The Three Strangers

It was a gloomy Spring day, and the sky was overcast with threatening clouds.  Class had just let out when the rain came.  Students scattered about trying desperately to find shelter from the unexpected downpour.  Some walked, refusing to run, splashing rebelliously through the quickly-forming puddles.

I soon found myself huddled with two strangers under a make-shift bus stop.  I am not sure what the structure was before, but it greatly resembled a gazebo.  Here we stood, three strangers, with nothing in common but this moment in time.  We all exchanged relieved glances, laughing slightly at the absurdity of the situation and at thankfully finding shelter from this storm burst.

The rain fell rhythmically outside, spattering its soothing music on the resilient concrete.  The lush green trees outside the windows of the structure dripped softly with their new-found wealth.  and ivy that had snaked up the walls and onto the roof, swayed gently in the slight breeze, creating dark-green rivers that cascaded down the sides of our bus stop.  Some of the wooden shingles on the roof were twisted and torn in places, leaving gaping holes, through which rain drops fell unhindered.

Finally, one of the strangers decided to brave the elements.  Steering his bicycle through the surrounding foliage, he trekked off as rain pelted his bearded face.  As if to be a signal to the rest of us, the stranger got soaked - punishment for daring to stand against the storm.  I waited a bit longer, letting the rain quell some of its fury,  before I decided to venture in to the sea of floating fingers.  As I walked away, I looked back at the lone stranger standing in our bus stop, and smiled to think about three strangers with nothing in common but that moment in time.

The Music of Creation

In 1998, the movie City of Angels was released, starring Nicolas Cage and Meg Ryan.  My pastor went to watch the movie, and he was moved by this one scene where the angels gather at the seashore every morning to welcome in the new day.  He said that they were hearing the music of the day being created.  My pastor's sermon was the inspiration for the following poem.

Can you hear the music of creation, singing praises to the One?
Are your ears tuned in to hear it with the cycles of the sun?

Nature's children play this symphony and bring its songs to life.
They play for the Conductor, the music is His life.

So, bring that thunder crackling, the pattering rain in tune.
Bring in the chirping bird, the wolf howling at the moon.

Bring that wind ablowing, through organ pipes unseen.
Bring those flowers swishing, in their dresses made of green.

Bring those stars atwinkling as they shoot across the sky.
And bring that sun ashining as it takes its place up high.

We are the last to join this band, our life is our instrument.
We mus play it to the fullest, this time that we are lent.

Can you hear the music of creation, singing praises to the One?
Are your ears tuned in to hear it with the cycles of the sun?

The Day the Sun Went Out

Back in high school, my friends CC, DR, and I went to a little league baseball field near our house to hit balls and play catch.  On this particular day, there were several families around the field spending the day enjoying the sun.  I was playing in the outfield to catch the balls, and the first hit from CC's bat went bouncing into left field, narrowly missing a family having a picnic.  They had a young daughter and a small baby on the blanket with them.  I instantly had a bad feeling about this, but I didn't say anything, and CC kept hitting.

The next ball missed my outstretched glove, bounced once, and hit the baby square in the back of the head.  The father picked him up and rushed him to the hospital.  Ultimately, the baby checked out okay, but the wait between that moment and the phone call confirming the outcome inspired the following poem.

The sun's out, but it's still a black day.
As we all sat there in silence,
No one wanted to be him, not even him.
We don't even think of the consequences;
We just relive the event in slow motion.
It's thing like these that can make a child out of a man;
That can make you cry; that can make you scared.
Only this time there's no one there to protect you,
No one there to lean on.
We are helpless; all we can do is wait.
Soon the verdict will come,
The wait is the true torture.
The game ends never to be played again
Because no one feels like playing anymore.

The Beginning of the Walking Poet

It occurred to me today that it might not be obvious where my screen name comes from.  When I was in college, and even in the years after I graduated, my main source of entertainment was walking.  I rarely drove my car, preferring to use my legs instead.  I walked to school in the morning, I walked around campus, I walked home, and I usually would go out after dark and walk again.  It was on these walks that I felt closest to God.  The more I let myself, the more I noticed about the beauty of the world that He had created.  The things that most people would miss because they were too wrapped up in themselves or in the worries and cares of life.

After I noticed things, I wanted a way to remember them or share them, so I decided to start writing them down.  At first it was on receipts, napkins, or any scrap of paper I could find in my pocket.  Later it evolved into a formal journal and finally my phone.  But at the time, my mind was wired differently.  I seemed to only be able to think and write in poetic verse.  It didn’t always rhyme, but it always had to have a flow…a beat count, if you will.

Some time had passed before I started to type up the poems from the scraps in my pockets, and I had so many that I printed them and fashioned them into a small book.  I had been inspired by a small book of poetry called Meet Me Halfway by Javan in which the author has small, short poems…quips almost…to express a moment or a feeling.  So, that’s what I set out to do as well.  The first book I called The Shadow and the Light, because I felt like there were two sides to me that I showed the world.  The one that everyone sees, and the one I keep hidden, only for myself.  I felt like I was finally ready to start sharing that other side as well.

As I continued to write, other books of poetry followed.  The second was The Window to the Soul, because I felt like my writing was starting to reveal more than just observations about the world, but was starting to reveal pieces of me as well.  I was starting to develop my identity and become who God wanted me to be.  The third was Sunsets and Solitude, which was more an ode to spending time with God, enjoying His presence in my life and enjoying exploring the gift He had given me.  This was quickly followed by Blowing Baby Kisses, which held a special place in my heart due to its double meaning.  It meant blowing small kisses, which I frequently did to my wife, and blowing kisses to my baby at the same time.  I compiled this around the time that my wife and I got pregnant.  Unfortunately, we would lose the baby, but the book remained one of my favorites.  The final book was Dreaming of Athens, which was inspired by the first few trips I had taken to my wife’s country of birth.

I eventually matured away from poetry into a blog (obviously), short stories, and long stories.  I believe the ultimate step in my journey will be to write a novel.  One of my dreams is to one day see a book in a bookstore with my name printed on the spine.  But no matter where my life leads me, I will always remember my roots…walking and writing poetry with God.

So the next week will be dedicated to that beginning, as I remember some of my earlier writings.

The Terrorist and the Beagle

When I got married almost fourteen years ago, I married my wife three times in two weeks (long story).  She being Greek, one of our weddings was in Athens, so that all of her friends and family could attend.  My wife flew over early to help her mother finalize the details, and I followed later with my mother.

The wedding itself was a whirlwind.  We flew in on a Friday, I got married on a Sunday, and we flew out on a Monday.  I had just started a new job, so that was all the time off I could manage.  My wife insisted that I take an extra suitcase full of our wedding haul back with me.  I didn’t feel comfortable carrying all of those valuables back, and I surely didn’t feel comfortable declaring them all.  When my mother and I arrived back in Houston, our baggage took a long time to come out on the conveyor belt.  We were standing off to the side waiting, when I dropped my backpack and told my mother to wait there, so I could go get the suitcases and drag them over.

I was in the process of wrestling the first big black monster off the conveyor belt, when I heard a ruckus going on behind me.  I turned to the side and my mother was standing next to me, waiting to the take the first suitcase, so I could grab the next.  I handed it to her and reached for the next.  The commotion started getting louder and louder as an entire security team cordoned off an area and were telling passengers to please move back.  Not thinking anything of it, I grabbed the other three suitcases and prepared to go through customs. 

I suddenly stopped and asked my mother where my backpack was.  She said that she hadn’t seen it.  Groaning, I headed back to where we had been standing and realized that the security team was circling the area around where my backpack was.  I pushed my way through the crowd to speak to one of the officers.  He told me to stand back because they had a potential threat situation.  I looked over and saw a beagle standing on top of my backpack barking and clawing at the front. 

I indicated to the officer that that was my backpack and suddenly I had his full attention!  I didn’t want his dark eyes staring at me with menace and scrutiny, so I quickly explained that I had left it to go grab my suitcases.  He told me in a not-very-nice-voice that it was against the rules to leave a bag unattended for any reason.  I assured him that I had left it with my mother, but she had forgotten it when she came to help me.  He still didn’t want me to go near the bag, since the dog was obviously not happy with something inside it.  So, he started to interrogate me in the middle of the airport.  I assured him that there was nothing in the bag but a change of clothes and some candy, but he seemed skeptical.  I offered to show him, and he reluctantly agreed, cautioning me to move slowly.  I unzipped the bag and pulled out a large package of strawberry Twizzlers.  The moment that beagle got a whiff of the candy, he went nuts.  I looked at the officer and said, “Maybe he’s just hungry.”  He grunted, motioned, and all of the security guards dispersed in different directions.

That fiasco over, we grabbed our bags and headed to customs.  My mother went first, got a nice smile and some friendly banter from the TSA agent, and headed on through the checkpoint.  I was not so lucky.  The smile instantly disappeared when he looked at my passport.  He looked me up and down like I was some kind of terrorist.  I admit that I looked pretty worse for wear, being up for 38 straight hours will do that to you, and I had some beard stubble darkening my cheeks.  But I don’t think it was THAT bad.  And that’s when I was interrogated for the second time in the middle of the airport.  It went something like this:

TSA Agent:  Where are you coming from?

Me:  Greece.

TSA Agent:  How long were you there?

Me:  Four days.

TSA Agent:  Why were you there?

Me:  I was getting married.

TSA Agent:  That’s a pretty short timeframe to get married.

Me:  That was all the time I could get off work.

TSA Agent:  Where’s your wife?

Me:  She stayed behind to wrap things up.

TSA Agent:  And she let you come ahead by yourself?

Me:  It surprised me too.

TSA Agent:  So, why do you have two suitcases for such a short trip?

Me:  Have you ever been to a wedding in Greece?

TSA Agent:  No.  Why?

Me:  Because I had three different outfits just for the wedding, not to mention running around clothes, sitting around clothes, and flying clothes.

TSA Agent:  I see.  Did you get any money for your wedding?

Me:  Yes, sir.

TSA Agent:  Well, you didn’t declare any cash.

Me:  That’s correct, sir.

TSA Agent:  Why not?

Me:  Because I don’t have any cash.

TSA Agent:  But you just said that you got cash for your wedding.

Me:  That’s correct, sir.

TSA Agent:  So, how did you get cash, but don’t have it now to declare?

Me:  Because my wife wouldn’t let me handle it.

TSA Agent:  I see.  Well, welcome back to the United States and congratulations.

IOHIM

On my way to work yesterday, I saw a Jeep with a personalized license plate.  The picture on the plate was three black crosses on the left side.  To the right it simply said, “IOHIM”.  I have never seen something so apt or moving on a license plate.  I’m usually not a fan of personalized license plates, but I do believe that this was the first time that I was fully in support of the luxury.

Getonouttahere

When I was growing up, my grandparents had two miniature French poodles.  As a joke, my grandmother named them Pierre and Rene.  They were small, white, and sneaky.  I learned this first hand when Pierre snatched a hotdog out of my hand while I was holding it! 

My grandparent’s back yard had a covered patio just off the back door.  They had a sliding door that looked out on the patio.  The dogs were outside dogs, but they were not allowed on the patio.  They knew this, but when they thought nobody was looking, they’d come up and watch us through the sliding door.  My grandfather had some sort of sixth sense, some sort of dog-on-patio detector, and the moment they’d peep their black eyes through the door, he’d go running across the house, jerk the door open, and scream, “Getonouttahere!” 

The first couple of times this happened, the dogs just stood there looking at him with their heads cocked to one side, trying to figure out what that even meant.  I have to admit that we all had the same look on our faces.  After he would swat at them, they learned that whatever he had said did not bode well for them.  I’m not sure if they ever really understood him.  It took me years to figure it out too.

Falling for a Pretty Face

When I was fourteen years old, my friend SW and I went through a skating phase.  Actually, at the time, most of America was going through a skating phase.  Everyone had inline skates and was rollerblading everywhere.  SW and I were not extreme skaters.  We weren’t skating in abandoned swimming pools or sliding down rails, but we did like to pull off the odd trick, like jumping trash cans at the high school or skating under the parked cargo box in the parking lot of our school (for which I was rewarded by ripping my back open by not skating low enough under it).

But growing up in Houston meant that some days during the summer were just too hot and humid to be outside skating.  On those days when the temperature reached triple digits and felt 10 degrees hotter than it actually was, we would go to the ice skating rink instead.

It was on one of these occasions that I found myself gliding across the ice like a newborn foal; knees wobbling, ankles bending at impossible angles, feet struggling to stay on the edge of the edge of the blades of my skates.  I had almost mastered the art of traveling around the rink without having to desperately clutch at the wall.  What I hadn’t mastered was how to stop.  I would get going at full steam, the top half of my body bending in the opposite direction from the bottom half, arms flailing in all direction to try to keep me upright, and then wham!  I’d slam full speed into the wall and fly over the top of it into the stands.  Not to be deterred, I’d climb back onto the ice and go at it again.

While this exhibit of how not to skate was going on around the perimeter, there was a beautiful young girl skating like an ice princess in the middle of the rink.  She was adorned in a light blue leotard with sparkles around the neckline that looked like ice bursting down her torso.  She skated with a grace and elegance that belied her age.  I stood with SW along the wall transfixed by her.  I had never seen anything so beautiful.  And as she spun and leaped across the ice, we headed off to join the less elegant and graceful assortment of skaters doing their best to meander around the outside wall.

I was doing pretty well, having fallen enough to lose feeling in my backside, and I was getting a little cocky.  Everyone knows that the moment you get cocky, that’s when it will all fall apart, and that’s exactly what it did.  I hooked my toe pick on the ice, keeled forward, and face planted into the ice.  As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, I fell right in front of another skater, knocking her feet out from under her and sending her landing down right on top of me with an oof!  As I rolled over to see if she was okay, I looked directly into the deep brown eyes of the skater from the center ice.

She smiled a brilliant smile down at me and asked if I was okay.  I stammered out something unintelligible, and she laughed.  Then she said something I will never forget.  “If you wanted to meet me so badly, there were easier ways to do it.”  I blushed.  I turned white.  I blushed again.  She laughed again.  God, I loved her laugh.  “I guess you want me to get off you now.”  I’m not sure exactly what I said, something like “If you want to,” but I know what I was thinking at that moment…”Stay as long as you like.”

We did eventually untangle our limbs from each other.  She was even kind enough to help me back up again and then held onto me until I got my balance.  When she was confident that I was going to stay mostly upright, she gave me one more smile and then skated away toward the exit.  I rejoined SW to tell him about my encounter, but I was only three words into the story when I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I turned and there was skater girl again.  She handed me a piece of paper, smiled, and skated off again.  I opened it to find her phone number and name written in perfect cursive inside.  It wasn’t the easiest way that I have ever met a girl, but it definitely left an impression on me.

Chance

Just after I got engaged, I moved back to Houston.  My fiancée stayed in College Station to continue with her genetic research, but there was no work for me there.  I thought I could move back to the big city, find a high-paying job, and set up our future.  Things didn’t really work out like I planned, but that’s for another story.

I would make the hour and a half drive up to College Station every Friday evening after work to spend the weekends with my fiancée before heading back to Houston on Monday morning.  On one of these weekends, my fiancée and I went for a drive in the country.  If you’ve ever been to College Station, you know that there is a lot of rural countryside to drive through around the city.  It was a warm, sunny day, and we were enjoying the drive in my brand new 2003 S10 pickup truck.  We had our windows down, letting the smell of wildflowers waft through the cab of the truck, and we were chatting about something or another.

Suddenly, we saw something dart out in front of the car in front of us.  He didn’t even try to stop, and whatever had run in front of him bounced off the right side of his bumper and went flying off the road.  He kept on driving, but we stopped to see what it was.  We discovered it, lying in the tall grass in the ditch.  It was a dog, or as we were to find out later, a puppy…just two years old.  He was brown, and white, and black with big floppy ears and long lean legs.  If I were to guess, I’d say he was an American Foxhound.

At first, we thought he was dead, his motionless carcass lying there covered in blood, but then he lifted his head just the slightest.  I slowly approached him, not sure how he’d react to my presence, looking over his wounds as I circled him.  He looked bad.  Blood was everywhere, and he was making no attempt to actually stand up or move other than his head.  I knelt down by his head, talking to him in a soothing voice, and I reached out my hand to gently stroke his neck.  He just stared at me with his chocolate-colored eyes.  I didn’t know how badly he was hurt, but I did know that if we didn’t get him to a hospital soon, that he would die. 

So, with my fiancée’s help, I managed to slide my arms under him as gently as possible and pick him up.  His long legs were hanging limply beneath him as I carried him to the truck.  I didn’t want to put him inside, because of the blood, but I also didn’t want to just throw him into the back of the truck.  Somehow, I managed to hike my backend up on the tailgate and scoot back, while still holding him in my arms.  I slide back, so my fiancée could shut the tailgate, and then I laid him gentle in my lap.  He never fussed or attempted to move.  He just laid there with his head resting on my leg.

With my fiancée behind the wheel, we began the 20 min drive back to the city.  I kept stroking his head, telling him that he was going to make it, hoping that my voice could soothe him and ease the pain I know he must have been feeling.  At some point during the drive back, he lifted his head to look at me, and our eyes locked.  Something passed between us…it was strange.  It was like he was talking to me with his eyes, and I could understand exactly what he was saying.  He said, “I don’t know you, but I know you’re a kind soul.  I trust you to take care of me.  Thank you for pulling over.”  I kid you not, it was as if someone had said those words out loud.  I knew somehow that that was what he was saying to me.

He held my gaze for a minute longer, and then satisfied that I had understood him, he placed his head back on my leg.  I kept stroking his head, and I said, “God sent me to find you.  He’s going to make you better.  He’s going to give you a second chance.  I know you’re hurting, but just hang on a little longer.”

After what seemed like an eternity, we finally pulled into the small animal hospital attached to the university.  I gently picked him up again, scooted to the back of the truck, and dropped down.  My fiancée was already at the door, talking to the nurse inside, when I carried him in.  They directed me to an exam room, where I placed him on the table, and a doctor immediately went to work examining him.

We stepped outside to give the nurse some details about the accident and what we knew of his condition.  She said that it would probably take an hour or so to run all of the tests, and we gave her our number and asked to be notified when they had the results.  On our way out of the door, I remembered what I had said to him in the truck, and I turned back to the nurse.  I said, “I don’t want him to just be called ‘dog’ or something generic like that.  I called him ‘Chance’ because God gave him a second chance.”  She smiled at me, and said, “I understand.  I’ll note that in his file.”

Chance was indeed a lucky dog.  He had a broken hip, but would make a full recover with time.  The nurse told us that we could adopt him, if we wanted, but it would take a lot of money and time to rehabilitate him.  As much as I wanted to, I knew that we weren’t in a position to give him the home that he deserved.  They sponsored him in the Good Samaritan program, so that all of his bills would be paid by donations.  When he had fully recovered, they’d put him up for adoption and find him a good home.

I know that I had only spent about a half an hour with the little guy, but I had already fallen in love with him.  We had an incomprehensible connection.  Something happened in the back of that truck, that I still can’t explain to this day.  We bonded.  Even after we decided to give him up, I was still agonizing over the decision.  The next day, my fiancée found me crying in the living room.  She didn’t ask, she didn’t have to.  She just wrapped her arms around me in a hug and let me cry.

It’s been 14 years, and I still think about Chance.  He’s probably moved on to Heaven by now.  I hope he had a good life.  I hope God put him with people that loved him.  I sometimes wonder if I made the right decision letting him go.  Our life was crazy, especially those first five or six years, so I believe I probably did.  But still…it would have been nice to lavish him with the love he deserved.

Me Too

On one side of my family, I have one aunt and two uncles.  Those three had a combined eight children.  Throw in my brother and I, and you’re talking about ten cousins.  Since our families all lived in different areas, we would all gather at my grandmother’s house for barbeques, swimming, and fun.

My grandmother thought it would be fun to give us all nicknames, little pet names that she could lovingly call us.  Some of them seemingly made no sense, like “Pah-see-la,” but that’s what struck her fancy.  Some of them, like mine, were based on something we said or did.

My nickname was “Me Too.”  To understand where that came from, you’d have to understand that I’m three years younger than my brother, and at the time, I was the youngest grandchild too.  I looked up to my brother.  He was so much older and wiser than me.  He had lived in this world, so he knew how to navigate those tough decisions, like what kind of ice cream to eat, or what soda someone should drink with barbecued chicken, or whether someone should like squash or not.  I decided early on to follow his lead, so every time my brother would ask my grandmother for something, I would say, “Me too.”  And the name stuck.

Silver Dollar Clarinets

When I was in sixth grade, I joined the band at my elementary school.  I had always wanted to play the saxophone, and that’s what I requested when it was my turn to pick an instrument.  But the teacher had other ideas (or maybe he just had it out for me), and he stuck me on the clarinet instead.  His rational was that if I could master the clarinet, then I’d easily pick up the saxophone, but nobody starts on the saxophone.  Which lasted all of 30 seconds until he got to the next guy in line.  That guy also picked the saxophone, and the teacher was actually delighted as he said, “Good choice!”  Needless to say, I really hated that teacher, an animosity that only grew with time, but that’s not what this story is about. 

Despite this somewhat un-ideal beginning to my music career, I embraced the clarinet.  I was determined to be the best clarinet player the world had ever seen.  So, I practiced constantly.  In fact, I was actually quite good.  It seemed to come naturally to me.  I won awards.  I played in the concert band.  I was a fiend on that wooden tube!

The coolest part of playing an instrument, though, was when my grandmother would come over to the house and request a recital.  I would get out my black and silver clarinet and play her the most complicated things I could manage.  At the end, she would always applaud, tell me what a great job I had done, and then hand me a silver dollar.  I’m not sure why silver dollars, but it was always the same routine.  I guess she would stop by the bank sometime during the week in anticipation of getting to hear me play.  I never really appreciated how supportive she was of me at the time; but to this day, I still have every one of those silver dollars.

Caboose

I was thinking this morning about my grandfather.  He died when I was very young, so I never really got to know him.  The only thing I really remember about him was that he was a clown in the Shriner’s Circus.  His costume was a policeman, like those old keystone cops, with a blue wig and white face paint.  His clown name was “Groovy”.

When my brother, two cousins, and myself were old enough (I had to have been about three at the time), my grandfather decided that we were ready to join the circus too.  So, he got us all outfits and wigs, and he gave us clown names.  I was “Caboose,” because I was always the slowest, and everyone had to wait for me to catch up.

I can even remember being at daycare, and the teacher taking me into the bathroom to help me get ready for my big debut.  I had a rainbow outfit, red wig, and a yellow hat.  I even had my face painted, just a dab on my nose and cheeks.  My grandfather took us with him in the parade at the beginning of the circus, each holding the hand of the one next to us.  I was last, of course, but that’s okay, because I was the only one that got to wave to the crowd as we walked around the arena.  But the absolute coolest part came afterward, when we went outside and signed autographs!  Everyone wanted us to sign their programs, and my grandfather couldn’t have been prouder of his little clowns.

Organic Paint

I don’t understand the point of fancy names for paint colors.  I mean you can’t just go to the store and get white paint anymore; instead it’s ochre, or cotton, or lily of the valley, or egg shell.  And there is almost no difference between them! 

But the one that really bothers me is egg shell.  Have you seen an egg shell?  There is no one color of egg.  Besides, my wife only buys brown eggs, so a shade of white doesn’t even apply.  And furthermore, I don’t think my wife would let me paint the walls egg shell unless I could confirm it was organic, because she will only buy organic eggs.  Cage free, hand fed, happy chicken eggs.  So, what would that paint color look like?

Me to Me

On a whim today, I decided to record myself singing, so I put on some headphones with music and used my phone to record a video.  I was kind of curious if I sounded to the rest of the world anything like I sound to myself.  Secretly, I was hoping I actually sounded better, which would be difficult, because I sound amazing to myself!  And today was no exception.  In fact, I was really on form today, belting out high notes and resonating with good pitch.  I think I could have actually been one of the tenors I was listening to.  When the song was finished, I played back the video.

All I can say is…I…am…so…sorry.  To anyone that has ever been forced to listen to me sing, I can never begin to make it up to you.  I swear that it sounded better in my head.  I definitely sing with a lot of enthusiasm and energy, but I suppose a dying cat also has those things.  My sincerest apologies, if you have ever had to listen to me think that I was actually getting it done. 

So, obviously my professional singing career is over before it ever began.  I guess I’ll start taking down all of my YouTube videos with the cover songs I had been singing, before someone actually listens to them.

Convincing Eve

I was wondering the other day that if I could go back in time to the very beginning and talk to Eve before she ate the apple, what would I say to her.  Obviously, I would want to convince her not to do it.  I would want her to see the spiral of consequences that would come out of that one, single act of disobedience.  But how could I do that?

I would be talking to someone with no frame of reference.  I would be using ideas and concepts that she didn’t even know.  Her absolute innocence would keep her from understanding evil or sin.  How can I stop something when the only weapon I have to use doesn’t exist yet?  Did the devil prey on this naiveté?  Would Eve have even known what disobedience was?  Would she have truly understood the concept of consequences?  I mean how can you truly understand something until you’ve experienced it?  She wouldn’t actually be able to understand unless she did the very thing I was trying to convince her not to do.

Sitting on My Face

When I was about eleven or so, my brother and I got into a fight.  Now, this was a pretty regular occurrence with my brother and I, so that’s not what made this day special.  What made this day special was that my brother beat me to the ground and sat on top of me.  It should be noted that my brother is three years older and was probably double my weight and size at the time.  Suddenly his face lit up in a vicious grin, and I knew instantly that whatever happened next would not go well for me.

Quick as lightning, he stood up, turned around, pulled down his pants, and sat on my face.  So, here he is pinning me to the ground, butt on my face, while I was struggling violently to get him off me, and he farts.  The violence of the flatulence was so bad, that I could actually feel my cheeks slapping against his.  The smell was so unbearable that I couldn’t breath.  Suffocating, fearing death, I did the only thing I could think of at that moment…I bit him.  I took a big chunk out of his left butt cheek, and he jumped off of me as blood began pouring down his backside.

Off he goes running into the other room, screaming to our father that I had bit him.  Our father comes storming into the room and starts yelling at me.  I tried to explain what my brother had been doing to prompt such a response, but he didn’t seem to be listening.  I think back now, and I’m amazed that it didn’t puzzle anybody how I could have managed to bite my brother on his bare bottom, unless I had been telling the truth.  Of course my brother admits to sitting on my face now.  In fact, he brags about it, like it’s a badge of honor.  Whenever he conveniently leaves out the part about me biting him, I always make sure to remind him.

I may have been “outnumbered” so to speak, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.  Some might say that my brother won that round, but I think it was a draw.

Our Own Battle at Little Bighorn

When I was twelve, my family took a vacation up north to South Dakota.  The main thought was to go see Mount Rushmore, which we did, but that wasn’t the best story to come out of that trip.  No, the best story happened, when we went over to Montana to see the Little Bighorn Battlefield.

The Little Bighorn Battlefield, if you know your history, was the site of Custer’s Last Stand.  It is located in the middle of nowhere just north of Garryowen, Montana.  If you don’t remember the details of Custer’s Last Stand, it was an armed engagement between the 7^th Cavalry and the combined forces of the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho Indians.  The over-confident Custer took his 650 men up against nearly 2,500 Indian braves and was badly beaten, losing over 270 men and his own life.  Despite propaganda to the contrary, it’s historically believed that Custer’s arrogance and a series of bad choices led to one of the worst military defeats in U.S. history.

The site itself is predominantly a large, open plain.  The rolling hills are carpeted with tall prairie grass that appears brown and gold in the summer heat.  There’s a river and trees that snakes jaggedly off to the side.  To get to the site, you must take a one-lane, gravel road from the Custer National Cemetery to a little parking area near the monument commemorating the battle.  The road winds lazily through the deep grass, and due to the poor quality of the road and the number of cars trying to drive down it, it took us almost 10 minutes to get from the cemetery to the monument.

We had no sooner trekked through the grass to the monument, then my grandmother said that she didn’t feel very well.  She had been having stomach issues the whole trip, experiencing occasional bouts of diarrhea, so we decided to head back to the restrooms at the visitor center near the cemetery.  My father had just pulled the van out of the parking lot, when my grandmother said, “You'd better hurry.”  Something in the desperation or finality of her tone made my father floor it.

So, here we were, flying back down this gravel road, passing slower cars through the prairie grass on the side of the road, and my grandmother starts yelling from the back of the van, “I’m not going to make it!  I’m not going to make it!”  And my father starts yelling from the front of the van, “Yes you are!  Don’t you do that in our new van!”  Rocking and weaving, we made the drive back in just under two minutes, the van skidding to a halt in front of the restrooms.  My grandmother already had the door open before we had even stopped moving.  She bolted from the van and ran toward the restroom.  Just as she got to the door, a cleaning woman came out of the restroom, holding a mop and a roll of toilet paper.  Seeing my grandmother, she said in a thick Mexican accent, “I’m sorry, ma’am, the restroom is closed for cleaning.”  Not even slowing down, my grandmother shoved her out of the way, saying as she passed, “I don’t care, I’m going in anyway!”  I’m sure that poor cleaning woman had to earn her money that day.

So, that’s it.  That’s my memory of the Little Bighorn Battlefield.  I have been there.  I have seen it.  A little of it anyway.  I spent about two minutes at it.  Almost the same time it took for us to drive my grandmother from the battlefield back to the restroom.  And every time I think about that trip, I hear voices echoing in my head, “I’m not going to make it!”  “Yes you are!”  And she did…barely.

The Mustard-Yellow GMC

When I was growing up, my father had a 1972 mustard-yellow GMC pick-up truck.  It ran…rough.  At some point in its history, my father had lost the gasoline cap, so he had cut off the top of a Coors Light can and slid it over the gasoline intake.  It had a cover over the bed, and the back could be converted into a make-shift child storage facility, complete with bench seats and carpet.  Or it’s probably more suffice to say that the bench seats were covered in carpet.  Gray-black, course, itchy carpet.  I know this, because my brother and I spent almost all of our vacations sitting, playing, and laying on it as we trekked around the country.

My father had built the benches himself, and they could easily be pulled in or out of the bed of the truck.  They opened up so luggage and things could be stored underneath them.  All in all, it really wasn’t such a bad setup, except for the heat.  Summers in the south are brutal, with temperatures easily reaching triple digits.  But what’s worse than the heat is the humidity.  And there was no air conditioning in the back of that truck.  The cover had sliding windows, which we opened when we could, so we could get a breeze, and my father installed these miniatures fans in the back to help with the air flow.  But it was still incredibly hot, and the shag-carpet benches only made it hotter.

My father had replaced the back window of the truck with one of those sliding windows, so we could access the front cab if we needed to.  My brother and I would take turns sticking our heads through the sliding window into the cab to enjoy the air conditioner.  My father didn’t like us doing this, because it let all of the cool air out and all of the hot air in, so he’d generally make us go back into the bed.  The upside was that we had all of the snacks in the back, so we controlled the food supply to the front.  We used this to our advantage to gain air conditioning privileges.

So, this is how I spent all of my childhood vacations.  Lying in the back of a mustard-yellow truck on an itchy shag-carpet bench, hot air and gasoline fumes blowing through the open windows, playing with Legos and GI Joes, fighting with my brother, and hording the snacks.  And that was the backdrop for some of my fondest memories.

Motor Homing Through Alabama

The summer after my first senior year of college found me without a girlfriend for the first time in seven years.  I was not looking forward to the annual family vacation with the usual excitement, because I had grown accustom to having KE with us.  She had been with us for the last four years, so for her to suddenly not be there, was like losing someone from the family.  It wasn’t going to be the same. 

But that’s where God had other plans for me, because during the previous school year, I had met JT.  He would quickly become my best friend and my soul brother just when I needed him the most.  So, when the annual family vacation came around, I asked if I could bring JT instead.  Knowing how devastated I had been over the break-up with KE, my parents didn’t even hesitate to agree.  So, on our way to Alabama, we stopped in Gulfport, Mississippi and picked up JT.

My parents were between RVs at the time, so they decided that for this trip, we’d rent a small motor home.  This way we’d have enough space to sleep, cook, and hang out without paying a lot of money for hotels and restaurants.  When we picked up the motor home, the sales guy gave us a tour, showing us where we could find things and how the various gauges and accoutrements worked.  Everything was going along smoothly until he got to the sewage monitor, which currently showed the tank as half full.  He told us that it was broken and would be replaced when we returned the motor home.  In the meantime, he assured us that they had dumped the sewer several times, and he was certain that it was empty.  Figuring that we could deal with a faulty sewage gauge, we settled in and headed off in our newly-rented motor home.

The first camp site that we stopped at was in the Talladega National Forest.  If you’ve never been there before, it’s absolutely beautiful.  With mountains, trees, rivers, waterfalls, and scenic view points; it’s a nature-lover’s dream.  But it also didn’t have individual sewage hook-ups at the campsites.  Knowing that we were only staying for a few nights, and figuring that we could always drive down to the dumping station if needed, we set up camp.

Sometime later that night, we started to get faint whiffs of sewage smells emanating from the bathroom.  The gauge on the wall showed it nearing full, but since we knew it started at half full, we didn’t pay much attention.  It wasn’t until the next morning, when it actually backed up into the toilet, that we knew something was wrong.

So, we strapped everything down, unhooked all of the cables and hoses, and drove down to the dumping station.  We dropped the hose into the dumping pit, pulled the valve on the trailer, and we waited.  There was only a very small amount of waste released and then nothing.  Checking the gauge revealed that it had barely moved.  Something wasn’t right.  My father shone a flashlight up into the pipe and saw something, maybe some sort of plastic, covering the opening.  He tried shoving various implements up into the pipe, but the bends and turns prevented him from dislodging the obstruction.  And that is when he came up with his brilliant plan…we were going to use physics.

So, we all piled into the motor home and headed for the mountains.  The Talladega National Forest is located at the southern edge of the Appalachian Mountains, harboring Cheaha Mountain, which is Alabama’s tallest point.  At over 2,400 feet tall, it’s an imposing site…especially when you’re sitting at the top of it in a motor home and a madman behind the wheel.  My father’s brilliant plan was to race up and down the mountains, hoping that gravity would move the contents of the tank around enough that the obstruction would dislodge and flow down the pipe.  So, down we plunged.

As we careened down the mountain, picking up speed with every passing minute, rocking and tilting as my father maneuvered around the tight curves and bends of the winding road, I suddenly heard a high-pitched scream coming from the back of the motor home.  I looked over at JT who was sitting next to me, but he wasn’t screaming.  In fact, he seemed to be enjoying this death race down the mountain.  I thought perhaps that it was a trick of sound, and that it was really coming from the front seat, but neither of my parents seemed to be screaming either.  That’s when it dawned on me that the scream was coming from my own mouth.  I was the one making that high-pitched noise.  I was the one screaming like a little girl, gripping the arm rest and seat with a white-knuckled exuberance. 

Every alarm and alert in my body was blaring that I was too young to die, but that death was imminent.  When we finally reached the bottom, I was exhausted and in pain.  My whole body had been tense.  I don’t think I had breathed the whole way down.  But it had all been worth it.  Somehow, this absolutely ludicrous plan had worked.  When we pulled up to the dumping station again and released the valve, we were relieved to see a plastic bag flow out the pipe, followed by a lot of other things. 

JT has never let me live down that scream of terror and assured fatality, even to this day; not because I was scared, but because of the octave level that I reached that day.

The Gum Lady

HR went hiking in New Mexico over the 4^th of July weekend.  She trekked up Wheeler Peak and Sandia Peak over the course of two days.  But that’s not the most significant part of her trip.  Before she left, she bought six packs of Extra Spearmint gum.  She intended to chew them to help stave off hunger as she plodded up the trail, but she instead started handing out pieces to all of the hikers that she met on the trail.  With each exchange, she would say, “This will help you go the Extra mile.”

It became a thing, and hikers going down the trail would tell other hikers they passed to be on the lookout for the gum lady.  Pretty soon, random strangers were approaching HR and asking her if she was the gum lady.  She laughed at the moniker, then would hand them a piece of gum and say, “This will help you go the Extra mile.”  By the time she finally reached the summit, hikers were asking to take a picture with her and her packet of Extra Spearmint gum.  Everyone wanted to meet the gum lady.

Never underestimate the impact that a small gesture can have on people.

The Milk Jug

When I was three years old, my mother decided to take my brother, cousin, and I to Walt Disney World in Florida.  We weren’t rich by any stretch of the imagination, so this was a huge treat for all of us.  But it also meant that we had to travel lean.  We drove the whole way, stuffed into my mother’s car, surrounded with all of our gear.  We stopped at night and camped in a little tent in a State Park, before piling back into the car and continuing our journey.

It’s about a 1000-mile journey from our home back then to Walt Disney World, and I probably made it about 20 miles down the road before I had to pee.  Now, keep in mind that I was only three years old at the time, but also keep in mind that it is a generally-accepted fact that I have a bladder the size of a thimble.  This is actually an ailment that still haunts me today.  At the beginning of the trip, my mother would pull over at a gas station or a restaurant and take me to pee.  However, it became increasingly more obvious that I was going to have to stop every 20 miles and pee again.  Do the math, and you’ll realize that that was 50 extra stops just to pee.  At that rate, it was going to take three or four days to get to Walt Disney World, and we just didn’t have that much time.

So, when the next appointed time came for me to express my need to pee again, my mother handed me an empty milk jug.  I looked at it, then her, then it again, and I asked, “What am I supposed to do with that?” 

“You’re either going to have to wait for the next gas stop, or you’re going to have to use the milk jug,” she replied.  “We’re not stopping anymore just to pee.” 

I was aghast…or at least as aghast as a three-year old could be.  “I’m not peeing in that thing!” I exclaimed. 

“That’s fine.  You can wait until we stop for gas then,” my mother replied calmly. 

“But I need to pee now!” I whined.

“Those are your only two options.”

The need to pee was becoming unbearable.  I could already feel the thimble reaching the point of overflowing.  A couple more minutes, and a disaster would ensue.  I was tempted to just pee in my pants to teach my mother a lesson, but the fear that she might make me stay in my wet attire until we stopped for gas dispelled that option.  I looked back at my brother and cousin, pleading with them to come to my rescue, but I was met only with laughter.  Of course, they didn’t have a bladder problem.  They didn’t understand the struggle.  I was running out of options.  I only had moments.  I grabbed the milk jug, crawled to the very back of the car, and I let loose with sweet relief.

I repeated this act every 20 miles or so.  The only thing that made the embarrassment even slightly bearable was the fact that my mother made my brother and cousin empty the milk jug when we stopped for gas.

Maps & Flying French Fries

I figured I’d keep with the vacation theme with the post today.  On another trip (the destination is irrelevant), my father was being a particular turd, huffing and gesticulating with his hands in the air, because my stepmother didn’t know every landmark and hidden turn along the route we were taking.  Keep in mind that this was back in the days before GPS, so we were navigating solely by a flat, two-dimensional, paper map.  If you hadn’t seen the route before, then everything was a new experience.  My father didn’t take that well.  He expected his navigator to have expert-level knowledge about the route, because he trusted her explicitly.

To my stepmother’s credit, she was normally a saint when it came to dealing with my father’s unreasonable expectations.  However, on this particular trip, she had had enough.  She snapped.  She took the map and threw it at him, saying, “If you think you can do better, then you do it.”  My father was wildly trying to fend off the flying map, while keeping the car safely on the road.  My stepmother grabbed the rest of her hamburger and French fries from lunch and headed to the back of the van.

For the next 15-20 minutes, my father helplessly drove down the road, trying to guess the way he should go, while my stepmother pummeled him with French fries from the back of the van.  That’s right, she was periodically throwing French fries at the back of his head to voice her displeasure!  Eventually, I took pity on my father and climbed up into the front seat to help him find the route.  But the French fries kept on coming, until every single one lay on the floor or clinging to my father’s shirt.  I bet he regretted super-sizing her order after that.

What Are You...Stupid?

My father, stepmother, and I used to take vacations every summer.  Always some destination in the United States, and almost always dragging an RV behind us.  When I was younger, my brother and grandparents came as well, but by the time of this story, my grandparents had long-since died, and my brother was too cool to hang around with us anymore.  I still loved to travel.  Even though I was in college and getting busier and busier every year, I still cherished the times when we’d set off for some unknown adventure.

The year we went to Corpus Christie was a particularly special vacation for me, because it marked the first time that I was able to bring a girlfriend along.  KE was an amazing girlfriend.  She was a lot of fun to be around, loved to do all the same things I did, and I obsessively adored her.  As a matter of fact, everyone did.  She was positively likeable, and my family took to her immediately.

It’s a long drive to the southeastern, Texas coast, so we spent the time singing to the radio, talking, or playing car games.  On one occasion, I was leaning on the console between the front seats, and I pointed at something in the road.  “What’s that in the road?” I asked.  Without missing a beat, my father said, “A head.”  It took us all a few seconds, but one by one, we started laughing.  It was so simple and so absurd that it was funny.  Capitalizing on the captive audience, my father said, “What’s that running down…your leg?”  More laughter ensued.  Wanting to join the fun too, KE said, “What are you…stupid?”

The car fell into complete silence.  We were all trying to gauge if she was joking or if she had completely missed the point of the game.  Either way, I couldn’t help it, and I burst out laughing.  Another quality of an amazing girlfriend, is that she’s a good sport when she’s the butt of her own goof-up.

Looking at Eyes Upside-Down

Today, my wife was sitting on the couch watching TV.  I walked up behind the couch, and she tilted her head back to look at me.  As I stood there staring deeply into her eyes, the other features of her face started to dissolve into an unfocused blur.  I was left with only her eyes, and I realized that even upside down, they looked like a normal pair of eyes.  That is to say that if I could only see her eyes and nothing else, I would think I was looking at her right-side up.  It was so freaky and uncanny, that I started to laugh.  When I explained to her what I was laughing at, she started to laugh too.  Suddenly, she was looking at me the same way.  The more we laughed, the squintier our eyes became, and the funnier they looked.  I kept telling her that she was blinking the wrong way, which just made her laugh harder.

Gym Gliding

I love the sensation of walking right after jogging on a treadmill. It's like the whole earth is whizzing by you, and you're gliding across its surface at super-fast speeds.

DFW at Night

I live in Dallas, and my journey home at night takes me right by the DFW airport. The planes descend right over the highway onto the runways on the other side. It's really cool at night, because you can see all the planes lit up across the sky in well-formed lines as they get into their landing patterns. There's something simplistically beautiful about the coordination and execution that it takes to pull that off. It's even cooler on cloudy nights, when the planes drop through the clouds one by one, right in line behind each other. It's like some kind of aerial synchronized swimming routine.

Sour Cream

HR has a friend that cannot tolerate extremely hot cuisine.  HR being an Indian used to spicier food has no frame of reference for someone that likes to actually taste their food, instead of experiencing something that instantly burns your taste buds with a hot poker and removes the ability to ever taste again simultaneously.  When she goes to Firehouse Subs, the spiciest hot sauce is so “tame” to her that she has to combine several of them together to try to up the spice number.

Now, I can relate to this poor non-Indian friend, because I can’t tolerate spicy food either.  HR has taken to referring to us both as having a spice level of Sour Cream.  Apparently, that’s the hottest food we can eat.  The funny thing is that neither of us are offended by this comment.

There was an episode of Psych titled Bollywood Homicide that perfectly sums up what it’s like for someone with a Sour Cream spice level to eat Indian food made the way HR likes it.

GRANDMOTHER: Wonderful. More mouths to feed. Thank you for the advanced notice.

SHAWN: No, we didn't come to eat. [Gus and Shawn sit down and load up food on their plates.]

RAJ: You know, guys, my grandmother tends to make her food a little spicy. You might want to take it easy.

GUS: Please. I'm one-quarter Jamaican. [Digging into the food with relish.]

SHAWN: I'm also one-quarter Jamaican.

GUS: You are not! Stop telling people that!

GRANDMOTHER: So how do you know my grandson Jay?

SHAWN: We're actually friends of Raj.

GRANDMOTHER: You're not here for Jay and Sita's engagement dinner?

GUS: We're helping Raj with a problem.

SHAWN: I'm sorry, was this chicken seasoned with molten lava?

SHAWN: Really? You're just fine?

ABIGAIL: I taught English to children in Mumbai for a month. This is very authentic. What's the matter, Shawn, you don't like it?

[Tears are running down Shawn and Gus’s faces. Gus is sniffling, but both of them keep eating.]

SHAWN: I think I like it too much. It's so authentic. [Whispering to Gus] I can't see anything out of my left eye.

GUS: I see dead people.

[Shawn takes a big drink of water to cool off his mouth. Gus continues to eat next to him.]

SHAWN: My god, even the water's spicy! Who does that?!

Green Light Honk

Whenever I'm at the front of the line at a stoplight, the moment it turns green, I honk my horn. I figure I'll preemptively get it out there to deflate everyone else.

My Mom’s Adventurous Spirit

Dear MoM,

I wanted to thank you for changing my life.  Last year, when I asked you what you wanted to do for your birthday, I never dreamed that you’d suggest zip lining.  It was crazy, extreme, and so unlike you.  Or I guess I should say, it was unlike the old you, but I’m getting ahead in the story.  So, off we went to Trinity Adventure Park to go zip lining.  Both of us had a blast; whipping through the trees at high speeds, jumping off of a 60-foot platform into the void below, climbing across obstacles so thin and treacherous that certain death waited for us below.  But that’s not where it ended.  You wanted to do more…indoor sky diving, whitewater rafting, escape rooms, rock climbing…overnight, you had turned into Extreme Sports Mom!

Perhaps, you’re thinking that I am thanking you for adding a bit of fun and spice to my life.  And I am…partly.  Your simple birthday request awoke something inside me; an unquenchable need to live.  Since that day of adventure back in May of last year, I have worked my tail off to get back into shape again.  I have participated in the Breast Cancer 5K, the Heart Walk 5K, the Hot Chocolate 5K, the Dash Down Greenville St. Patrick’s 5K, the 200 Miles in 100 Days Challenge, and the Must Dash 5K.  Besides yourself, I have talked four other people into doing these races with me.

But your little stone in the pond has had even more ripples, because 6 months ago, I challenged my brother to compete in a Spartan Sprint with me.  Encouraging and pushing each other through competition, we both did something that neither one of us ever thought we could.  We pushed our bodies to the breaking point, and we came out victorious.  But it didn’t stop there.  We were so fired up by the Spartan Sprint, that we signed up to do another one in a couple of months.  And this time, we have a team of seven other people to do it with us.

So, you see, Mom, I want to thank you for being courageous enough to take that first step with me.  Your adventurous spirit has already changed the lives of 13 other people.  You have gotten us off the couch and out into the world.  You have shown us that there is more to life than watching TV every night.  You have given us something to live for each day.  I hate to imagine what the last year would have been like if you hadn’t answered my question about your birthday with the most unexpected two words I ever thought to hear.  Zip Lining.

I love you, Mom, for all that you are.  And thanks for helping me see that there is more to me than even I knew.

Ninja Naps

When I was in kindergarten, class was broken up into two sessions.  I was in the morning session, which meant I got out of school around lunch time.  Most days, my stepmother would pick me up, feed me something delicious (Spaghetti O’s was my favorite), and then insist I take a nap. 

She learned early on that she couldn’t put me in my own room, because I would just sit in there and play with my toys.  So, she would make me go into her bedroom to lie down.  It should be noted that I was not fond of taking naps at this age.  Even my young brain could comprehend that the sun was out, so I should be playing.  So, I would lay there, my brain a tornado of childlike thoughts, subconsciously counting the minutes until I was sure that the whole hour had transpired.  I would then get up and walk into the kitchen to let her know that I was awake and ready to go again.  However, what seemed like an hour to me was in reality only about 3 or 4 minutes, so off we’d go again back to the bedroom where I was told to lay there until she came to get me.

On one such occasion, I lay on their bed, staring at the patterns in the paint on the ceiling.  My eyes darted around the shapes, drawing creatures and monsters, making up stories and having them interact with each other.  As my imagination ran unchecked, minutes turned into hours.  Hours into days.  The monotonous boredom overwhelmed me.  It was pure, agonizing torture.  I was sure that my stepmother had forgotten about me.  That was the only explanation for how she could have left me in here this long.  It was up to me to remind her that nap time was over.  So, up I popped, back into the kitchen, and once again informed her that I was awake and ready to go again.  She unceremoniously told me that it had only been 5 minutes since the last time I had come in there, and that it didn’t count unless I stayed in there for the whole hour.

Obviously, she couldn’t count as well as me, because there was no way it had only been 5 minutes.  I decided right then and there that it was a conspiracy.  She wanted me out of the way, so that she could play without me.  I was outraged.  So, I lay on their bed, plotting and scheming.  I had to know what she was doing.  I had just slid off the bed to gather reconnaissance, when I heard a creak in the hall outside the door.  I bolted back onto the bed, squeezed my eyes shut tightly, and tried my best to pretend that I was asleep.  Of course, I had no idea what that looked like, since I was always asleep when I was doing it for real.

It must have worked, though, because my stepmother stood looking in at me for several seconds and then satisfied, headed out again.  Now, was my chance.  My ruse had bought me time to figure out what sort of playing I was being excluded from.  Quiet as a ninja, I slid off the bed and tip-toed out of the room and down the hall.  I slunk to the floor and slowly peered around the corner into the kitchen.  This couldn’t be right, my stepmother appeared to be washing dishes.  Her back was to me, so I couldn’t tell for sure.  I needed a better angle.

So, I quietly crawled across the open doorway, keeping my eyes on my stepmother’s back in case she started to turn around.  When I was safely on the other side, I jumped to my feet and darted through the living room and into the den.  I stop behind my father’s recliner to assess the situation and formulate the next part of my plan.  This was going to be trickier, because the door to the den opened up right onto the sink.  If I left the safety of the recliner, then she’d spot me.  I had to be smart about this.  So, I made myself as small as I could, which wasn’t difficult for someone as skinny as I was, and squeezed into the space between the recliner and the end table.  Halfway through, I got stuck, and I was sure I was a goner.  But a bit of squirming, and I was free on the other side.  I quickly crept across the den, keeping close to the couch along the wall, so as not to be seen.  I once again slunk to the floor and peered around the corner into the kitchen.  I was aghast.  My stepmother was in fact merely washing dishes.  What kind of stupid game was this?  Obviously, not one that I was interested in, so I crept back and retraced my steps.

Once again, lying on the bed, I contemplated what I had seen.  Is that all she did while I was napping?  Washed dishes?  Surely not.  Something bigger was afoot, and I was going to get to the bottom of it.  I needed more data.  Once again, quiet as a ninja, I slid off the bed and tip-toed out of the room.  Just as I was rounding the corner into the hall, I came face to face with my stepmother coming the opposite direction to check on me.  She screamed in surprise.  I froze.  Fearing that the mission was lost, I turned tail and darted back into the bedroom, leaping the last few feet and landing on the bed with a squeak.  I once again assumed the best sleeping position I could muster, squeezing my eyes shut and hoping that my stepmother hadn’t seen me.  It had happened quickly.  There was a chance that I could still pull this off.

But she wasn’t fooled.  I had been caught.  She wasn’t mad, though.  She stood there looking at me for several seconds, sighed, and said, “I guess nap time is over.  Go play.”  That was all I needed to hear!

How Did They Know?

In honor of my stepfather's birthday, I want to share a classic quote of his, and one that always pops into my head when I watch movies at home.

"This film has been modified from its original version to fit this screen. How did they know what size screen we had?"