maybe not the smartest move. I even put a whistle around his neck just in case we got separated somehow.

We had gone so deep into the woods that our perceptions started to become altered-- openings in the trees felt like rooms in a house. We were hiking along a ridge of the mountain, so I felt pretty confident that we wouldn't get lost. Every once in a while we would see a fluorescent pink marker on a tree, probably put there by the forest service, but otherwise no sign that anyone had been on the trail in a long time. We rounded a corner and I was surprised to hear water roaring very loudly. It rained very hard last week, so all the water levels have probably risen considerably. All around us were surreal slides of glacial boulders, great hiding places for snakes (it is still too cold in the year, but there are copperheads, rattlesnakes, water moccasins, and non-poisonous but creepy snakes). Since I freakin' hate snakes, it just was on my mind to be careful where I put my hands on these rocks if we needed to climb them.

I saw a flash of water through the trees, and knew that we were very close. About another quarter mile down the trail, I saw the white foam from a small waterfall to my right and knew that we had found what we were looking for.

I wanted a good shot of the waterfall, since we had come all this way. Maybe it was a little obsessive or proud to want to do that, especially with my little guy with me--he had to come with me and I may have freaked him out by telling him not to put his hands inside the rocks because he could get snakebitten and die (okay, maybe I didn't say it that way exactly...)

I felt like Ponce de Leon in his quest for the rumored Fountain of Youth--except we actually had succeeded. The waterfall cascaded down against the rock in a stair-step fashion, probably 7 or 8 stairs over one to two hundred yards. It was truly a hidden treasure, not a beautiful showcase--relatively impossible to get close to and difficult to even get a picture of--impossible to see the whole thing at once.

Ryan got a little cranky about having to climb down the side of the hill dodging all the rocks, and was ready to go back. We turned around and headed toward the trailhead...we had only been gone a little over two hours or so, and when the man and his boys saw our pictures of the waterfall, they immediately started talking about hiking the trail to go see it. They were burning trash in the campfire, and a box then blew out and started a fire about thirty yards away in a pile of leaves. They went and put it out and I guess lost interest in going anywhere, or were embarrassed--they packed up and left pretty quickly afterward.

Ryan was hungry, so even though it was only 10:45 AM he was ready for lunch. We had a picnic lunch in the woods and went for another hike--this time down a nicely marked trail but with no end in mind. At some point we just stopped, turned around, and headed back. The earliest signs of spring were showing--trees were budding, the air smelled especially fresh--tiny purple flowers were popping up along the trail, and Ryan was excited to chase down an occasional butterfly which was stopping in the woods momentarily. No large animals in sight, thankfully.

By this time, we had endured our fill of good times, and were ready for the long drive home. Ryan watched a DVD and we munched on barbecue chips and M&M's. About an hour before we got home, Ryan made my day: He said "Dad, don't forget--we gotta do this again next year!"

The Apartment

We had rotten apartment luck.

When we were moving our meager possessions into our single-bedroom apartment when we got married, our neighbor across the hall came home. She looked like a librarian. In her mid-30's, average size with brown hair and large glasses--pretty. She saw us look at her and she rushed inside and closed the door before we could say hello. I never had a really good look at her, and we never had a real conversation with her in the year that she lived there.

We kidded each other that she was in the witness protection program, but maybe...

The people below us looked like teenagers that had just moved out of their parents' home--they fought with each other all the time, peeled out in the parking lot. One time the girl threw a hair dryer at the guy one while he was peeling out in the parking lot. It was kind of entertaining.

I remember waking up to "Walking in Memphis" playing over their clock radio on a Sunday morning--things like that didn't bother me back then--I liked the song.

One night, I heard shouting and ran to my window--just enough time to see a guy running as fast as he could--and then another guy run up behind him, hold a pistol level at him and fire two shots (missing). I didn't even call the police, as I recall. Over the next coupla weeks I discretely looked for the spent bullets or a splash of lead on the bricks in the background but never found them.

Another year or so passed.

At some point we started naming our neighbors--it started with "Ape Man", the guy who moved in downstairs. I could write a whole story about that guy--one of the worst neighbors ever--he was stinky and gross--Six and a half feet tall with foot-long, uncombed, thick blonde hair sprouting out like a fountain from the top of his head. He had a small pickup that was originally maroon, but now primer-colored and always had a fresh set of beer cans scattered in the back. He wrecked his truck about once a month. One time I was watching tv and heard brakes screeching and a huge metallic crash, then walked outside to see ol' Ape Man staggering up to his door, so drunk that his head was loosely rolling around on his neck. The thing that made him a bad neighbor, though, is that he played The Rolling Stones super loud on his stereo--all the time. We knocked on his door but he wouldn't answer. We called the apartment manager and he denied everything. We called the cops on Ape Man 22 times.

If I could draw a cartoon, I would draw this idea that hit me while I was in Organic Chemistry lab that year--our experiment was to make an ester that smelled like bannana--bannana oil--and there was a warning in the lab notes that it would incite bees to attack you--it was a phermone that attracted them. I wanted to pour it from our balcony onto Ape Man's head--my cartoon would show him fighting a swarm of bees from his moppy head, much like King Kong swatting airplanes. I did sneak a vial out and pour it on his patio, which was less satisfying...

"Buffalo Gal" was our next downstairs neighbor. As in the song "Buffalo Gal won't you come out tonight?" Poor thing...But at least her taste in music was better...

At 3:00 AM one morning, I had to chase off a damn mockingbird which had nested outside our window and was chirping all night. I grabbed a handful of pennies and threw them into the tree until the chirping stopped. And thank God it finally did.

Two years passed.

Then there was the dog. A new family moved in next to Buffalo Gal--and they brought their small dog with a piercing bark. And that damn little thing barked and barked and barked all night, every night. We gave the family a little leeway, wondering if their dog just needed a little time to get settled. A few weeks passed, and every night we were treated to a harsh barking all night. If this was me, I would never do this to my new neighbors--we couldn't believe that the family didn't bring the dog inside. We went to the patio and the dog seemed to be left on it's own--they weren't cleaning up after him properly and it smelled.

We were fed up with this inconsiderate behavior, so my wife tried a last-ditch effort before calling animal control: she wrote a note to these people. It said:

"How can you let your dog bark and bark every night--Don't you realize how inconsiderate that is? Please do something!"

She folded up the note and dropped it on their porch and they brought the dog inside--and at last, incredulous that it took such desperate measures, we got some sleep.

Then, a couple of weeks later, I saw these neighbors--using Sign Language.

Positive Spin

Saturday morning I was driving to help my brother, Patrick, move into his (congratulations!) first new home.

I had to drive through the skyscrapers of downtown Dallas and, subsequently, a very unsavory area before getting to the apartment at the origin of the move. Flying along on the highway, I was shocked and outraged when the woman in the beat-up baby-blue coupe in front of me tossed a folded over can of grape soda out the window--it bounced along the highway off the shoulder.

I was pretty pissed off at the lady-not mad enough to get shot over it by pulling beside her and shooting her the finger or anything (I really don't do that kind of thing in real life, just mentally sometimes).

Then I thought that it was as if that woman just bought some poor bum a shot of Mad Dog 20/20. I started smiling and then chuckling to myself, and felt a lot better about the whole situation.

A Memory

At certain times of the year, I get this feeling like I'm forgetting to do something--like I have an appointment that I'm going to miss--fishing with my Father-in-Law. His name was Santos--I called him "sir", as in "Yes, sir." I had a great deal of respect for him. Santos died suddenly of a heart attack in 1999--one month before my son, his grandson, Ryan, was born.

A couple of weeks ago, my son was working out in the yard on a "project"--I had some spare lumber and he wanted to nail it together to form a makeshift workbench. I put my workbelt on him, handed him a hammer and a pair of safety glasses, and let him go to work. A couple of minutes later, when I went to check on him to make sure he wasn't using the hammer to dislodge bricks from the side of the house, I had a small shock.

I looked at him and saw Santos.

My father-in-law was a building contractor--a carpenter. Any time I want to picture him with a a hammer in his hand, I can easily conjure the image--pretty much any tool is interchangeable in my on-call vision. His thick-rimmed glasses and often-worn toolbelt were practically a uniform for him. That, and the carefree way he would hum while he worked, often old folk songs or church hymns.

After Fran and I were married, my father-in-law seemed to have two states of existence: either on a fishing trip or in the process of planning for a future fishing trip. On our excursions, he would really relax and enjoy things. We would stop on the way to the water and pick up candy bars, chips, and cokes--the only time that my father-in-law would leave his habit of eating very healthy.

I didn't grow up going fishing at the lake, so this was a fun, new experience for me--although there was a downside.

One time we were loading up the boat and I was handed a warm, foil-wrapped bundle of homemade tacos--I stashed it in one of the boat's handy compartments...When it came time for lunch, Fran's uncle was looking for the tacos and I told him where they were. He stared at me blankly as he opened the flooded livewell (where you keep fish when you catch them) to see the waterlogged tacos bobbing up and down. The uncle still has not forgiven me for that--I heard him bitching about it 10 years later--but Fran's dad laughed so hard I thought he was going to fall off the boat.

Another time, I was supposed to back up the family's RV with the trailer attached to it so her dad could get the boat out of the water. It's really easy, according to everyone who grew up doing it--just go "straight back!" Well, that's B.S., because I had that trailer flipping left and right and it took about twenty times of backing and coming back out to get it straight enough for him to get the boat on the trailer. By this time, I had draw a staring and head-scratching crowd of onlookers who couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. When it was time to move the mobile home forward and get the boat out of the water, I pressed the accelerator. Nothing. More, nothing. Finally, I punched it a little more, probably a little too much, and the boat shot out of the water, sliding halfway down the trailer as it came out. Fran's dad was furious, and laughing at me at the same time, shaking his head and asking "How did you grow up without learning this?"

He took me to a nearby lake to practice backing up the trailer, and determined that I could set the record for the worst ability to do it on earth. According to him, I am able to defy laws of physics and jackknife the trailer within 2 feet of backing...

About a month before he died, we sneaked off on a winter trip to a nearby lake. Santos had a great day of fishing--he caught more that day than he ever had on any of our trips before. I can still remember him smiling as he reeled in a 4-pound bass he caught off a plastic worm.

That was our last trip together--the greatest day we ever spent together.

I need to tell the story about our trip to the ocean in the bass boat where we got sucked out into the shipping lane and we ended up chasing a huge, half-dead fish across Galveston bay in the rain with his finger bleeding from a 4-inch gash and the boat filling with water, but I'll save that for another day.

I just can't shake that feeling sometimes that we still have an trip planned, and that I need to get my gear together.

Failing my Diet

But doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.

--Much Ado About Nothing

So...I started trying to eat healthier at the beginning of this year:

1) No more cokes
2) Keep candy to a minimum
3) Eat healthier (won't bore you with the specifics here, but I need to eat more fruit)
4) Exercise more

I stuck with it for 2 full months, even getting compliments from people noticing I was losing weight. Somehow, I got off track--this week I committed to getting back on the program.

But the diet I'm thinking about is my reading diet. Sometimes I think I'm more particular about what I'm reading than what I eat--I really like literature and can't take a poorly-written book. And since I started stepping up my writing a little over a year ago, I have become even more critical.

There are some popular authors which I can't read, just because the dialog is insipid, or the plot unrealistic, or the plot development distracting--Tom Clancy is one of these. The dialog is exactly what I expect from a spaced-out military buff--wooden and unsubstantial--people are mere place-holders--set pieces who fill a role. It's a shame, too, because his plots are fantastic.

Contrast this with Jane Austen (yes, I know that's not fair), who has such a witty style and very introspective character development that it promises to the reader that you are getting a true glimpse at the author's mind.

I was trying to find this quotation by Mark Twain:

Jane Austen's books, too, are absent from this library. Just that one omission alone would make a fairly good library out of a library that hadn't a book in it.

but this one was too juicy to exclude here even though it contradicts my point:

Everytime I read 'Pride and Prejudice' I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.

Ha! What a cranky old codger he was.

Other favorites are: Faulkner, Hemingway, Sherwood Anderson, even Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Orwell, guys like that--witty (I would have put Pete Dexter but I can't get into Paris Trout--at this point I have him listed as "hit and miss").

So I became a little dubious when a co-worker suggested a novel to me about a group of marines fighting a covert war in Antarctica. The premise sounded kinda interesting, because I don't know anything about Antarctica except that's where the stick-thingy is inserted in my globe (reminded me of my grandfather talking about a place where he was stationed in the Navy: "If you were going to give the earth an enema, this is where you would insert it") , so I figured this would be cool. It was cool--for the first 400 pages (out of 530). I ripped through them in 3 days, soaking it in and really enjoying it, as implausible as the plot was. The author employed the "redshirt effect" from Star Trek, too--conveniently putting in characters with minimal development just for the purpose of getting killed in a spectacularly grisly way to make a point. You could see it coming from a mile away--it made me feel like I could skip ahead 10 pages at times.

The author also used the same phrases over and over again. A big offender was "snap": "His head snapped left", "She snapped her head up", etc...This came to my attention because of the volkswagon commercial that's going around "Time to unpimp ze auto!" where he later says "Oh, snap!" when the car gets flung by a trebuchet--this goofy guy in the lab coat kept looking up at me from the book...not a pretty sight.

I kept looking up from the book and wondering "Did they edit this story at all?" and "I really need to get into this writing business..."(no comment required from the peanut gallery).

It was a nauseating chore to finish this book as the loose ends got wrapped up in a very lazy manner. I really wanted to take a shower after finishing that monstrous thing--I almost ditched it completely with 20 pages to go. I have to cleanse my palate. I'm going to give this book away to someone I don't like.

So my diet is back on: yesterday I picked up an apple and began reading "Emma".

Loaded for Bear

I am now the proud owner of a can of bear spray, and the recipient of a lecture from a dude at Outdoor World whose uniform was adorned with 37 pieces of flair--everything except the Mork and Mindy suspenders. He leaned over the counter and admonished me with the sober, country twang "Fella, if ya end up using this baby, somethin's gone really wrong on ya!"

I was trying to take Ryan on a short backpacking trip in Oklahoma--I had it all planned. Then the training from my childhood kicked in: anticipate Armageddon. This is why my dad's backpack always weighed 60 lbs.

"But dad, do we need both a saw AND an axe?"

"If the sawblade breaks, then what are you going to do?"

"Uh, I dunno--usually there's plenty of firewood on the ground that can be gathered. Maybe we don't need either..."

"Yeah, you go ahead with that idea, mister, and you'll freeze to death!"

"Uh, okay. Let's just bring them both."

"And make sure you pack the axe facing outward, away from your back. That way, if you fall backwards it won't chop a hole in your back."

"Well, at least we have the field surgical kit."

Seriously we would bring lots of stuff that I would never consider bringing now. But this was going to be Ryan's first night camping, added to the fact that we would be backpacking away from the car, and that it was just going to be him and me.

My mind started to work overtime--hence, the purchase of bear spray. I just thought to myself "You know, we could be completely vulnerable, and I would be helpless if someone or some animal threatened us in any way. What am I going to do, throw a S'more at it?"

Nicole told me about something called a bear banger which is a bullet mounted in a sawed-off wire coat hanger that guys typically carry in bear country. This sounds a lot like something that Ryan would throw into the fire to see what it does.

Of course, there is the option of carrying a pistol. I don't have one, but could easily put my hands on one. I remember that when I was in scouts I was shocked to learn that one of the adults carried a small, chrome, 25mm automatic "Lady from Bristol". He also smoke a pipe, ate kippers on the trail, and listened to Credence Clearwater Revival--I think he had a James Bond fantasy that he was living out.

Flipping through the trail guide before we left, I ran across a scenic stop in the mountains which was recommended to stop and admire. It was a 150-year-old mountain cemetery. According to legend, it was started when a young girl was chased by wolves out into the woods and into a tree, where she stayed and froze to death. Great.

On the next page "Black bear sightings are extremely rare on the trail, but have become increasingly more common in (the area where we are planning to go). Although these bears are not the aggressive grizzlys, and typically try to run away when encountered, they are as large as a human and can be dangerous when cornered. My advice is, if you run into one, make plenty of noise to let him know you are there. If the bear doesn't go away, you're on your own-Good Luck."

Gee, thanks for the helpful pointer...Then there is the slippery-slope, Armageddon-style thinking about how to carry the bear spray. According to Mr. Flair, it should always be accessible when in bear country. It comes with a convenient belt strap, which is essentially the backpacking equivalent of a pocket protector. Hey, I guess I could just carry it in my hand the whole time--no, I'll probably just stick it in the velcro'd outside pocket of my backpack and forget about it.

Lastly, it also didn't help that Deliverance came on TV the other day. And whenever I think of Southeastern Oklahoma, I remember a friend of mine who could really squeal exactly like a pig--I'm not sure why or how he learned that, but it was pretty impressive.

Alas, despite my mental gymnastics over preparing for the trip, the whole thing fell through at the last minute, and we decided not to go--over the weekend, this region was pounded with rain--up to 10 inches in some areas near me (!). We did indoor stuff like bowling and laser tag and reading books. If we had gone into the woods, we would have been washed away--that area was one of the hardest hit.

But I'm ready, when, a couple of weeks for now, we'll head out on the trail and I'll be armed with my trusty bear spray.

Overheard at the Alamo

March 23rd, 1835
"Don't worry, Mr. Crockett. We won't perish in vain--this site will be a sobering shrine of sacrifice to all future citizens of Texas."

March 12, 2006 (Woman to husband)
"How's your dolphin bite feeling today?"

Jan 20, 3420
"As you can see according to these artifacts, it appears that children were pressed into military service at the battle of the Alamo."

July 18, 1935
"You wanna open this dump as a tourist attraction? That's the dumbest thing I ever heard! It's like a million freakin' degrees out here..."

Feb 19, 1982
"Mr. Osbourne, you're going to have to come with us...and please zip up your dress!"

"Is this the line for the rental cars?"


"How's this for a motto: Alamo: Not Lame-o. Whaddya mean 'No'?"

March 12, 2006 (one gift shop employee to another)

"Wow, man--we sold out of these fake pistols extra fast today--make another run to Wal-Mart..."

"Over there by the creek bed I found a couple of Shoshone arrowheads..."

March 12, 2006 (one raccoon to another)

"Hey, isn't that Uncle Louie? Oh my gosh...!"

Remember the Alamo?

 

Dodged a Bullet

I have this friend, Chris, a colleague from work, who resides on the quirky side of things. He's Canadian, which explains a lot, I guess. He now lives in North Carolina, but I think he still believes he is in some small village in northeastern Canada or something--he strikes up conversations easily and is very friendly and trusting. I really like it when he comes and works with me, because he does a very thorough job and is interesting to talk to. I tend to tease him a lot and he's a good sport...and he makes it so easy because he does, as I say, quirky things.

He has red hair and a white beard, speaks with a thick brogue, and uses lots of the Canadian jargon, like adding "eh?" to the end of a statement: "So, how's it going, eh?" and "We've got our work cut out for us, eh?" This is a person crying out to be kidded around with.

For a while, he had the world record for the highest number of miles on a car I've ever seen. something like 350,000, or it may have been kilometers, or converted from kilometers, or metric tons or something....you just need to trust me that it was a well-used car. I was afraid it would burst into flames while I was riding in it when we worked together in Massachusetts one time--it smelled like a gasoline-soaked rag.

I tend to start my conversations with Chris by asking him when he's going to pay me back those beers he owes me--he really doesn't owe me anything, but it's a running joke we've had going for a few years. He cracked me up--we went out for dinner and he ordered a schooner of some kind of Moose Snout beer--this huge glass comes to the table and he fought gallantly through dinner to drink it down. The waitress conveniently got confused and brought him another one, which he just shrugged and drank down as well...

The last time Chris was in town we stopped at Starbucks for a cup of coffee and I left him in the air-conditioned car talking on the phone--he whispered to me that he just wanted a regular cup of coffee with some cream and sugar. That's one great thing about Chris--he ALWAYS answers his telephone. I call him when I need help with something, because I know he will answer. That also drives me nuts when he's working with me--his phone is always ringing and he tends to answer it, no matter what the circumstance. I never hesitate to turn off my phone--I consider it a tool of convenience for myself--but I try to stay on top of returning calls. I guess there are many ways to handle the same problem, especially when an important part of your job is to be accessible to customers.

So, I was a little surprised, but didn't think too much of it when I looked up and saw Chris standing next to me at the counter--seems that he wanted to fix his coffee himself so it would be just right. We stood around chatting for a few minutes while the barista made my drink and he fixed his coffee as needed. Then we wandered out to the car, which Chris had innocently left running with the window down, and the doors unlocked!

This is Dallas, Texas (18,000 car thefts per year)--and we got very lucky that day.

I couldn't tease him too badly about it--he had gotten distracted on his phone call. He just said "Ooooh--I guess I shouldn't have left it like that, eh?"

Spring Breakdown

I can't believe that, as I was driving through a construction zone, my car got hit by a flying piece of metal. It didn't end up killing me, which it would have if it had gone through the windshield, but it did leave a huge gash in the front bumper which caused it to whistle loudly if you speed over 70 mph. Oh, man! I had just washed it, too...

That was the day before we left on our road trip last Friday afternoon.

There's one version of the story: In this version, which is actually true as well as the one which I prefer, everything went perfectly. We left pretty close to on-time, we arrived in time for the last tour of the underground caverns. The boys (4 of 'em) were all excited about the trip and got along better than we could have imagined. The adults were courteous to each other and we had nice conversation in our brief trip together and we became better friends. We went San Antonio, Texas to visit Sea World and Ryan got to pet a dolphin! We saw every show we wanted to see, picnicked in the park, and the boys were so giddy that they couldn't stop playing. We even got to ride the log ride, a fun "big kid" experience for Ryan. The boys also got to experience Texas history when we went to the Alamo--Ryan proudly signed his name in the ledger as a guest. After a trolley ride back to Market Square and a feast of wonderful, authentic Mexican food, we took a boat ride through the riverwalk and ended up with the kids asleep in the backseat as Fran and I drove home.

If you're a "glass half full" type of person, as I tend to be, this is the version for you. But, sometimes to me I entertain myself my exposing my critical self-talk to the events of the day. So, here's the disclaimer: We Really Did Have a Good Time on this Trip!

Fran had conspired with a couple of her friends, and we all went out of town together to San Antonio to go to Sea World. There were 10 of us in all, including my two-year-old daughter (in other words, the other 2 families, with full willingness and knowledge of the circumstances, chose to go on vacation with a 2-year-old). At this point, our families are good enough friends to politely sit down together at a meal, but not just cut loose and really talk about things. That was kind of fun, except for the minor issue that it brought out the psychotic asshole personality in me.

The basic assumption I have is that everyone is paying attention to my family, and constantly judging us and determining that we aren't doing things right and that we're bringing the group down--basically, that they are outraged with our poor organization, being slow/late, and behavior of our kids (who are actually extremely well-behaved but, *gasp*, not perfect).

Example 1 over psychotic overthinking of the situation: We were caravaning together on this 250-mile trip. They asked me to lead the way in our whistle-mobile. My mind starts working overtime way too much...What if I drive way too fast for what they want to do? Do I have to follow the speed limit? Is that a nerdy way to drive? What if I lose them? Will the whole vacation be over? Which way should we go?

At this point, I would also like to register my extreme discontent that I am cursed with this double-curse of being overcourteous to the extent of driving myself crazy, and then being given a beautiful, loving wife who sees that it tortures me and can't figure out why in the hell I'm doing this to myself--and then mocks me.

After all that, when we got on the highway, one of the other guys took the lead and I followed him down there...

Our first stop was Longhorn Caverns, a huge cave system with neat crystals and things like that--the tour took us a mile and a half inside. We had the funniest tour guide--he was a cross between Rain Man and Elmer Fudd. He really had a quite low mental capacity, and had memorized the tour (which he confusingly pronounced "choor")Fran tried to ask him a question and he looked all panicky and quickly repeated the statements he had previously made. He told very simple stories, such as "We call this rock formation "Abraham Lincoln's Face"...um, because it looks like Abraham Lincon's face." Then he pointed his flashlight at different parts of it, calling out anatomical characteristics: "Nose, eyes, beard..." (If it really looked like that, someone wouldn't have to point out these features, right? I'm that way about constellations, too--I don't get it) Every formation seemed to have some boring, overly simplistic name, and every anecdote would end in "but we really can't confirm if that's a true story or not."

I sidled up to Fran and said in a Rain Man monotone: "This next room we call the Baloney and Cheese Sandwich Room because it's said that one time a guy named Bill ate his baloney and cheese sandwich there...but we really can't confirm if that's a true story or not." Yes, I'm a jerk like that sometimes.

We managed to eventually fish all of the kids out of the cave and get back on the road, stopping for dinner at the Bluebonnet Cafe in Marble Falls, Texas. By that point, the sun had gone down and we were on a tiny, 2-lane road, which is a little nerve-wracking to drive on. We got into the hotel quite late, and the three guys went inside--we stood around in a small semi-circle and stared at the front desk clerk. He asked to help us, and there was a funny, awkward pause--I'm pretty sure everyone wanted to go but was trying to be polite, so I stepped up and registered first. Then, when I was finished, I waited for the others to be registered as well--that way, I got things going but they couldn't accuse me of rushing in and being rude while they had to wait.

Now, rationally, I don't believe that people generally think this way. This is a sickness that I have from being around hyper-critical people during some periods of my life. Unfortunately, it has resulted in this powerful internal dialog which makes me hear that type of critical viewpoint of whatever I'm doing just as I'm doing it, and makes me act very neurotically. I wish it wasn't there, but it felt very proper to sit and wait for the other two guys to get their room registered instead of just naturally getting a key like normal people, and then loading my exhausted family into the hotel room.

The next morning, we had another incident--the hotel had a waffle-maker. Unfortunately, only one. Forces conspired to keep that damn waffle-maker busy every time I got up to make a waffle for myself. Finally, I got there when the machine was unused and a teenage girl looked up at me very panicked--clearly, she was was there first and wanted me to know it. Then I heard her debate with her mom whether or not she would make a waffle or...whatever, get something else. Damn, fickle teenager. Finally, after a full minute of debate she decided to make one for herself--and then proceeded, giving me sheepish glances, to make one for every member of her extended family! After about five minutes of waiting, I made myself something else and returned, agitated, to the table. Fran sensed that something was up, and then, incredibly, got mad at me for being in a bad mood.

"What's wrong? You look like your head is about to come to a point!" (quoting a line from "The Manchurian Candidate").

"Nothing. I'm okay."

"What is it?"

(talking through my clenched teeth) "No big deal--" (then, pissed off, sighing) I was just waiting for a )(#)* waffle and...what the hell is going on, here?"

I just realized that my 2-year-old daughter has shredded a blueberry muffin to bits all over the floor in a pretty shocking display.

"Fran! This is a huge mess! Why did you let her do that?"

Of course, now, I'm totally screwed.

"What?! YOU try controlling a 2-year old every second! Besides, why do you care that the maid is going to have to clean up this room? It needs a good cleaning to begin with, anyway! You're just mad for some stupid reason--don't take it out on her!"

I had a choice--I could just accept my lumps for being critical, or defend why I was upset, you know, like stating that it is a common area of the hotel and, well, nobody wants to eat their breakfast sitting amidst shards of blueberry muffin broken up like the leftover baskets of the feast of the loaves and fishes. But instead, I got down on the floor and started picking up the crumbs as well as I could, which ultimately was probably more irritating to Fran.

The weather at Sea World was HOT! It got up to 94 degrees, and no one had really expected that this early in the spring. They should have given out T-shirts to the survivors at the end of the day...

For some reason or other, my neurotic behavior had continued to irritate Fran, so I volunteered to take Kaitlyn to the kid's play area instead of herding the group of four boys that we had with us. I took her on the rides, which she enjoyed, except for the Ferris Wheel, which really terrified her and caused her to remove her seatbelt and dive into my arms before the ride was over.

Sea World has a neat pool where you can pet dolphins--that is, if the dolphins let you. Mostly they just swim by closely but not close enough. I've been there three times and never got a chance to touch one, so Ryan and I went together to try it. The first time, we sat there for about half an hour, with no luck. But the second time, we had been at the shallow end of the pool for about ten minutes when a dolphin swam right up to my hand under the water and bumped it with it's nose--I was so excited! Ryan was right next to me, and he gently stroked the side of his head. Then, Conner, one of the boys that was with us, poked his finger down on top of the dolphin's head, right next to his blowhole. The dolphin turned and promptly bit my hand, which was still by his nose, and thrashed, swimming away quickly. It was funny, though, because everyone thought it was really cool that the dolphin had swum up to us, so I was embarrassed that I had a less than "hail-mammal-well-met" experience with the dolphin and didn't want to mention that the slimy bastard had bitten me. People are superstitious about dolphins, much as they are with dogs. If a dolphin doesn't like me, maybe I'm a bad person or something...

San Antonio itself was great as always--it almost feels as though you are in Mexico. You can get great, authentic Mexican food, and we did at every opportunity. We took the kids to the Alamo, where we waited in line for nearly half an hour before getting in-everyone was commenting that we have never had to wait to in the past.

Oh yeah, and I had another mental meltdown. Somehow, I was appointed the ad hoc leader of our group when we got to San Antonio. We wanted to go to three places--one of which had no parking at all. Since I had been to San Antonio and had a vague idea of where to go, everyone took a huge step back and appointed me to lead the group to park. I decided to go to the last place we would visit, park there, and ride the trolley to the Alamo. Then we could go and do other activities and ride the trolley back. In my neurotic mind, this made me responsible for the well-being of the group from that point on, and it was truly a miserable state of being for someone like me. Then Fran decided to try out a very risky move--we didn't come prepared with a route map for the trolley, but I knew there was one a block away in one direction. Fran decided we could risk walking down the street in a different direction to "see if we could catch one". This drove me crazy, because I knew there was a trolley stop just a mere 200 yards away in a different direction. As we started walking the wrong way, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread that we would wander the streets for days looking for a trolley stop when I KNEW there was one close by. I asked "Can we just go one block north?" The group got quiet.

Exasperated, I stated, probably a little too excitedly, that I KNEW that there was a stop nearby in the opposite direction and that I would rather go there than try to guess where one might be. I got blank stares from the group and then we all turned around and went my way. Fran shook her head and said, quietly (so no one else could hear) "Congratulations, now everyone knows you're a spaz!"

Normally when this happens, she just shakes her head sadly and knowingly and mumbles something about "Turret's"...

Since I felt like a tour guide who was now completely responsible for everyone having a good time, I was racked with guilt that the town was so crowded. My tour group had to walk behind street vendors selling tacos, and I felt guilty that it smelled like old food and thrown-up beer. The thumping bass of the amped-up street bands was deafening. The overdue trolleys made us wait, sweating, on the street corner--it was all my fault. In short, being "in charge" seemed to suck every remnant of enjoyment of the trip from me, just due to my self-conscious nature, which I am fully aware of but can't break myself of. To make matters worse, all the boys in our group bought old-style muskets and coon skin caps from the Alamo Gift Shop and were continually re-enacting a combination of the Battle of the Alamo and Yoda fighting Count Dooku by bouncing off the walls and waving his light saber. Since the streets were crowded, Ryan was literally weaving in and out of people walking down the sidewalk, using their bodies for cover and firing his musket at his buddies, whacking people in the legs and nearly knocking down and old lady has he used her walker as cover.

As I told Ryan that this was inappropriate (very calmly), Fran shot me a glance that told me that I was in danger of ruining everyone's good time. Even the old woman seemed to smile at the boys once we got her back on her feet.

Fran and I also made the risky move of selecting a place to eat lunch--in my mind, at least, that subjected us to the group's (continued) scrutiny. We went to La Margarita, a very historic restaurant which is in some kind of battle with another establishment over whether or not drink called the margarita was invented there. But we went there for the food and the atmosphere--it really feels like Mexico. One of Fran's friends, Linda, wanted a mariachi band to play a song for us at our table, and Fran told the bandleader in Spanish that we just didn't want to hear "La Bamba" or "Guantanamera"--songs we have heard tourists typically request--could they play an old song? They glanced at each other and seemed to be delighted at the instructions.

They played and sang beautifully--they were wearing black and white formal mariachi suits and sang with gusto and clear voices, smiling to each other. They played a violin, an acoustic guitar, and a huge bass guitar strummed right by my head--I held Kaitlyn, and she was still and stared at the singers during the whole song. I got a lump in my throat, and knew that Fran was fighting back tears throughout the soulful song--old mariachi songs always remind her of her dad, who she loved and she has dearly missed since he passed away right before Ryan was born. When we were first dating, we would sometimes listen to old records of these songs--I really enjoy listening to them--I think they are as beautiful as any opera. I made a point of not looking at her, and she later told me that she was choked up and not making eye contact with me as the mariachis sang. The rest of the table was enjoying it as an authentic Mexican experience, a curiosity, and they were oblivious to the fact that we both felt a connection with the music, immersed in it and reacting to the song emotionally. As subtle as it was, that moment was a highlight of the trip. My ragged nerves needed the soothing, and the rest of the day was restored at that point.

We had another, less serious musical moment when REO Speedwagon's "Keep on Lovin' You" came on the radio during the ride home, and I did a cheesy two-fingered point and one-eye-closed pose to Fran and said "You know, this song is about you, baby!" I was re-enacting a story from when Fran was riding in a car with her sister and a guy who was a friend of the family. According to legend, he had a huge crush on Fran's sister and, when the song "One in a Million Girl" came on, he turned to her, pointed to her (possibly executing the dreaded double-index-finger-with-thumb-extended-upward point) with a very cool, '70's attitude (including '70's fro), and said that to her...Fran said it was an incredibly awkward moment but the guy was unaffected and turned back to driving. I know, that's a horrible thing to make fun of, but when I think about it it makes me burst out laughing. I may end up going to hell for that particular reason.

Despite being foolishly unnerved at many of the inevitable twists and turns which happen when traveling out of town, I had managed to hide it pretty well, so despite my neurotic behavior everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. As we pulled in at 11:00 pm last night, I breathed a sigh of relief, and Fran just laughed at me and shook her head.

The Ghost of Mike

  

Luke, I am your father!

  

Death of a Salesman

I got home the other night at 5:58--Ryan's soccer practice was at 6:00, and I was supposed to take him.

Right when I walked in the house, there was a knock at the door. I answered it, and there was a 20-year old kid standing there, obviously selling something.

I subscribe to the Pavlovian rule of advertising--I don't provide positive reinforcement to a behavior which is disrupting to me--ie. I NEVER buy something when someone comes to my door, or from telemarketers who call my house for that matter. Maybe that makes me an unreasonable asshole, or maybe that's just a coincidental fact, or perhaps even a causation of my behavior.

So, I was mildly irritated to begin with...I had seen these guys standing on the streetcorner when I drove by, and was dreading that they were Jehova's Witnesses or Mormons or something trying to get me to shave my head and dance in the airport with a bouquet of daisies (try to shake that mental image). I think they saw me because they had to have drawn a bead on my house as I pulled into the driveway.

To amplify my irritation, Fran came up to the door and told me that she had already told the young man "no". So I felt no guilt in immediately dismissing him with a comment of "Thank you, but I'm not interested."

He stuck his chin out and replied "You aren't interested in saving money?"

Here's the funny thing--I could see from the paper that he had in his hand that he was trying to get people to sign up for Fiber Optic Internet, and I DO want that, but it was just a bad time, what with me already being late taking Ryan to practice. I didn't feel compelled to explain that to him, or support their door-to-door disruption.

Past experiences flashed back:

Fran let a huge, admitted ex-con, ex-crack addict into our house to show her cleaning solution and how great it works on the carpet. To prove how non-toxic it is, he drank some of it from the bottle. And, two years later, it's still what we use to clean up spills. I asked her if I could have used it to clean up the chalk outline of her dead body...

An exterminator came to the door and, right on cue when I answered the door, pointed to an antpile in front of our house and dramatically jumping up and down and pointing exclaimed "Wow, man! Did you know you have ants!" I replied "I'm a Buddhist, and they're my pets." and slammed the door.

Another time when I was out of town, a supposed "deaf-mute" guy came to the door and, through a process of charades, cleaned a strip of brass on our door with a cleaning solution. Fran didn't buy it. No matter what I tried, I couldn't clean the rest of the door to match the damn streak that he left, and it was that way for over a year. Finally, I had to replace the part of the door that he had cleaned!

Jackass!

So, all of these experiences, and this post-pubescent's surly sarcasm just pissed me off. "You aren't interested in saving money?"

When a salesman asks you that, it tends to be a loaded question. And, put that way, I was insulted--he definitely caught me on a bad day.

I don't remember the dialog, but it was pretty much centered around how he needed to just leave right now, and that I didn't appreciate his coming to my door and throwing down the sarcastic attitude. Because Ryan was there, I stepped out on the front porch and closed the door behind me.

What I was thinking was, "While I'm out here, and I'm already late, I may as well get the mail out of the mailbox."

What the kid thought was "Oh, shit. I think this guy's going to kick my ass!" I saw his eyes get very wide and he immediately stopped speaking as I stepped toward him, actually already dismissing him in my mind and focused on getting the mail so I could get my little guy to soccer practice...late. I was about 4 inches taller than him which was accentuated by him being on the second step of the porch, so when I realized that I had scared him I kind of chuckled and then felt bad.

Did that stop him from running his mouth? Incredibly, no. He kept babbling as I walked past him out to the mailbox and was still defiant as I walked past him and into the house.

Apparently, Ryan had the same idea as the salesman because I heard him tell Fran when the door opened "I hope Dad didn't get a black eye!"

No respect.

Spotted in a Texas Parking Lot

  

Make no mistake--a cowboy drives this truck--a coiled lariat hung on the gun rack and a beat-up cowboy hat on the dashboard...