Wedding Memories – Part 3 (Unpredictable)

Me:  Our first wedding took place in Lost Maples Natural Area.  We had come here on vacation one year and fell in love with the place.  We had picked out a spot about a two-mile hike down the trail that was situated under a grove of maple trees, right near a small picturesque pond.  To get to it, one had to not only hike the trail itself, which wound through the trees and up and down the hills, but also leap across uneven stones that were placed precariously in the middle of several rivers.

What we hadn’t accounted for was the remoteness of the spot and the fact that there were no buildings within two miles.  So, either the girls would have to wear their wedding dresses while hiking down the trail, or we would have to come up with an alternative plan.   The alternative came in the form of a small, free-standing awning that my groomsmen and I had to carry all the way down the trail and set up just down from the pond.  Thus, burdened with the awning, some sheets that we attached to the sides to enclose it, and other items needed for the ceremony; we did not have the luxury of carrying our clothes and changing at the pond.  We hiked the entire two miles adorned in our wedding outfits.

Spousal Unit:  Getting married in Lost Maples seemed like a great idea, until we had to hike the five miles down the trail, carrying armfuls of wedding dresses.  My dress was by far the heaviest, so we took turns, heaving it along the path and lifting it over our heads as we crossed the stepping stones in the rivers.  The entire time the photographer was following along and snapping pictures of our plight.

Me:  Several hikers that passed us along the trail, seeing us dressed in medieval garb and carrying non-descript bags, mistook us for a band.  They stopped us to ask why we were performing in the park, and we simply told them that we were going to a wedding, which seemed to satisfy them.  One couple actually followed us back to the pond to check out the wedding festivities.  We set up the awning a little way away from the pond, around a bend in the trail, so that it wasn’t visible.  We attached sheets to the sides to enclose it, and then set off to scope out the spot we had chosen for our ceremony.

Spousal Unit:  It was unusually hot for October in Texas, so we were sweating profusely by the time we finally made it to the tent that the boys had set up for us.  It was off the path a little ways and had been fully enclosed to give us privacy while we changed.  We set about stripping off our sweaty clothes and shimmying into our dresses, stopping to touch up hair and make-up on each other as we went.

Me:  Now one of the things that the park ranger had previously told us was that they did not reserve areas of the park for ceremonies such as this.  It was on a first-come, first-serve basis.  At the time, this didn’t seem like such a big deal, but as we rounded the bend in the trail, we realized how wrong we were.  There in the exact spot that we had chosen for our wedding, under our picturesque trees and in our still little pond, was over a hundred Boy Scouts; swimming, running, and playing.  A hundred half-naked, bony little boys traipsing all over the entire area.

I couldn’t believe it.  I stopped right in the middle of the trail and just stared.  The one thought that flashed through my mind was, “My wedding is ruined.”  I actually think my groomsmen were more upset than I was.  One was about to go on a rampage, plowing through those scrawny Scouts and flinging their unconscious bodies into the pond.  I actually had to take a moment to try to calm him down before he went on a blood rage.  There was nothing for it, they had pitched their tents off to one side and were over-running the spot we had picked a year before.

After a slight readjustment of location and a lot of deep breaths, I went to talk to the Scout Master.  I explained the situation to him and asked if they wouldn’t mind vacating the pond during the ceremony.  He looked me dead in the eyes, not a hint of a smile on his face, and said, “On one condition.” 

A million thoughts ran through my head, as I tried to figure out what he was going to ask.  Did he want money?  Could we scrounge enough together between the four of us to pay him off?  Uncertainly, I asked, “And what’s that?”

And then he replied with the absolute last words I expected to hear; four unexpected words.  “You let us watch.”

Before my mind could fully process, my mouth was already saying, “Of course.”  And with that, his face broke into a grin, he shook my hand, patted me on the back, and offered his congratulations.  True to his word, he herded up all of the boys and had them sit off to the side.  One hundred still half-naked Scouts; legs crossed, chins perched on their hands, pond water dripping from their hair, eyes attentively fixed on the scene they were about to watch, and completely and utterly silent; sat in a group under the trees.

Spousal Unit:  When we were ready, we headed down the trail toward the pond.  The exact spot was still out of sight, hidden by a bend, so I had no idea until I was almost there that we had an audience.  A couple of hikers were stopped on the trail watching the scene, and off to one side was a large group of young boys, sitting cross-legged and shirtless.  I was so focused on the boys, that I almost tripped on a tree root going down the hill.  Not wanting to face-plant on my way down the aisle, I turned my attention instead to my husband-to-be, standing by the pastor and looking absolutely adorable in his white puffy-sleeved shirt and shimmering-black velvet vest.

“This was it,” I thought.  “The moment was finally here.  After today, this man would be my husband, and I would be his wife.”  My brother, holding on to my arm and walking me down the aisle, leaned over and whispered, “I wish you all of the happiness in the world, my sister.  I wish our father could be here to see how beautiful you look.  We are all proud of you.  And if this American doesn’t treat you like you deserve, then I want you to know that we are always here for you…and that I have several large friends that will take him apart.”

Me:  The trail itself afforded a natural aisle that the procession could come down, winding around the pond and down through the trees before meeting up with the pastor and me at the edge of the pond.  The moment I saw the first flash of color off of the first bridesmaid’s dress, my stomach started to churn.  Despite all of the preparation and planning, I was still nervous.

When my wife-to-be finally made her way through the trees, her white dresses dragging through the multi-colored leaves along the ground, I thought, “This was it.  This woman was going to be mine forever.  How did I ever get so lucky?”

Wedding Memories – Part 2 (Toast)

Me:  We had had over five hundred people packing the church with us for the ceremony.  There were so many people that those who couldn’t find a chair were standing looking in the windows and doorways.  Every available space was filled.  If we had known it was going to be like this, we probably could have set up huge screens and done a video feed outside.  As it was, I think there were still people in the back that had to have the information relayed back to them.

The strange thing about the church in Greece is that while in the United States everyone is quiet during the ceremony, here everyone was talking.  It was like being in a restaurant where each little group of people were having an independent conversation.  I’m sure at least some were talking about the actual wedding; whereas others might have been talking about their day, or the price of oranges in the street markets, or whether the Greek football team was ever going to win the Euro Cup (Greece would go on to win it the very next year!).

The other thing that struck me as odd was the fact that both of our families stood at the altar with us during the ceremony.  All of them, right there in a ring around us.  And throughout the entire service, they also were having their own independent conversation with each other.  I think it was mostly my in-laws-to-be translating for my parents, but it’s still a little unnerving to hear so many conversations going on around you while you’re trying to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing up there.

Spousal Unit:  We had a lot of people at our wedding.  There was our family, teachers and school mates from my past, family friends, and I’m sure even a few people that saw a wedding and just decided to stop in.  The place was packed, and it made the church hot and stuffy.

Me:  If I thought the number of people at the service was overwhelming, the reception was just as bad.  We arrived at the reception hall after all of our guests.  I could tell right away that this was also not going to be a small affair.  Not quite five hundred people, but well over one hundred and fifty had shown up to prolong the festivities with us.  There was one long table for the wedding party and our parents against one wall, and everyone else was situated six or seven to a table around a central, open space on the floor.

Spousal Unit:  After the wedding, we had to rush back to the house, so that I could change dresses.  I had gotten a beautiful black and white satin dress for the reception.  My mother and cousin went with me to help me change, and when they unzipped my dress, I heard a loud “whoosh!” as piles and piles of rice poured out of my dress and scattered across the hardwood floors.  It took several minutes to get it out of my underwear, hair, and every other crevice you can imagine.

Clothed once again, we rushed over to the reception hall, where people were already packed inside enjoying the open bar.  The first thing I noticed was my family sitting at a long table along one wall.  I remember my father, my mother, and my grandmother there.  My father was attempting to entertain my new in-laws, which was probably pretty difficult, since he doesn’t know much English, and they don’t know much Greek.

Me:  We were quickly shuffled over to one side of the hall to open the buffet lines, so that our guests could begin to get their food.  I hadn’t eaten all day, and I was starving.  I piled up my plate with every manner of delicious-looking morsel and went to my seat to eat like it was my last meal on earth.  I was not, however, able to taste even a single bite before someone was grabbing my arm and dragging me off to my next task.  Apparently, the entire aim of a Geek marriage is to completely and utterly exhaust the newlyweds without actually letting them have even a moment to absorb or enjoy any part of the experience.

Spousal Unit:  When I first saw the buffet, I remember thinking, “Look at all of this food!”  Then the smells hit me, and my mouth was watering.  I wanted to try a little bit of everything.  It all looked wonderful.  But we didn’t get a chance to try any of the food before we were told to greet and toast with the guests present in the hall.  So, one by one, we went to each table and toasted everyone.  I was so excited to see so many familiar faces.  I loved catching up with people that I hadn’t seen in years.

Me:  Before I knew it, someone was thrusting a glass of champagne into our hands…yes, more alcohol…and sending us off to toast our guests.  Unlike weddings in the United States, the toast is not done while standing at the front of the room.  The happy couple is expected to go to each table and toast them one by one.  That is each table repeating the same routine of saying “stin ygeía sas,” taking a sip of champagne, shaking some hands, and moving on to the next table…twenty-eight of them.  That’s right, twenty-eight tables of me taking sip after sip of champagne!  And to make matters worse, there was a waiter following us around with the bottle, refilling our glasses after every table.

The temporary reprieve I had had from my inebriated state was gone.  I could feel the amber liquid doing its trick as my cheeks grew hotter and hotter.  By the last couple of tables, I was slurring the toast.  When we were finally done, I was desperately looking forward to getting some food inside of me, fantasizing about the piled-high plate I had left behind.  Imagine my disappointment when I arrived back at the table to find it gone!  Someone had plate-knapped my dinner.

Spousal Unit:  When we were done toasting the tables, they rolled out the wedding cake.  It was a beautiful six-tiered masterpiece that spiraled up from the large base to the delicate icing ornamentation at the top.  It was so beautiful that I didn’t want to cut into it.  But the next thing I know, I’m holding a very large knife in my hand and being led over to the cake.  We pressed the metal through the soft, moist cake to cheers and applause.  And then as the waiters served cake to the guests, we were taken to the middle of the floor for the toasts.

Me:  I eyed our wedding cake hungrily out of the corner of my eye, but decorum dictated that we had to receive the toasts from the maid of honor and the best man.  My wife’s cousin did her toast in Greek, which was totally lost on me.  But my wife cried, and people laughed, so I suppose it was good. 

My best man was a friend of the family named Georgios.  However, nobody called him that.  He was always affectionately known as “Dr. Body,” which was partly due to the fact that he’d always wanted to go into medicine and partly due to the fact that he was skinny as a rail.  I had met him on one of my previous trips, and I liked him instantly.  Since my own brother couldn’t make it, I had asked Dr. Body to fill in for me.  He declined at first.  He explained that he didn’t want the responsibility that went along with being a best man.  He didn’t want to screw it up and ruin my day.  I told him that I was marrying the most beautiful girl in the world; there was nothing that could screw that up.  So, he reluctantly agreed.

He was the perfect best man.  He took his role seriously, and he went out of his way to make sure that he followed everything by the letter.  His best man speech was in English to honor me, and he was stern and stoic throughout it.

Spousal Unit:  When we were done with the toasts, they cleared the floor for dancing.  We had our first dance, a slow dance which we stumbled through, and then other people started pouring onto the floor to dance around us.  I remember dancing with my cousins and friends in little groups, bouncing and gyrating to the music, like I was back in the clubs back in England.  I was hot and sweaty, and it was hard to move in my dress, because it was so heavy; but I had a blast.

Me:  The first dance was painful.  I wish I had known we were going to be doing it, so we could have practiced.  Then the club music started, and I was instantly out of my element.  The only thing that helped was being essentially drunk the entire time.  The alcohol had long-ago kicked in, and the lack of food was starting to take its toll.  I felt my inhibitions disappear as I busted my move like a spasmodic, featherless chicken.  I kept telling myself that I probably wouldn’t see any of these people again, so I might as well just have fun with it.

That was until a strange man grabbed me, put one arm around my shoulder, and started to Greek dance.  It consisted of holding my arm out to one side; lifting and crossing my legs in time to the music; snapping; and moving in a side-to-side, front-to-back rhythmic motion.  I stunk at it, but I loved every minute of it.  I felt like an adopted Greek at that moment…like I was finally a part of the family.

Wedding Memories – Part 1 (Wine)

Me:  The priest handed me a gold, ornamental goblet with an opening the size of a trashcan lid.  It was massive.  It took two hands to hold it, and even then I struggled with it in my grip.  The goblet was filled to the brim with dark, red wine; and with every breath, I was afraid of spilling it.

My eyes became almost as big as the opening on the goblet as the aroma of the rich alcohol hit my nose.  I am not a drinker…at all.  I stood staring down into that red liquid, telling myself, “You can do this.  It’s just a sip.  You’ll be okay.”  The priest was saying something in Greek in his deep, melodic voice, but I wasn’t really paying attention.  I was trying to keep the panic from washing over me.

Spousal Unit:  The priest handed him a normal-sized gold goblet.  In fact, it was so ornamental that it barely held any wine in it at all.  He held it with both hands, not because he had to, but because he was being careful with such a holy artifact.  Honestly, it was a little overkill, but I grinned nevertheless, as he realized that it was real wine in there. 

He never drinks alcohol.  In fact, I don’t remember having ever seen him drink the entire time we were together.  The priest was explaining the sacrament of holy communion and that this cup represented the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ poured out for our sins.  He instructed that my soon-to-be husband was the head of the household, and as such would need to lead the household in spiritual matters.  Therefore, he would need to drink three-fourths of the contents of the goblet, and I would drink the rest.

Me:  After the priest finished speaking, he motioned for my wife-to-be to translate for me.  I looked over at her, watching her rosy lips move, as she told me that I was to drink from the cup.  She might have mentioned how much I was to drink, but I didn’t hear, so mesmerized as I was by her beautiful lips.  Then again, she might have omitted that part for her own amusement.  When she nodded at me, I raised the goblet to my lips and took a sip.  As I started to pull the cup down, the priest raised one of his gnarled hands and tilted the base of the cup up with one finger.  I felt the warm wine travel down my throat and into my empty stomach.  My whole core felt like it was on fire, and the heat spread outward, consuming all of me in its warmth.

I was choking, trying to swallow as more and more of the red liquid poured down my throat.  Finally, the priest removed his finger, and I was able to pull the cup down and gasp for air.  My face felt like it was on fire, and I was sure that there was a flush to my cheeks.  I looked down into the massive goblet and saw only a small amount of the wine left.  It sloshed gently back and forth as I passed the goblet to my wife-to-be.  In one quick motion, she down what was left and handed the cup back to the priest.

Spousal Unit:  When the priest finished explaining the sacrament, he nodded for me to translate for my husband-to-be.  He was looking at me with the biggest eyes.  I could tell that all of this was making him uncomfortable.  He’s not used to being the center of attention for hundreds of people, all of their eyes watching his every move.  Not to mention that he had no idea what was going on and couldn’t understand a word that the priest was saying.  I simply told him that we were taking communion, and he needed to drink from the cup first.

I nodded at him, and he started to drink.  When he started to pull the cup down after only a sip, the priest tipped it back up so that he’d drink more.  I could see the flush spread across his cheeks almost instantly as the wine took its affect on him.  After a minute, the priest let him stop, and my husband-to-be passed the goblet to me.  He looked so cute, so vulnerable, with his rosy cheeks.  I took the goblet and drank the small amount of wine that was left and then handed it back to the priest.

Me:  The priest started to read from his positively massive Bible, which was gilded with gold and ornamentation, then he raised out his hand over us and said something else in Greek which I couldn’t understand, but which I presumed was some sort of benediction.  At that moment, our best man and maid of honor stepped up behind us and placed these white, flowered crowns on our heads.  I could see out of the corner of my eye that they were attached to each other by a single, white, satin ribbon.  

Before I could even get a translation or an idea of what was going on, the priest grabbed my right hand and started tugging me around the altar.  I felt my wife-to-be’s hand slide into my other hand, as I tugged her along after me.  Around and around we went around that altar, as those standing closest tossed handfuls of rice over us.  Some more enthusiastic guests were winding up like baseball pitchers and throwing the rice at us as hard as they could.  Others, like my father, didn’t understand how this worked and simply threw the whole bag at us at once.

As I tried to ward off the flying rice, which was difficult since both of my hands were occupied, I suddenly realized why the priest had such a massive Bible and why he hadn’t put it down before grabbing my hand.  He was holding it up in front of his face and literally using it as a shield.  Tiny grains of rice were ricocheting off the gold and ornamentation and flying in a myriad of directions, as the priest hunkered down safely behind it.

I have to say that the dizzying effect of walking in circles around the altar was not helping my inebriated state.  The guest’s faces were a blur of color, swirling around me, going faster and faster.  Their laughter and voices blending together into an indistinguishable cacophony of sound.  All of it was making my head spin, so I closed my eyes until the priest let go of my hand.

Spousal Unit:  The priest read a verse from the Bible about two flesh becoming one, and then he explained that we would now be taking our first steps together as husband and wife.  Our best man and maid of honor placed the wedding crowns on our heads and straightened out the ribbon that attached them together.  Suddenly, I saw my husband-to-be getting pulled away from me, so I scurried after him and grabbed his hand.  The priest was leading him around the altar.

People started throwing rice at us, which is a custom that signifies blessings bestowed upon the happy couple.  The more rice that gets stuck in your hair and in your clothing, the more blessings you’ll have in your marriage.  When I later changed from my wedding dress to my reception dress, I had over two kilos (about 4.5 pounds) of rice pour out onto the floor of my parent’s house.  It was everywhere.  Down my dress, in my underwear, and stuck in the curls of my hair.  I was still picking it out days later.

Me:  At this point, several other priests standing in the back started to chant in a melodic harmony of their three voices.  Someone took the crowns off of our heads, but I continued to hold onto my wife-to-be’s hand.  When the chanting stopped, the priest said something else I couldn’t understand in Greek, and motioned toward the door.  My wife turned and pulled me down the aisle toward the exit.

Just going with the flow at this point, I guessed we were through.  We were officially married.  As we walked down the aisle toward the entrance of the church, I said to my wife, “Whatever you do, don’t let me go.”  “Why?” she asked through her gritted teeth, keeping the smile plastered on her face.  “Because I think the priest got me drunk,” I responded leaning into her as we walked.

My wife looked over at my dopey eyes and goofy smile and said, “Just hang on, we’re almost outside.  And whatever you do, don’t take me down with you.”  As the doors opened, the cool, crisp November air washed into the church and blew across my flushed cheeks.  Almost instantly, I felt my strength and senses returning.  I could feel my eyesight and my head starting to clear, and I stood a little more upright.

Spousal Unit:  After our journey around the altar, the priest introduced us to the audience as husband and wife and motioned for us to make our way out of the church.  My husband and I were still holding hands, so I gently tugged him toward the door.  He seemed to be swaying a little bit as he walked, so I looked over at him with concern.

His cheeks were bright red, his eyes seemed to be defocused, and he had this happy grin on his face.  I asked him if he was all right, and he slurred, “I think I’m drunk!”  Luckily, we were close to the exit, and I hoped that the cold air would help sober him up a little.  One thought kept running through my mind, “Do not fall.  Do not fall.”

Wedding Memories - Intro (He Said, She Said)

My wife and I get a lot of questions about our wedding.  I'm not sure if it's because we got married three times, or if it's because we got married on two different continents.  Whatever the reason, we have plenty of stories, and we love to tell them!  However, we don't always tell them the same way.  Usually she thinks I embellish too much, while I think she leaves out all of the good parts!  After all of this time, the truth is probably somewhere in the middle.

So, in honor of my beautiful wife and our wacky wedding experience, I thought I would devote the next series of posts to memories of our wedding.  However, I'm going to attempt to tell them from both of our perspectives, so you can get the full effect of the experiences.  They will be told in no particular order, just whatever pops into my head that day.

So, sit back and imagine you're there with us as we travel from the United States to Greece.  The whirlwind of our two-week adventure is about to begin!

Audible Oops!

We were on the way home today from Thanksgiving, and we decided to stop in Waco for some lunch.  For some reason my wife had a craving for Whataburger; so we pulled in, ordered, and situated ourselves in a booth in the very crowded restaurant. 

The booths at this Whataburger are just ergonomic fiberglass; no padding, no fabric.  I had had an upset stomach all day, which was probably a direct result of the large volume of broccoli and egg nod I had consumed over the last three days, and my stomach was gurgling.  So, after they had brought our food and my wife had started to unwrap it, I took a moment to expel some of the gas that was uncomfortably expanding inside me.

As always, I had hoped to whiff it out like a ninja in the night.  What I got instead was a very loud, very audible tuba note that was only enhanced by the naked fiberglass I was sitting on.  At first I was hoping that the noisy din of conversation in the restaurant had covered up the vulgar noise…that was until I saw my wife’s face.  Her eyebrows were raised in question, her mouth was open in surprise, and her eyes were looking at me like I had just committed the greatest atrocity of man.  I also noticed that the conversation of the family of six in the booth behind me had mysteriously stopped. 

It was at this moment, that I was struck with a thought.  The booth I was sitting on was one of those double booths, where one seat faces one table and the other seat faces the other table.  It was made even worse by the fact that the booth at the table behind me was actually a semi-circle of one solid piece of fiberglass.  So, I was literally connected to the entire family.  And I started to imagine that they had actually felt the vibrations in addition to hearing it.  An image of all six people of varying ages wrinkling their noses and casting me disgusted looks ran through my head, and I lost it.

I started to smile, then chuckle, then full on laugh.  If I was hoping to cover my guilt before, it was lost when I was laughing so hard that I was turning red and crying into my French fries.  The more I thought about the absurdity of the situation and how the fiberglass booth had betrayed me, the harder I laughed.  My wife just continued to look at me like I had lost my mind.

Whether because they were done eating or because they were so appalled by this behavior, the family behind me left soon afterwards.  This only sent me into another fit of laughing, thinking that I had actually run an entire family off with that single, audible oops.  Nobody else seemed to have noticed, and I was eventually able to calm down enough to eat my lunch.

Shelby

I spent thanksgiving with my father and stepmother this year.  I was amazed and saddened at how old their dog Shelby is looking.  He’s fifteen now, my dad having gotten him just before my wife and I got married.  I remember the day my father brought him home, this little black and white fur ball.  He was so skittish and shy at first, not knowing what to make of all of these new people that were suddenly looming up around him.  I remember getting down in the grass with him so he wouldn’t feel so small and scared.  Slowly, slowly he walked towards me, sniffed me, and climbed into my lap.  He curled up in a little ball, chewing on my finger yet still watching everyone with one eye.  

Ever since that moment, we had a bond.  I played with him all the time, trying to wear out his inexhaustible energy.  Whenever we would watch movies on Friday nights, he would lay next to me on the couch...much to my father’s disappointment and irritation.  As much as my father likes to think that Shelby was his dog, he was wrong.  He was always my dog...my boy...from that first moment in the yard.  Even when I got married and moved away, Shelby was my dog.  Whenever I would come home, he would excitedly greet me at the door.  Something he would never do with my father.  Lately, his greetings are less exuberant than they once were, but he still stiffly lifts himself up and comes waddling to the door to greet me.  Nowadays, he has no interest in running around or playing.  He just likes to lean against my leg while I stroke his head and that spot right behind his ears.  He closes his eyes and drifts away into blissful happiness.  For a moment, he doesn’t hurt anymore.  For a moment, he just relaxes into the knowledge that he is totally and completely loved.

He’s still my boy.  Maybe a little skinnier.  Maybe a little grayer around the snout.  But still my dog.  I wish I could see him more, especially as he nears the end.  I want his last moments to be the best, where someone always has time to stroke that spot behind his ears that he loves so much.  I want him to always remember that I love him.  My dog.  My boy.

Life Through the Door

When I was a child, my father worked for the Houston Police Department, first as a patrolman and later in the computer fraud department.  Unfortunately, police pay wasn’t the best, and he found it difficult at times to be the sole bread winner tasked to support a family of four.  So, he took on a lot of extra jobs to supplement his pay; working the prisoner intake desk, security detail, and event protection.  While this significantly increased his income, it meant that my brother and I didn’t see him much throughout our childhood.

When he did come home, he would grab the newspaper, head straight to the bathroom, change clothes, and then shut himself in there for hours until dinner was ready.  He claimed that it was his decompression time, where he finally got to relax and de-stress from the day.  My brother and I were told to leave him alone while he was in there, which we obediently complied with…for 5-10 minutes.  Then, one of us would sneak up to the bathroom door and tap on it.  We were greeted with a sigh and a resigned, “Yes?”  Taking this as an invitation, we would excitedly launch into whatever it was that we wanted to share with our father.

Sometimes, it was as simple as wanting to show him our latest report card or artwork.  Sometimes, especially as we got older, it was wanting to ask for the sports page out of the newspaper.  It was not uncommon for the conversation to be initiated simply by sliding something under the door to him.  We’d push it halfway and wait.  If we saw it disappear, then we knew we had our opening.

Other times, we wanted to ask for his opinion on something or to relate a story about our day.  He would never open the door, so we’re not for certain that he was actually listening to us.  He could have just been reading the newspaper the whole time.  But that didn’t matter to us.  We would prattle on happily in our ignorance.

When I think back, almost all of my entire childhood interactions with my father were through a door.  I don’t remember having much time with him in person.  I have scattered memories here and there.  But I remember our interactions through the bathroom door.  It’s a strange way to grow up, and I guess psychologically speaking, we were looking for more of a relationship with our father.  We craved his attention and time, which was sparse and not freely given.  So, children being resilient like they are, we improvised and interjected ourselves into his life wherever and however we could.

The Best Part of Waking Up

I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror, and was amazed that I had gotten even better looking than yesterday.  This isn’t vanity or conceit, it’s just a fact.  I was struck by how sexy I was, and I was suddenly tempted to become self-gay, if such a thing is possible.  

Of course I could barely see through the sleep that was still clouding my eyes, and I was having to squint at the bathroom light that was blinding my overly-sensitive pupils, so I could have in fact been looking at the swan painting on the wall or the flower arrangement on our sink.  Either way, something in that bathroom was giving off major “How you doin?” vibes.

Only the Best

When I take my wife out on a date, I do it up right.  I know a lot of guys are money-conscious, so they try to steer their date to a less-expensive alternative.  But that’s not me.  I want to lavish my wife.  So, when we go to a really fancy dinner, somewhere like McDonald’s, I let her choose anything off the menu.  None of that dollar menu stuff.  She gets only the best.

Filaki, Filaki, Filaki

My first job out of college was in retail sales in a computer and electronics store named Altex.  It was not a glamorous job.  I spent eight hours a day on my feet, trying to convince people that they needed things that they had no idea that they needed.  As an introvert, that was one of the hardest jobs I have ever had.  I had to approach complete strangers and start conversations with them, sometimes pretending like I knew more than I actually did.

My fiancé liked to call me at work to check on me during my down times.  It wasn’t uncommon for me to take phone calls from new or returning customers, but it was tricky to mislead my manager.  He was always watching us and timing how long we spent on the phone.  My fiancé wanted to end every phone call by sending me kisses, which I obviously couldn’t return with my manager watching.  She understood, but was also hurt by this.  So I had to improvise, and I took to saying, “filaki, filaki, filaki,” which is Greek for “little kisses.”  Now, whenever we’re in a public situation where blowing kisses at each other wouldn’t be appropriate, we simply say, “filaki, filaki, filaki,” and it’s our own private romantic moment.

Blink

I’m so tired today that I’m afraid that if I blink for one second longer than normal that I might not open my eyes again. I have to force myself to keep my eyes open, which means I have been sitting in meetings staring at people all day long. Most people look away uncomfortably, but several people have been defiant enough to stare back. I’m too tired to care, so a long staring contest ensues. I’m not sure if I won or not because I spaced out at some point.

20th High School Reunion

My 20th high school reunions is next week. They thought it would be a good idea to have it the day after Thanksgiving.  I guess they assumed that everyone would be in town visiting family anyway.  The stupid thing is that I only found the announcement by chance.  They posted it on Facebook, which I’m never on.  If I hadn’t happened to log on for the first time all year, I would have missed it.

As I went to the website to purchase tickets, I noticed a list of people that had already signed up.  As I scrolled through the list of a little over 100 people, I realized that while I recognized some of the names, none of them were people that I had ever actually talked to in high school.  They were the outgoing people, the cool people, the popular people.  They were people that had actually been active in high school.  I was not one of those people.  

I was the guy that hung out on the back fields to eat lunch.  I was the guy that was introverted and kept a low profile.  With sadness, I realized that none of them would even recognize my name.  Nobody would care if I went or not.  I slowly closed the webpage without buying a ticket.  I had been waiting 20 years for this moment, and now that it had arrived, I couldn’t figure out what I had been waiting for.  I regret not being more involved.  I can think of so many ways I could have inserted myself in the happenings of the school, but I didn’t.  I just tried to get through it and move on.  I don’t have a lot of fond memories of high school, but I feel that is largely my own fault.  I had the chance and didn’t take it. Now there doesn’t seem like much point in going back.  I kept in touch with the people I cared about back then, so I guess that’ll have to suffice.

To those who do go, happy 20th anniversary, Bellaire HS Class of ‘97, from the anonymous introvert on the football fields.

Hold Your Breath

I hate those suspenseful moments in a game where you’re waiting for something to happen.  Because you sit there not even wanting to blink, because you know that as soon as you do, that crap will get real.

Copy-Cats

I think it’s interesting that every time someone mentions that I have a blog, that I used to write poetry, or that I’m working on writing a novel; that the other person always replies that they’re a writer too.  There’s always a story about how they wrote a poem in high school, or a short story in college, or a postcard on vacation.  Something to try to relate.  I don’t really think it’s the same thing as maintaining a blog for over ten years.  And that’s okay.  We don’t have to be in competition.  I’m sure there are things that they do well that I don’t do.  We can all have our special thing and appreciate the special things in each other.

Dear Blog

CS was asking me about my blog and whether it was like a diary.  I told him that I didn’t start every entry with “Dear Blog” or anything, but that it did contain my thoughts and observations about life. However, I don’t put secrets in it, and it’s open to the public.  So, no I guess it’s not like a diary.  It’s like a…well, a blog.

How are you?

I always hate when someone asks how I’m doing, because I don’t feel like they really want to know how I am.  It’s just a socially-accepted greeting, and really just equates to “Hi.”  But it’s worse than “Hi,” because someone actually expects an answer to that question.  So, any answer I give will then be a lie to appease them without giving the awkward truth that they don’t really want to hear and that I don’t really want to have to explain further. 

My default answer lately has been, “I’m surviving.”  But that usually just makes people uncomfortable, because I insinuated that something might be off in my little universe, but now the burden is on them to either ask about it or chuckle and walk away slowly.  So, I think I’m going to switch to, “I’m in good health.”  That way I am not insinuating or revealing anything, and everyone can feel good about themselves that they asked and escaped without an awkward situation.  I AM in good health, so it won’t be a lie, and I’ll be able to live with myself after the encounter as well.  It’s a win-win.

The Fan That Divides Us – the Revisit

So, we have gone several nights now without the fan, and last night my wife woke me up at 2 a.m. as she not-so-quietly extricated herself from the covers, grabbed her pillow, and huffed her way out of the room.  I stopped her to ask why she was leaving, and she said that I was breathing heavy and it was keeping her awake.  Breathing heavy?  What does that even mean?  I wasn’t snoring.  I was breathing heavy.  I mean, what do I do with that?  Stop breathing?

I laughed at the absurdity of this, because the only reason she heard me breathing heavy was that it was so quiet in the room.  That’s right.  Ironically, the quiet that she so desperately craves is now causing her angst.  The fan that she has so much hatred for was actually covering up these noises all of these years, but she never gave it the respect or credit that it deserved.  Now, I think she wants the fan back, but she can’t bring herself to ask for it after she talked so much smack about it.

So, we shall both be uncomfortable.  I will be holding my breath, and she will have to hear me gasp for air every 30 seconds.  I guess now it will be the silence that divides us.

The Plagues of the Elements

I was watching the “Prince of Egypt” recently, and I was struck by a thought that I had never thought about before.  I was enamored with the 10 Plagues of Egypt and God’s use of all of the elements to accomplish his goals.  Many believe that everything boils down to four basic elements ; that is Air, Water, Fire, and Earth.  In each of the plagues God used one of these elements to create the plague, and each plague affected one of these elements…except the last one.

The last plague was performed by the Angel of the Lord against man himself.  And since man was made in the image of God, it was the fifth element against the fifth element.  The element of Man.

·         Water into blood – Water

o   Take your staff and stretch out your hand over the waters of Egypt, over their rivers, over their streams, and over their pools, and over all their reservoirs of water, that they may become blood; and there will be blood throughout all the land of Egypt, both in vessels of wood and in vessels of stone.  Exodus 7:19

·         Frogs – Water

o   Stretch out your hand with your staff over the rivers, over the streams and over the pools, and make frogs come up on the land of Egypt.  Exodus 8:5

·         Gnats – Earth

o   Stretch out your staff and strike the dust of the earth, that it may become gnats through all the land of Egypt.  Exodus 8:16

·         Flies – Earth

o   Then the Lord did so. And there came great swarms of flies into the house of Pharaoh and the houses of his servants and the land was laid waste because of the swarms of flies in all the land of Egypt.  Exodus 8:24

·         Cattle Die – Earth

o   For if you refuse to let them go and continue to hold them, behold, the hand of the Lord will come with a very severe pestilence on your livestock which are in the field, on the horses, on the donkeys, on the camels, on the herds, and on the flocks.  Exodus 9:2-3

·         Boils – Fire & Air

o   So they took soot from a kiln, and stood before Pharaoh; and Moses threw it toward the sky, and it became boils breaking out with sores on man and beast.  Exodus 9:10

·         Hail – Air & Fire

o   Stretch out your hand toward the sky, that hail may fall on all the land of Egypt, on man and on beast and on every plant of the field, throughout the land of Egypt.  Exodus 9:22

o   So there was hail, and fire flashing continually in the midst of the hail, very severe, such as had not been in all the land of Egypt since it became a nation.  Exodus 9:24

·         Locusts – Earth

o   Stretch out your hand over the land of Egypt for the locusts, that they may come up on the land of Egypt and eat every plant of the land, even all that the hail has left.  Exodus 10:12

·         Darkness - Air

o   Stretch out your hand toward the sky, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even a darkness which may be felt.  Exodus 10:21

·         First Born – Man

o   and all the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the firstborn of the Pharaoh who sits on his throne, even to the firstborn of the slave girl who is behind the millstones; all the firstborn of the cattle as well.  Exodus 11:5

The Fan That Divides Us

Ever since I was a kid, I have slept with a fan.  I use it mostly to circulate the air in the room, because my nose get stopped up, and I can’t breathe if it gets too stuffy.  However, it has come to have other uses as well, such as cooling me down in the hotter months and covering up the myriad of noises that break the stillness of the night.

When I got married, my wife took an immediate hatred to my fan.  Something about the constant, consistent rhythm of the whirring of the blades…the even cadence of the noise…angers her.  Even though I know it’s a lie, she claims that she can’t sleep when I have the fan on (her snoring would lend credence to my claims).  But after fourteen years of living with the fan, she suddenly  has had enough.  On occasion, we have even taken to sleeping in separate rooms, because she refuses to deal with it anymore.

So, something as stupid and innocent as a fan is tearing our marriage apart.  Who would have thought that the mistress that would one day come between us is made from metal, wire, and an electrical motor.  Well, for the sake of keeping my wife happy and keeping us together, I have taken to turning off the fan on the odd night, so we have a sort of compromising truce.  Of course, she won’t be satisfied until it’s off permanently, but I’m not quite ready to go that far yet.  So for now, we have an uneasy cease fire.

Bye Week

So, the college football playoff committee announced its first rankings for the CFP, and surprisingly it had Georgia ahead of Alabama.  Alabama has held the number one ranking for the entire year, and they have dominated every team they have played so far.  While Georgia also has an impressive resume and has been steadily climbing up the rankings, Alabama has not faltered this year.  So, it’s surprising that a team that has been playing well lost the number one ranking, seemingly for no reason. 

What is even more surprising is that Alabama was on a bye week.  That’s right, they did not play.  So, the committee has deemed that Georgia’s win this week was more impressive than Alabama’s bye week.  Yeah, I can see how if you held the stats up side-by-side that Georgia would come out on top.  Alabama was on a bye!

This same logic amazes me about the Heisman Trophy tracking.  A player will actually lose ground in the race on the week they aren’t playing.  I don’t know how you can penalize a guy for not even being on the field.  How could they have possibly gotten worse, when they weren’t even playing?!

Big Cock Ranch

Earlier this year, my wife came to me carrying a credit card statement and said, “Is there something you want to tell me?”  I started to panic wondering about all of the things I might have done wrong and trying to think about which one she might be referring to.  I decided to go with the safe answer, “Not particularly, why?”  She handed me the statement, which had one entry highlighted in yellow.  It simply said, “Big Cock Ranch…$68.00.”  I stood there for several minutes, trying to puzzle out what I might have bought that had that description, but my mind was a blank.  I handed the statement back to her and said that I guess my credit card was compromised.

The next few minutes were awkward as she stood there staring at me with slivered eyes, like she was trying to read into my soul and uncover a truth that I had buried under layers and layers of lies, so thick that even I had started to believe them, that the lies had become reality and that I could no longer tell the difference, but that if she stared at me long enough she could peel back those lies like the layers of an onion and reveal the truth…and apparently that truth in her eyes was that I had purchased some sort of Big Cock for $68.00.  I began to sweat under her scrutiny, even though I was 87% sure that I hadn’t made this purchase, and I began to doubt myself.  She finally pursed her lips, gave me a “hmphf,” and walked away. 

But the seed of doubt had been planted.  I couldn’t get that line of the credit card statement off my mind.  Everything else on there was legitimate.  Why would someone who had stolen my credit card buy a single item?  And why would that item have been a Big Cock of all things?!  I ran through every purchase we had made for Christmas…every gift…and finally it hit me. 

I Googled “Big Cock Ranch” and found out that it was a company that sold grilling spices.  The logo was a giant crowing rooster…a big cock.  As a gag, we had bought a box of spices from them for my brother called the “Box o’ Shit,” which was a sampler pack of four different spices, but I didn’t realize that’s how it would come across on the credit card statement.  I find it funny that both of our minds immediately ran to the dirtiest explanation possible.

Aroo! Aroo!

Well today we did our second Spartan run, this one was an outdoor course.  It offered different challenges from the stadium course we did in June, among other things…mud and water.  I was proud to get the chance to compete again with my brother.  The challenge and competition brought us closer together, bound us with a common goal.  It helped us get more fit and healthy, and I’m glad of the opportunity to get to race with him.  I know that he was disappointed in this outing even as I was ecstatic.  The rope climb still bested him, while I miraculously managed to do all of the events.  Still I was proud of him.  He has come a long way and worked hard to get here.  We both have.  

It was nice to have my mother at the event as well, to cheer us on and encourage us.  I’m glad my family has taken an interest in our racing, even if they don’t truly understand why we put ourselves through this…the months of preparation and the hours of pain.  We do it to better ourselves.  To raise the bar and push ourselves over it.  We aren’t competing against other men, but against ourselves.  As Ernest Hemingway said, “There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.”  

And that is what we are doing. We are trying to be better than the us of yesterday. We are trying to find ways to prove that we are still alive; that we have not become part of the background. And we can never stop, because stopping would be like giving up. And quitting is not an option. I don’t want to look back one day and regret not trying.  

So, what’s next? Who knows. I have my eyes on a few other challenges…something new, something that will push me in different ways. I’m not done with Spartan, but I am going to take a little break. The training and competition is grueling, and the waiting for months in between is exhausting. For now, I need to clean the mud off and heal.

Second Chances

My brother-in-law is very serious about his current girlfriend.  In fact, he has told us several times now that she’s the one, and that he’s waiting for the right opportunity to propose to her.  I keep asking my wife if they’re engaged yet, and finally today she asked why I’m so frantic about this.  I said that I’m antsy to finally experience the Greek wedding that was stolen from me…to stand at the altar and be able to look around at what’s going on around us, to taste a Greek buffet, to eat a wedding cake, to enjoy dancing a Greek dance with no inhibitions, to let loose without all eyes on me,

…and to actually be sober enough to remember the entire thing.

Message Received…Loud and Clear

VJ and her husband prayed last night.  She said that she was a little disappointed by the answer, because she expected to see a stoplight in her mind with a specific color light lit up.  Instead, she saw nothing.  She waited a little while, and when nothing came, she decided to watch TV.  She turned on the Travel Channel, and they were airing a food show with Andrew Zimmern in some foreign country.  He started to describe the dish they were going to sample, and it went something like this, “These are tamales, which are traditionally made with beef.  However, these are green tamales, stuffed with chicken, green spinach, green Serrano peppers, and green cilantro; wrapped in green tomatillo and corn husks; and topped with a green tomatillo sauce.”

She was so taken aback by the outrageousness of his repetition of the color “green” in his description that she started to laugh.  I guess she got her answer!

The Three Stoplights

VJ caught me after work today and asked me for some advice.  She’s got a tough decision on her plate, one that could greatly affect her marriage, and she’s not sure how to proceed.  Her husband wants to do something, something that involves spending a lot of money, money that she’s been saving for a down-payment on a house.  She wants to support him, but she’s also unsure about spending their savings on an unproven plan.  It’s the ultimate question of faith.

I told her that when I find myself in these situations, I implore the three stoplights.  It comes from a sermon that my pastor preached last year.  He said that whenever he and his wife have a difficult decision ahead of them, that they both go and pray about it.  Then, they come back and talk about what God revealed to them.  A green light means that God revealed that it’s His will, and they should proceed.  A red light means that this is not from God, and they should not proceed.  A yellow light means that they didn’t get a clear feeling either way.  They only move forward with decisions where both get a green light.  There are times when God does not reveal the same thing to each of them.  On several occasions, he has received a green light and his wife has received yellow or red.  If my pastor decided to go ahead with these plans anyway, he said they always went badly.

So that was my advice to her…for her and her husband to both go pray separately and then discuss what God revealed to them.  I said that praying separately lends confirmation to the answer.  Sometimes you aren’t sure if you’re hearing God’s voice or your own voice.  So having God reveal it in two people will help confirm that it’s His will.  It also takes us out of it…our inhibitions, our anxiety, our plans.

VJ said that while she liked the idea, God doesn’t speak to her like that.  It’s usually not so cut and dry.  I told her then ask for clarity too.  Ask for God to remove the clutter, the distractions, and the noise; so that she could hear His voice and His will for this situation.  She’s going to try, so we shall see.

Camel Safari in Dubai

JR just went on a vacation to Dubai with his girlfriend.  He was telling us about all of the touristy things they did while over there, such as going camel riding through the desert.  He couldn’t believe how tall the camels are.  He was describing the process they go through to get the camels to kneel down with their front legs and then lower themselves to the ground with their back legs, so you can get on them.  Apparently, they have these sort of saddles that fit around the hump, so that two people can get on the camel with one in front of the hump and one behind it.

His girlfriend mounted the camel first, climbing in the front.  So, JR climbed onto the back end.  The moment he put his full weight down on the camel, the camel audibly groaned.  He then looked back at JR and gave him a disgusted look.  The camel was finally coaxed into a standing position, but he was not happy.  JR said that it was one of the most uncomfortable things he has ever done, bouncing up and down on the backend of a camel across the uneven desert sands.  He also believes the camel was intentionally finding the “potholes” and altering his gait to make it more uncomfortable for JR.

English as a Butchered Language

My wife has an interesting grasp of the English language.  She is Greek, and she’s fluent in English, but she doesn’t speak the same English that I speak.  She uses words that sound similar to what she’s trying to say, but aren’t quite right.  It’s cute and quirky, and I love it about her. 

So, we were looking at pictures of wolves, and she points at one and says, “Oooh, I really like that picture of the wolf grilling.  He looks so ferocious with the teeth and all.”  I started laughing because all I could think about was a wolf with gold and diamond caps, bearing his teeth, and showing off his grill.

Escape to the Wild (Day 14 – Goodbyes)

I went to visit the wolves again today for the last time.  They were already up howling into the fading night.  Their song sounded as sad as my heart…it was a fitting goodbye.  I will miss them, and I will miss this place.  Maybe if I stayed here long enough, this place would eventually get old and boring.  But I’m not sure that it would.  And even if it did, I think that time would be a long way off.  There is something primal here that tugs at me; something about the simplistic beauty that calls to my heart.  Sometimes I think that humans have overly complicated things in this life.  We have distracted ourselves from what we were meant to do.  I mean it’s funny how the simple things, when they’re the right things, can be more satisfying…more relaxing and peaceful…than all the things in the world I had left behind.  So, you tell me, which one seems more like the life I was meant for?

I know that my wife is sad about leaving as well.  Usually, she is past ready to be home by this point, but not this time.  We were both so burned out by our life.  We really needed this vacation, and we’re not really in a rush to get back to what’s waiting for us.  Time away is never long enough, but we have tried to squeeze every drop of enjoyment out of every day.  So, now we pack and head home.

We made the long drive back to Bozeman.  As we pass familiar sights, it seems like so long ago that we were here.  The Riverside Grill slides by on the right.  Buck’s T-4 Lodge whooshes by on the left.  So much has happened in the last week.  Has it really only been a week?!  Wow!  In my mind and memories, it’s been much longer than that.

We made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare, so we grabbed a terrible lunch at the only restaurant.  After we got boarded, we had a 45-minute delay before finally taking off.  Apparently, the weight calculation computer was malfunctioning, so they had to do their measurements by hand.  Of course the delay meant that we didn’t get out of there before the impending storm struck the area. 

It was the…worst…takeoff…I have ever experienced.  The turbulence was rough, and the plane was all over the place…and that was before we had even left the runway!  The plane literally felt like it was twisting and sliding across the runway.  When the pilot finally managed to get off the ground, it was only one wheel at a time, and the plane was leaning at a dangerous angle to one side.  Just after we were wholly in the air, there were moments when the resistance would cease, and the plane would suddenly drop.  I felt like I was floating for a second, right before I was free falling out of the sky.  The lady next to me had the vomit bag out, and I started to think that that wasn’t a bad idea.  I always said that a bus was going to get me, I just never thought it was going to be an American Airlines Airbus!

We are finally home.  That word, “home,” carries mixed emotions.  I like our home, but right now there is a symbolism tied to it that I’m not eager to pick back up.  It represents the routine, the rut.  I will try, like I do after every vacation, to carry my newfound peace forward into my life.  God showed us amazing things on this vacation, and I can only pray that He’ll continue to show us amazing things now that we’re back in the city.  Or more that our eyes are open to see the amazing things that I’m sure He’s been showing us all along.  If there’s one thing I have learned by my time in Yellowstone, it’s this…

Keep your eyes open because there could be something exciting and amazing around every turn of the road.

Escape to the Wild (Day 13 – Howl)

For the last couple of mornings, I have been getting up early and going out to enjoy the crisp, chilly morning air.  Yesterday, while on my walk, I heard a faint howling echoing down the empty streets.  I slowly followed the sound until I identified the source.  Unfortunately, it had stopped by the time I had gotten there.  At the end of our street is the Grizzly and Wolf Discovery Center.  They rescue animals that would otherwise be euthanized, and people can go there to get an up-close and in-person view of some of the more elusive and dangerous natives of Yellowstone.

The howling I was hearing was coming from several gray wolves in an outside enclosure.  I decided to get up again this morning and try to catch the wolves song with that hope that they did it every morning.  As I trudged down the street in the 20-degree air, I was greeted with only silence.  I started to panic that it was a one-time thing, but I decided to go anyway.  As I crept up toward the chain-link fence, I found a pair of golden eyes staring back at me from the other side.  A gray wolf, although this one was completely white, was watching me with curiosity from the other side. 

I stood there, peering through the cracks in the fence, admiring her sleek beauty when another wolf came out from behind the rocks.  This one was multiple shades of gray and white, and he was bigger than the smaller female.  All of a sudden, he lifted his head up, stretched out his neck, closed his eyes, and started to howl.  It was a high-pitched mournful sound, almost sad.  Pretty soon, the white joined in, and then other wolves from surrounding enclosures that I couldn’t see.  Each with their own unique pitch, as if each was adding his or her own unique voice to the song.  Some were not even howls at all, but merely barks and yips.  As each instrument in a symphony plays a different part, so each wolf lends his voice as he feels moved.

As the sun crept up over the distant mountains, I was reminded of that scene from City of Angels where the angels gather on the beach every morning to welcome the day.  The morning being the time when everything is new and fresh, when they feel closest to the Creator.  So, they gather to listen to the music of the day being created and to lend their voice to its song.  This is how I felt standing there watching and listening to the wolves howl.  That they were lending their voice to the song.

Part 2.

Well, today is our 2^nd 14^th wedding anniversary, so another happy anniversary to my beautiful wife.

It is our last day in the park, which has filled us with both sadness and urgency.  We are sad to be leaving a place that has become comfortable and familiar to us.  We have our routine here now, and it will be hard to have to get back into the old rut.  We feel urgency, because we want to make sure that we squeeze every possible drop that we can out of our experience here.

Not really having anything on the plan, we decided to head back to the Upper Geyser Basin.  The last time we were here, we only saw Old Faithful and didn’t take the time to walk around and see the other geysers, pools, and springs.  We arrived right after Old Faithful had erupted, so we decided to go see the other attractions first.  My wife really wanted to see the Grand Geyser, since it’s supposed to be absolutely spectacular when it erupts.  Unfortunately, it only erupts once a day, and it wasn’t going off until around 8 p.m. tonight.  We had similar luck with the Castle Geyser.  About the only one we got to enjoy was “Spazzy,” the Spasmodic Geyser.

While walking to and from the other geyser area, we came across a bison that was throwing a temper tantrum.  Apparently, someone had gotten too close while trying to take a picture, and he didn’t like that.  So, he was sulking in the trees, refusing to look at anyone.  The park ranger was shooing people away from him, giving him a time out.

We made it back to witness Old Faithful blow its top again.  I was almost arrested for throttling a man to death when he decided to stand up right in front of me, so that he could take a video and picture at the same time.  He was a Japanese man.  We have had a terrible experience with the bus loads of Orientals touring the park.  They are rude, pushy, inconsiderate of your space and position to take pictures, and they talk incessantly and at high volumes which sometimes scares away the animals.  I was able to move over enough to still get the geyser at its peak, which saved him.

We talked to a park ranger at the information center, and he told us that we might be able to see wolves in the Lamar Valley, so we decided to attempt to drive all the way there.  Lamar Valley is on the opposite side of the park from Old Faithful, and the direct road through Dunraven Pass is closed eight months of the year due to excessive snow.  So, we had to drive all the way around through Mammoth Hot Springs.  It took us a little over two hours, but we finally made it.

On the way to the Lamar Valley, we stopped off at the Petrified Tree.  It’s a descendant of the ancient Redwoods and was petrified in the volcanic eruption that shaped much of Yellowstone.  A large portion of the trunk of the tree is still standing and stands as a monument, hundreds of years old.

The Lamar Valley and the mountains around it were amazingly beautiful.  We were shocked that we hadn’t come over here before.  As we were gawking at the scenery, we almost missed the coyote walking down the road.  We stopped to take his picture as he went off the side of the road, chasing something to eat.  His coloring was very pretty…a camouflage mixture of orange, brown, black, gray, and white.  We watched him hunt for several minutes before he finally trotted off down the road.

We next stopped at the Soda Butte Cone, a striking thermal cone near Soda Butte Creek.  As we stopped to take some pictures, we ran into another couple that were gazing out at the fields and mountains across the creek.  We learned from them that on several trips to Yellowstone, that they had seen bears in this area.  They were hoping to catch one again.  We told them that we had come up here to find wolves.  So far, both of us had been disappointed.

By this point, it was getting late.  We didn’t figure that we were going to see any wolves today, so we headed back.  A few miles down the road, we found a large group of cars pulled over on the side of the road.  All of the people had binoculars or telescopes and were peering off into the distant trees.  We stopped and asked them what they were looking at, and one guy told me that there were three wolves over there…a gray and two blacks.  We couldn’t see the wolves with the naked eye, but someone mentioned that the park ranger on the hill behind us might be able to tell us more about them.

We climbed up the hill to talk to him, and he was not only kind enough to explain about the wolves, but he also let us look at them through his telescope.  At first all we could observe was some black lumps laying in the grass.  But as we stood there, a grizzly bear suddenly came out of the trees right into the middle of the three wolves resting area.  The wolves, completely not intimidated by the bear, walked toward it and started circling it.  The park ranger was describing the scene and explaining that neither side was showing aggression.  It looked more like curiosity.  He again let us look at the scene across the creek, and we were finally able to see the wolves and the bear. It was a still a little blurry from that far away, but we could clearly make out their shapes.  I would still like to see a wolf a little closer, but my wife said that we’re counting it.

Interesting Fact:  The park ranger that we were talking to about the wolves was none other than Rick McIntyre.  Ranger Rick is famous inside the park as the “Wolf Man” for his years spent observing the behavior of the wolves within and across the packs.  He knows more about the wolves of Yellowstone than any other person.