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Unlike any other posting to date, I am going to talk about a television show. To get straight to the point, that show is, "Kid Nation," on CBS (google "Kid Nation CBS" to go to the official website and watch all previous episodes in their entirety). This new series has received a ton of harsh criticism and not very good ratings, and I cannot understand for the life of me why. I think it is the best thing to hit the small screen in many, many years, and the only "reality television" of any redeeming value.

Take 40 children, ages 8-15, and dump them in a ghost town in the desert of New Mexico for 40 days, and see how they fare. Sounds a little harsh, but hey, they did sign up for it. Okay, I can understand some of the criticism for the first few shows. The initial task the kids, who had never met before, were given was to haul several large carts, carrying a 40-day supply of dried and canned goods, a mile or three through the desert to the town. Then they are more or less on their own to figure it out.

Critics jumped all over this, hauling the carts in particular, as cruel, abusive, and possibly violating child labor laws. Have none of these people ever heard of a team-building exercise? I think it was brilliant.  No adults, make all the decisions yourselves. One boy pulled a muscle in his leg. The oldest boy lifted him onto the top of the heaping cart and pulled him the rest of the way into town. Another boy, one of the district leaders, thought he was doing enough work by walking at the front of the pack and yelling, "Pull!" That same older boy that helped the injured kid told the bossy kid to do some real work, try pulling the cart for a minute. He couldn't budge it. The older boy, his point made, let the kid off the hook and continued to pull the cart.

 An opportunity for children to take the lessons they have learned of what NOT to do from adults and apply them to real life, and also at the same time maybe coming to understand that the decisions that adults make may not always be popular, but there is usually a good reason behind them.

Each episode covers 3 to 4 days, and one day an adult appears to host a, "showdown." The kids have split themselves into four districts, and each district competes for their placement in the social hierarchy. The first-placed district becomes the "upper class". They have zero assigned responsibilities and make the most money - $1.00 a day. Second place becomes the "merchants". They make 50 cents a day operating the General Store where the kids can spend their hard-earned cash on the luxuries in life, such as candy or toys. Third place is the "cooks", who, you guessed it, get 25 cents a day to cook and wash up for the whole crew. And last place are the lowly laborers, who get 10 cents a day to do the heavy lifting, like carrying water from the well and cleaning the outhouses.

Each district was initially assigned a District Leader, some of whom do a good job, one of whom I would like to strangle with my bare hands. You need only to watch 10 minutes of one episode to figure out which one I am referring to. 

Each showdown is allotted a certain amount of time for all four districts to complete a task. If all four districts finish in time, they win a giant reward for the whole town. But it is always a choice between two prizes, one is usually an instant gratification luxury, the other less-sexy-but-more-necessary. These are kids. The choice usually seems obvious, but the end result may surprise you. 

I think the first few episodes turned some people off because they were sometimes difficult to watch. A lot of the kids were extremely homesick and a little scared. And it is a high-pressure situation throughout. There are tears on every episode so far. But only five episodes into it, a little over two weeks in real time with more than three weeks to go, and you can see the vast difference in the way these children work together, the way they see each other and the way they see themselves.   

As I watch each episode, I think of the parents of these children watching and what they must think of their own kids. Many of them will be very proud. Some of them should be very embarassed, but, seeing first-hand the values that these same parents have instilled in their bratty children, it will probably take them several episodes to do so, if they see it at all.

I don't think the show is cruel at all. I think what makes it difficult to watch at times is that this is what children are really like when there are not adults around. Sometimes they are viscious to each other. Sometimes they are sad and lonely. Often they are disrespectful and obnoxious. But put in a situation where they determine their own hierarchy, things usually sort themselves out just fine. The quiet ones learn how to stand up for themselves, the bratty ones learn that popularity can be short-lived, and the intelligent and compassionate ones help to guide the shift in the balance of power by leading by example.

The program makes me think about my own childhood, things I had and things I did not. My parents made ends meet, but we didn't have money, or even time, for lessons for music or karate or everything else under the sun. Most of the kids in my suburban neighborhood grew up the same way. There were 70 (no exaggeration) school-age children in a one-block radius of my house, and our afternoons and evenings were spent together, figuring things out for ourselves in very much the same way that the kids on this show do. Smetimes there was a rising star among us who would let the power go to his or her head, and eventually the natives would revolt, join forces, and put that person back into their place, and back into perspective. None of us did drugs or drank. None of us were giving or receiving oral sex and justifying it as not really being sex. Many of us were "latch-key kids". We used our imaginations, we had a lot of fun, we made real friends and we made real decisions. We were allowed to be children. I fear that that is becoming a lost art.

Yesterday I received in the mail a different sort of chain letter. Included was one of those rubber-bracelets-for-a-cause things, in an unnatural shade of violet. The "cause" was ComplaintFreeWorld or something like that (there's a website, I'm sure you can find it). I slipped the bracelet on and started reading the letter. The first few rules seemed reasonable enough: Don't complain. Try to wear the bracelet for 21 days (the length of time that scientists say it takes to form a habit) straight without complaining, gossiping, or otherwise spreading negative energy. When you catch yourself complaining, move the bracelet to the other wrist and start over. The theory behind all this being, which I totally agree with, negative energy breeds negative energy. So knock it off.

So far, so good, though I already started wondering where the line is drawn as to what is a complaint and what is a statement of fact. For example, "That movie was too long." As someone who is very interested in films, I think that observation may be warranted. However, if the person making this statement does so in a whiny voice, or if any curse words are involved, i.e., "That movie was too damn long," then I guess it would be a complaint. But it is still a fine line.

I read further on in the letter, as there were more rules. If someone asks you what the bracelet is for, you have to explain it to them, but then you have to move the bracelet to the other wrist and start your 21 days over again. What? How in the world are you supposed to wear a bracelet in a shade of purple that no one has seen since 1983 for 21 days straight without anyone asking what it is for? I spoke outloud the first words since I had put the bracelet on less than three minutes ago:

"That's stupid."

I moved the bracelet to the other wrist.

Needless to say, the bracelet didn't last an hour. Not because it is a bad idea, or even because it is a difficult exercise. More because I find bracelets very distracting, and it didn't go with ANYTHING I own. But the premise is an interesting one, and a challenge I think that many people should take to heart. Why not see how long you can go?

Geez, time to lighten things up around here. My dear friend John in Germany (www.obscenedesserts.blogspot.com) "tagged" me recently to post on my own blog eight random things about myself that most people would not know about me. This is kind of a tough job, considering the source, as John knows a whole lot about me, and as it was his idea, I'd at least like to surprise him a little. He will probably know a couple of these anyway:

1. I rafted the Colorado River for a week through the Grand Canyon with my Dad.

2. I have visited at least 13 cemeteries in Paris.

3. I firmly believe that Michael Keaton was the sexiest Batman.

4. I read books written in French outloud to my dogs, and they seem to enjoy it.

5. I have spent the night in the Veuve-Clicquot Mansion in Reims, France (something most wine industry people would kill or die for, and with good reason).

6. Last summer, I taught actor Bill Pullman how to properly pick Maryland hardshell crabs.

7. I cried when I watched the funeral for the Crocodile Hunter.

8. At my (Catholic) high school graduation, the bishop of our diocese wore magenta robes. After the ceremony, I walked right up to him and said, "Hot pink is your color!"

 So that's what I came up with. Feel free to leave your own eight in the comments!

 

Good news, people. There are only five stages of grief. I've already checked off the first two, Denial and Anger, though I can't say I am completely through with them. The third step is Bargaining, but since Jen is long gone, I think I can skip that one. Then comes Depression and finally Acceptance. We'll see how those go.

What is really funny to me is that I thought for sure I was going to get a lot of Hate comments from the more rabid Christians that might stumble across my little blog, but so far, none. I had more people upset with me about the entry about the UPS guy's socks. I am almost disappointed.

A few friends who read this blog have called or emailed to see how I am doing. That means a lot to me. Death freaks a good percentage of people out, and leaves them afraid to say anything at all to someone who has recently lost someone else. It is so silly, I think. I mean, I am a pretty straight shooter and not one to mince words. There is always a way to say or ask what you are thinking in a tactful manner, no matter what the situation. Whenever a friend is lamenting about what they woulda-coulda-shoulda said to someone else, my advice is always the same: "Just say it! What is the worst that can happen? No one is going to DIE!"

See, like that. Some of you are cringing. I'm laughing, and I know that Jen is, too, and that makes me laugh even more. That is my advice to anyone, in nearly any situation, and I stand by it. The people who have taken my advice in said situations have ALWAYS come back to me and said things like, "That was amazing!" "I feel so much better!" "You should have seen the look on their face!" The ones who have not taken my advice end up repeating the same bitchfest to me over and over and over again to the point that when they start, I'll interrupt them and finish the story for them. You should see the looks on their faces. 

And, speaking of inappropriate humor, here is a little something in regards to my dear departed friend Jen that I just thought of while I was writing this entry. Jen's nickname within a certain circle of my friends was, "Bucketchick," derived from an incident that took place well over 10 years ago, and is funny-but-you-had-to-be-there, so I won't go into it. "But, Jen," I say outloud to myself, "You know what we have to call you now?" Jen would have started the pre-giggle and cautiously asked, "What?"

"Well," I would say to her, "Now we have to call you 'KICKING the Bucketchick'!" 

Then we both would have died laughing :)

 

Really probably should not be writing right now.  At least not in a semi-public format.

 Oh well...

Two weeks ago, I was in Budapest for the first time, enjoying a lovely vacation when I received an email from a very good friend of mine, asking if everything was okay with me, as I had not posted to my blog for awhile. I replied that all was well, I was out of the country, and I would give her a call when I got back.

I got back last Thursday. Two days later, and before I had given her a call, my friend Jen died in her sleep. She was 39.

Today I participated in her funeral. This meant a great deal to me. I was her best friend, and her family has always made me feel like one of them. Her mother asked me if I would read the General Intercessions at the funeral mass. My first thought was, what the hell are General Intercessions? I went to Catholic school for twelve years, I should probably know this. Okay, great, I actually have to google "General Intercessions". I could hear Jen's laughter as I had this internal dialogue. This was exactly the kind of thing that I could use to make Jen laugh, the kind of story that, told with precision timing and facial expression, never got old, and she would make me repeat it a million times. We had a lot of those kinds of stories.

Google was not very helpful, and I finally had to ask Jen's mom to clarify. It was more or less what I had expected - reading a line or two and then saying, "Lord, have mercy," and then everyone says, "Lord, have mercy," back at'cha. I figured I could handle this. It was only about ten lines. But I asked her if it was okay if my uncle backed me up, in case I couldn't get through it, and she said of course.

I am always a little (lot) nervous about speaking in front of a large group of people anyway, but I wanted to do this for Jen, and for her family, and for myself. When it was my turn to go up, my uncle asked me if I was all right. I said yes, and I went to the podium and read those words and I did not crack. The first eight lines were very general God-is-so-wonderful-isn't-he? kind of stuff. That was easy. I made sure not to look at the casket. The last two mentioned Jennifer and her family's suffering. That was not so easy. I made a fist and dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand. I do this when I need to distract myself so that I don't crack when I am saying something important. Focusing on physical pain is a lot easier.

After the service, I shared a hug with her brother, who is also a friend of mine. He said, "I don't know how you did it." I didn't tell him how, but I'll tell you. I was pissed. That's how.

After I am done writing this entry, I need to return to Google and learn what stage of grief, "Anger," is. I think there are seven altogether, right? Well, that is where I am now. I was sitting in that church, and listening to the speakers before me, and having to, as a part of the ceremony, repeat things back to them such as, "The Lord is kind and merciful." Those very words were coming out of my mouth, "The Lord is kind and merciful," but in my head, the words were, "Are you f*cking kidding me?"

I mean, what Lord are we talking about here? I know, I know, this is so cliche, being "angry at God" when someone dies, blahblahblah. But really. I would really like to know how many of the people sitting in those pews honestly believed what they were hearing, and saying. It was all I could do to not stand up and scream, "My friend is up there IN A BOX. She is THIRTY-NINE and one of the kindest people I have EVER known. WHAT THE HELL are we all talking about?" 

The funniest part about it is that just yesterday, I was thinking I might go to church this Sunday. I can't remember the last time I was in church just because I wanted to be. Actually, maybe I can now that I think about it. I believe it was September 12, 2001.

I do not consider myself to be a religious person, but I respect the beliefs of others. I do in fact, due to my own experiences, believe that there is something more to life (as in, afterlife) than only what science has proven to this point. But beyond that vague belief of my own... I don't know. I certainly don't claim to know what, exactly, happens to us after we die. And I find it confusing when other people seem so very sure of themselves that they do know.

Once in awhile, though, I have a peculiar craving to go to church. I do not think this is God calling to me, I do not even think it is all that spiritual in nature, this strange yen. It is a control thing. When I get very stressed out, when I am at my personal worst, sometimes this desire sneaks up on me, and I go to mass. Because at mass, I know exactly what is going to happen. Now you stand. Now you sit. Now you kneel. Now you shake the hand of the person standing next to you. Now you form a line and get a snack. It is ritualistic. It has a rhythym, it is predictable. It is reassuring when the world, or a few of its skyscrapers, is/are falling down around your ears.

I do understand that part of it, the appeal of organized religion as something tangible in its routine, but attainable to every person. What trips me up is, say, the intolerance, violence, and hypocrisy of organized religion. I sometimes wonder how the equasion would suss out if it were possible to weigh the good things done in the Lord's name against the bad things done in his name. To use my brother's favorite line, "I ain't sayin' nothin', I'm just sayin'."

I do understand that sometimes, believing in something bigger than yourself, something that you can't prove but that no one can disprove to you, either, sometimes that is the only thing that is going to get you through. If you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. I mean, a shiny new car or great sex or a nice juicy steak can certainly perk up your day, but it is not going to get you through a civil war or a hurricane or burying your youngest child.

The part about religion that I don't understand is why God gets all the credit for the good things that happen and none of the blame for the bad things. Sitting a few rows behind my friend's family, witnessing their excruciating pain, I couldn't help but think to myself,

why would Jesus do that?

 

Hey there. I know, I know...bad blogger!!! Sorry, this summer has just kind of gotten away from me. Aside from work being busy, there have been birthday parties, baseball games, babysitting my little cousins, company from out of town, a side trip to the Poconos, concerts, theater, and planning for my next big trip in August to Paris and Budapestand smaller trips to the Eastern Shore and Outer Banks. So, I have little time to write, which I miss doing. But I am not complaining. 

Today was gorgeous, a day to remind me of what summer is all about. I have friends who hate to be cold, ever, like my friends in San Fran who brag to me that every day there is exactly the same  (beautiful), or my brother who like to call me from his cell phone on New Year's day while he walking on the beach near his apartment in Florida. This does not make me jealous in the least.  I love  the seasons. LOVE them. All of them. They each have such a distinctive feel to them, and no matter how many years (um, decades?) I am removed from my elementary and high school days, the summarization of summer can be boiled down to one word: FREEDOM.

Summer is driving around with the windows all the way down and the stereo all the way up. Ducking into a matinee on a whim to sit in the dark and escape the heat for a little while. Dropping in on a friend at work and kidnapping her for sushi dinner. Taking the dogs for an extra long walk...actually, the walk is the same distance, it just takes extra long because all the neighbors are outside and everyone wants to chat. These activities pretty much describe my day today. Fantastic. I "accomplished" absolutely nothing.

Freedom ain't free, as the catchphrase goes, but in Baltimore, there are a lot of options that are...free outdoor movies, free outdoor concerts, free museums...hell, hang around Camden Yards and you're likely to have someone press a free ticket to the baseball game into your hand ( if only to save themselves from the heartbreak of watching the game). Oh, and show me an ethnic group, and I'll show you a festival - and everyone is invited.

I hope you are each enjoying your summer enough that no one is even reading this entry. Shouldn't you be flipping a burger or washing your car or something? What the hell are you doing on the computer?  Turn this thing off and go do something equally nonproductive but ultimately far more rewarding. Go on, now. GO.

 

 

 

I can't believe it has been over a month since I've posted anything. This spring has been completely INSANE, though in good ways. Perhaps I am having a mid-life crisis of sorts. So many things seem to be changing.

For example, I hardly ever watch Law & Order anymore. I don't watch much television anyway, but a guilty pleasure is this strange crush I have on Jack McCoy.  It is not so much Sam Waterston, who plays McCoy, but the character McCoy that I am attracted to. I know, I know, he is almost old enough to be my father and he has those big, bushy, muppet eyebrows, and most of the time he is a pain in the ass and sometimes he is a flat-out jerk. It is not his looks so much, or what he has to say or even how he says it. It is what is behind what he says - PASSION.

Even when he is wrong, I can't hold it against him. He thinks he is right, he thinks he is doing things for the right reasons, he is always trying to set things right, by any means necessary.

"If I told you you make a passionate argument, would you hold it against me?"

The brilliant thing about the writing on that show is how much they hold back. So that when you catch a small glimpse of how human the characters are, when we are allowed to see the chinks in their armor, it is a delicious secret. My favorite moments watching Jack are at the end of a show where he turns out to be wrong, or to have bent the rules a little too far, and someone dares to point this out to him. The look on his face, and sometimes even the words from his mouth, are simply, "...And??" So I was wrong, I did what I thought was right. Sometimes I can see that he is sorry, that he feels badly, that he wants to apologize, that he is dying to apologize. But he can't. He doesn't own the necessary vocabulary.

My newest guilty pleasure is watching old episodes of, "Northern Exposure," on DVD. Remember that show? The sexual tension between Joel and Maggie is practically edible. It is interesting to watch the episodes in order. You can tell when the writers would think, "Okay, we have to lay off this for a little bit and give the other characters some face time." I'll sit through those shows, but I am just waiting for them to get back on point. Give me heated debates between people that obviously want to see each other naked but never do, that's what I say. That's good television.

I think I am finally learning that it is sexier to be disagreeable. Years ago my brother dated this hot-blooded Puerto Rican woman who would fly into a Spanish-spewing rage every now and then. "She's crazy. You know this," I told him once. He smiled to himself satisfactorily. "Yea..." he said. "But it's never boring."

I don't mind debating, and playing devil's advocate is my forte (it's a Gemini thing), but arguing for the sake of arguing seems to me a waste of time. Perhaps I should re-think that, though. If I picked up the habit, I could try out this new line I just thought of,

"If I told you you make a strong point..." 

 

 

Life just seems to be getting away from me these days. But that has been going on for so long that it is probably time that I accept that as the norm, and stop waiting for the day when it all slows down. Today, for example, I am working from 7:00am to noon, somewhere in there I have to do a week's worth of studying French, then duck out for my French lesson, coming back to work until 3:00pm or so, then I SHOULD attack my kitchen, currently a disaster area, but, we'll see. I probably should send a few nasty memos to my maintenance department, but I don't have the energy to be all that nasty today. Monday is a better day for nasty memos. Laundry. I have to do some laundry. I am down to the uncomfortable underwear. Oh, yes, and I do have dinner plans tonight, don't I? I'm surprised I have any friends left at all, I don't seem to be spending much time with them these days.

But Tuesday I took a little break. Sort of. Well, it was a break from the usual, anyway. My young cousins, ages 6 and 8, are off all week for Spring Break. Being a bit young to head to Daytona, their parents had to figure out what to do with them, so a series of relatives and friends were called in for one-day tours of duty. I got Tuesday.

Joey (8) and Sean (6) are the youngest of my generation in my family, I am the oldest. Since I am more than old enough to be their mother, people usually assume that I am exactly that when I am out with them. The last several years I have taken them to a baseball game on Mother's Day, to give their mom a break for a few hours, and so she can go and visit her own mother. "She (meaning me) likes it because she gets the free hat," Joey said the other day. It's funny the things kids remember. I forgot about that. Just the other day I was gathering baseball caps scattered around my apartment and throwing them in a closet (as I MIGHT wear a baseball cap five days out of the year), and I was wondering how I ended up with not one but TWO pink Orioles' baseball caps.

I can honestly say that in my decades of babysitting experience, Joseph and Sean are the best-behaved children I have ever watched. That is an unbiased opinion, despite being related to them. When my cousin Christopher was the same age, I would be the first person to tell you that he was the Spawn of the Devil. Really. He was the only four-year-old to ever make me cry. Joey and Sean are a BREEZE.

And they are also HYSTERICAL. I was sitting in the kitchen at their house on Easter Sunday, trying to have a conversation with their mother. The boys hadn't seen me for awhile, so, as boys do in order to show their affection, they also sat at the kitchen table with us, making various noises for no reason at all, squirming in their seats, and ocassionally opening the fridge to see if anything new had appeared since they checked it three minutes ago. Finally my aunt Irene couldn't take it any more and said, "I wish you boys would calm down!" Joseph (and remember, he is EIGHT), with perfect dead-pan delivery, said, "What is this, 'calm' of which you speak?"

Sean is not only funny, but an accomplished liar. The boy can lie at the drop of a hat, right to your face, and he will stick to his story no matter what. He came home from school one time and was assigned to write, "I will respect Ms. Smith and her belongings," ten times. When his father asked him what he did  wrong to receive this punishment, Sean swore up, down, and sideways that his teacher made the whole class write this because a few bad apples were misbehaving. Sean told his dad that everyone else had to write it 20 times, but he only had to write it 10 times. He stuck to that story relentlessly, until his dad was about to call Ms. Smith and gave Sean one more chance to come clean. Still, a pretty impressive and complicated lie for a kid who was barely six years old at the time.

So on Tuesday, their mom dropped them off around 8:00am. I let them play a game of pool, then we made a quick visit to my neighbors just to say hello, then we were at Fort McHenry by 9:30am. If you get to the Fort before 10:00am, you can walk around before they start charging admission, and before the busloads of tourist begin overrunning the place. It was a crisp, dewy morning, and a nice walk along the water. The boys enjoyed walking along the ramparts of the Fort and examining the cannons and gunpowder magazines. We were inside the Fort when the guy came to change the flag. A handful of tourists walked in with their stickers on their lapels that showed that they had paid admission. I thought we might get kicked out, but the park ranger asked the boys to help him change the flag. So Joey and Sean held the corners of the small flag that came down while the ranger and another tourist gentleman folded it, then they helped to make sure that the gigantic flag that flies over the Fort in good weather did not touch the ground as the two men pulled it out of the bag they store it in overnight. The boys thought that was a pretty big deal.

Afterwards we headed to the mall, got some lunch and saw a movie ("The Last Mimzy," - NetFlix it if you must). Then we wandered around the Bass Pro Shop, watched a guy try to climb the rock wall, checked out the waterfall, and took a picture on my camera phone of the boys holding up a pillow that looked like a swordfish as if they had just caught it themselves. Though we were busy all day, it is not like we were running a marathon or anything. I think it was the BAJILLION questions that Sean asked that really wore me out. "Where are we going?" "Where are we going now?" "Why?" "Why?" "Why is there a bathroom there?" "Why is that guy wearing that hat?" "Is this candy?" "Why are you buying those sunglasses?" "What does this thing do?" "Why is your car red?" "Why are there cushions on your seats?"  OH. MY. GOD.  Finally, I told Joseph he was in charge of the questions. In the car, with both boys in the back seat, Sean asked for the third time where we were going. As I had already answered this question twice in the same leg of the journey, I did not answer him. He asked again. The next thing I heard him say was, "Ow!" There was a moment of silence while Joey waited for me to yell at him for hitting his brother. I didn't. Joseph said to Sean, "That's for asking dumb questions."

When I got home, I ran into my neighbors, who are expecting their first child in July. "Good luck with that," I said, referring to her belly. I adore my cousins, and I always have fun with them. But as for having my own...thanks, I'm good. For now anyway.

 

It has been almost four years since my father died. It has been three years ago today that I finally began to grieve.

Don't worry, this isn't going to be too horribly depressing. At least I hope not. It is the most beautiful day of the year in Baltimore to date, and I don't want to spend it sad. But this is a special day. It would have been my father's 60th birthday, and I want to remember him for a moment, and share that with you. If you ever met him, I know you liked him, and if you didn't have the opportunity, I wish that you had.

When Daddy died on August 9, 2003, after an excruciating battle with pancreatic cancer, perhaps it was a relief not to see him in pain every day. I was fortunate enough to spend the last month of his life with him, and though I don't regret a moment of that, it was very difficult. So when he finally passed, I was just...numb. I returned to Baltimore and everything was just as I had left it. Since my Dad lived in Florida, and he therefore wasn't a part of my daily life, my life didn't feel like it had changed much. I felt guilty for not feeling horrible. It just seemed to be too easy. It didn't make sense.

Then, nearly 8 months later, came April 3rd. What would have been Daddy's 57th birthday. My parents divorced when I was 13 years old, but remained the best of friends until the day my Dad died. Every year on April third, I would get the same call from my mother without fail. "You know it's your Dad's birthday today." But this time, of course, the phone didn't ring. This was a very long day of deafening silence. That is when it finally became real to me. That is when I realized I would never, ever, get that phone call again. By Father's Day, I was a basket case.

Losing a parent is something you cannot understand until it happens to you. I have more than one friend who at this very moment are dealing with parents with terminal illnesses. I feel rather helpless, knowing what they are about to go through and that there is not much I can do to help. All I can do is be there, to be a friend. That is all any of us can do, really. It never feels like enough.

Anyway...I want to tell you one of my favorite memories of my Dad. I have many. Some of my very earliest memories are of my father, sitting on his lap in the rocking chair in my parents' bedroom, in front of the 13 inch black & white TV, watching the Pittsburgh Steelers trounce someone, or Muhammed Ali doing the same, or John Wayne movies very late at night while he tried to get me to go to sleep. This was a tradition that started at the very beginning of my life. The rocking chair was a gift to my mother from her parents, when I was born. It belongs to me now. When I was an infant, my Dad worked a late shift, and when he came home he would give me my three a.m. feeding in that rocking chair, watching whatever classic was the late-late movie. My mother says this is why I have such a penchant for Cary Grant and the like. Perhaps it is why my Dad always reminded me of Clark Gable. But that isn't even the memory I want to tell you about.

In 1999, I took my first overseas trip to London, Scotland, and Paris. The travel bug bit me hard, and decided to spend every dime I had traveling my ass off in 2000. I booked trips to Spain, London, Paris, and Scotland, with future plans to see Ireland, Germany, and Italy. My Dad was very excited for me, and mused that he had always wanted to go white-water rafting on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. He asked me if I might be interested in doing that with him. I had never been white-water rafting, and my Dad hadn't gone since I was a kid. I remember when he did, I thought that was the coolest thing in the world. My Dad was always larger than life to me.

I said I'd look into it. I found a great company, figured out how much it would cost, and called Dad. All told it was going to be almost $2000 each, not including airfare or hotel in Vegas the night before and night after the 8 days on the river. There was a $500 non-refundable deposit per person. Dad hemmed and hawed. That is a lot of money. He said he'd think about it.

Well, I thought about it and decided we were doing it. Period. Dad called me a few days later. "All right," he said. "What the hell." That's good, I told him, "Because I sent the deposit in three days ago." He laughed. "What if I decided not to go?" he asked. "Yeah, no, that wasn't going to be an option," I replied.

We had ten months to daydream about the trip. I envisioned us sitting around a campfire in the evening, bonding with some serious, deep, heart-to-heart, father-daughter talks. We never had those kind of talks. Not really. But we were very close regardless.

We never did have those talks on the trip. And I learned that you are not allowed to make campfires in the Grand Canyon. But Daddy and I made friends with some people on the trip (the ones who brought cases and cases of beer). There were about 28 people in the group, on two big rafts, and after getting tossed around on the river all day we would make camp in some mind-bogglingly picturesque spot. After dinner we would sit in a circle and talk, all of us, and toss the empty beer cans into the center and call it our, "campfire". We referred to our evening gatherings as, "The South Rim Tavern." It was a blast.

One morning, our guides told us to suit up in whatever raingear we had, as we were going to hit some rough rapids early. This would have been fine in the afternoon because by then it was so hot that you welcomed any relief the icy cold river could give you, but this morning the air still had a chill, and there were threatening clouds in the distance as well.

Dad's raingear was a bright yellow slicker and matching floppy hat. We were all ready to go, all our gear locked up, including cameras, in our waterproof ammo cans. I laughed at Dad and told him he looked like the Gorton's Fisherman. I had claimed my spot on the raft, as most of us already had. Dad had just stepped onto the boat when a hummingbird, which are plentiful in the Canyon, started hovering around his head. It had been attracted to his bright yellow slicker, which stood out like a sore thumb among the earthy tones along the riverbanks. The bird poked at him, thinking he was a gigantic flower. Then there was another one. And another. And another. And another!!! "Hold still, Dave!" someone shouted at him, while five frustrated hummingbirds tried to figure out why they couldn't find a drop of nectar when they thought they had just hit the jackpot. The poked at his hat and his armpits relentlessly. "I hope someone is taking a picture of this!" my Dad said, but all the cameras were locked up so they wouldn't get damaged in the waters that were about to douse us. It is a shame, really. But that image could not be burned onto film in more vivid color than it is burned into my memory. It was an amazing moment for so any reasons.

There were a lot of moments on that trip, a lot of my favorite memories of my father from those eight days and nights under the stars. I'll probably tell you more of them someday. Maybe on Father's Day. But I'll leave you with that one for now.

Since that time, I have continued to spend nearly all of my disposable income on travel. Some people think I am crazy not to sock more away, or to buy a nicer car, or real estate, or whatever. But all those sorts of things are exactly the things that can be taken away from you, those are the sorts of things you can lose. When you have traveled, no one can take that away from you for as long as you live. No one can take those memories away from you, and they are memories that, no matter how well you tell the story, you only really share with the people that were along with you. My Dad bragged about that trip to anyone who would listen for the rest of his short life. I miss him terribly. But no one can ever take him away from me completely, because of those times that we shared.

The problem with parents, particularly the good ones, is not that we all expect to outlive our parents. It is that we just never expect them to die.