Lost

It had been a horrible week. Stressed and exhausted…I was worn down by lack of sleep and a brain addled by too much second guessing and a plummeting sense of self-worth. I’ve often heard the phrase “running on empty” and by Friday of that week I felt as hollow as a cave...and just as dark and dreary.

It was my sixth straight week on the road. Week after week in a different hotel, meeting with different people and feeling further and further from my family and the warm comfort of home. I’d been doing this kind of travelling for a long time, but I’d hit a low point. I did not like myself that week. I did not like the world I was living in.

Friday morning did not feel like going home as much as it felt like escaping. I quickly packed my suitcase and duffel bag and put my laptop in my backpack. I could not get out of there fast enough.

The Twinbook Metro stop on the Red Line of the Washington Metro system is just across the street from the Rockville, Maryland Hilton. I had walked out the back of that hotel many times in the last ten years and rolled my bags the hundred or so yards to the Metro entrance. From that Metro station it is normally a 45 minute train ride (with a change from the Red to Yellow line) to the Reagan National Airport. I could do it in my sleep.

When I reached the platform, I expected to check the monitor and see that a train would arrive in the next three to five minutes, but that was not the case. The monitor listed the next train arriving in 9 minutes. 9 minutes is an eternity on a train platform…at least when you are desperately ready to go home.

I found a piece of wall and leaned against it, dropping my backpack to the ground and pulling my suitcase and duffel close against me. It was 11:30am and my flight was scheduled to start boarding at 1:10pm. I should still be fine, I thought. As long as I’m there by 12:30.

I didn’t check my watch, but it seemed much longer than nine minutes when the train finally rolled to a stop in front of me. I recalled the previous week when I had missed a train because I politely stood back and let others board in front of me. The doors had closed and left me on that platform feeling charitable, but also slightly foolish. I did not have time for either on this day. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and hurried through the open doors of the train.

Oddly, for being so far outside of the city, the train car was already nearly full. With my large bag hindering me, I was forced to stand in the space near the door. I thought of the long, swaying ride ahead of me and that little voice in my head that loves to make things worse whispered, “you know that you will probably get motion sick.”

At the next stop I moved back to make room for the half dozen or so new passengers who squeezed their way into the car. As the door closed I looked down at my suitcase and suddenly had the uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right. I took a quick inventory and immediately realized that I was missing my backpack.

My brain was tired, but it put the pieces together anyway. I had left my backpack leaning against the wall on the Twinbrook Metro station. I was in such a hurry to get on the train that I did not stoop to pick it up. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach.

I turned pale with panic and beads of sweat popped up on my brow. Inside my backpack was my personal laptop, with family photos, videos, slideshows and attempts at writing. I tried to remember when I had last done a back up and wondered what had been lost forever. It was gone, many internal voices were telling me, and it was my own stupid fault.

A few minutes later we pulled into the next station. I staggered off, probably looking like a wild-eyed lunatic to anyone nearby. I quickly devised a plan of returning to the Twinbrook station while simultaneously assuring myself that it was pointless. Too many people come and go in those stations, I told myself. The backpack was gone.

According to the monitor, the next train heading back the way I had come was due into the station in three minutes. I started pacing, pulling my heavy bag behind me and muttering words like “idiot” and “moron.”

There were not many people on the platform, which was fortunate, but I did notice one young man who was looking my way with some concern. I thought at first that he might call security but instead he approached me and asked, “Is there something wrong?”

I told him my tale of woe and regret and he calmly listened. I’m not sure how much sense I was making because my breaths and words were choppy, my lungs felt like they had been reduced to the size of golf balls. Being rather cynical about human nature in general, I was surprised at his look of sincere concern. I was even more surprised by what he said next.

“It will be okay. I’m going to pray that it all works out.”

I meet a lot of people when I travel. Most do not inspire confidence. It’s not that they are bad people, but it’s exceptionally rare to meet someone who offers genuine compassion. Most of us put up walls in public. We wear masks to hide ourselves from others. We don’t want to get involved in someone else’s problems.

The train arrived and the young man followed me onboard. He started asking me about my life; where I was from and what I did for a living. He asked about my family and we learned that we had both grown up near Louisville, Ky. As I answered his questions, I felt my breathing returning to something that resembled normal. The pounding in my chest began to ease and the screaming in my brain calmed down.

He apologized when we reached the next stop, saying that he had to exit but wished he could stay and find out what happened to my bag. We shook hands and I thanked him, telling him that I appreciated his efforts to calm me down and regain my senses. He turned back just before he stepped out the door and said loudly, “I’ll keep praying…it will be alright!”

I sat down and thought about what he said. It would be alright. The laptop was almost certainly gone, but it was just a thing. It was frustrating and I knew that I would spend many hours wondering what exactly I had lost since the last backup, but it would be alright. People go through much worse.

We arrived at the Twinbrook station and I stepped out into the cool crisp air. I took a deep breath and made my way down the platform toward the wall where I had been leaning. I checked the time and confirmed that I had been gone for nineteen minutes. I whispered a little prayer, “God, please let it be there.”

I turned the corner and there was nothing but empty wall and empty floor. The bag was gone. I was disappointed, but not surprised.

I glanced around to see if it had been moved or if by chance someone was carrying it, but it was simply not there. I debated my options. It was past noon now, and my time to get to my flight was getting tight. If a train came soon, I could still make it. However, if there was any chance of finding my laptop bag, I felt I should risk it. There was always another flight back to Knoxville.

I decided that it was worth the time to check with the Station Manager, just in case there was a Good Samaritan on the platform that day. I have to admit, my confidence level was low. I have a tendency to live in worse case scenarios, so I was fairly certain that my effort was pointless.

Inside his glass booth, the manager was on the phone, so I waited. It didn’t sound like a business conversation, but I didn’t interrupt. It’s not that I was overly patient at the time, but I didn’t mind prolonging the bad news.

When he hung up the phone, I knocked on the glass and he opened the door with a frown. “Can I help you?”

I stammered a bit and finally spit out, “Did anyone turn in a black backpack?”

He looked at me suspiciously and said, “What’s in it?”

I exploded with a list of contents like a kid giving his Christmas list to Santa, “A blue Acer 17 inch laptop, a cell phone charger, a USAToday newspaper, four black thumb drives, a set of keys on a blue metal key-ring, a bottle of motion sick pills…”

He held up his hand to stop me. “I guess this is yours then.” He reached under his desk and pulled out my backpack. I nearly cried.

I thanked him about five times and said that I wished I knew who turned it in so I could thank them too. He said it was a Metro staff person, so I asked him to please offer my sincere appreciation to that worker. I walked away feeling twenty pounds lighter, despite the weight of my twelve pound bag once again hanging on my shoulder.

It was too late to catch the train. If I had a chance to make my flight, I had to get a taxi. I grabbed my bags and ran back across the street to the hotel. I made my way to the lobby and out the front where cabs were always waiting. Except that day.

I was almost resolved to miss my flight when I saw one of the black sedans from the Limousine service pull up to the front. As soon as the driver finished helping their passenger with their bags and received his payment, I grabbed him. “Can you take me to the airport RIGHT NOW?”

He looked at me slightly confused, but I am very used to getting that expression from people. I explained further, “My plane starts boarding in forty minutes, can you get me there?”

He nodded and said, “Thirty minutes…unless we have traffic.”

I threw my suitcase and duffel bag in the trunk and hugged my backpack close against me as I settled into the backseat of his comfortable Lincoln sedan. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Whether I made the flight or not, I could relax for a while.

My mind raced through the events of the morning but stopped on the young man I had met on the platform. I wished that I had gotten his e-mail so I could thank him again and let him know that his prayers had been answered. I also wished I could introduce him to my oldest daughter.

It struck me that despite my own best efforts to ruin my day; I had been sent some guardian angels. The young man calmed me down when I was ready to lay down on the tracks…and the station workers did the right thing, reminding me that the better part of human nature actually is honest. These people not only helped me that day with a lost backpack, they helped soften an increasingly cynical heart, which truly is a miracle. I had much to be grateful for.



***In case you’re wondering…yes, I did make my flight, but not without a few more hoops to jump through. By that point, I was taking it all in stride. Things that would have frustrated me before just gave me a chuckle. All it takes sometimes is a slight adjustment in your perspective.

Intruders

About a week before Halloween, the year after our encounter with the bat, I was awakened from a deep and peaceful sleep by a loud noise from within our home. Sitting straight up in the bed, I looked at the clock and saw that it was just past one a.m. Connie had heard it too and grabbed my arm. “What was that,” she said, in a frightened whisper.

“Shhhh...” I hissed, and listened carefully to the silence we were now drowning in. It was one of those ridiculous moments when you want to hear the noise again, to confirm that it really happened, but also didn’t want to hear it, because that would prove that something was making the noise.

I swung my legs off the bed and set my feet quietly on the floor. The noise replayed in my head over and over and I tried to make my best guess as to where it had come from. When my mind cleared from its sleepy fog, I reasoned that the sound must have originated downstairs. It was not the sound of breaking glass, but could have been something knocked over as an intruder stumbled around in the dark.

I slowly made my way out of the bedroom and into the hallway; my hands reaching out along the way for something to use as a weapon but finding only a hairbrush and some jewelry on top of the dresser. I tried to remember where my baseball bat was and then recalled that it was in the storeroom downstairs, along with anything else I might conceivably use to protect myself and my family.

I cautiously opened the door to the basement a few inches and listened. At first I couldn’t hear anything, but then I could make out a strange break in the silence. It didn’t register as a recognizable sound, but more like a soft change in the tone of nothingness.

I slipped my hand through the doorway and flipped on the switch for the light on the steps. I half expected to hear footsteps and the hurried rush of our intruder to escape, but there was nothing. I knew that this could be either very good or very bad news.

At this point I had the option of calling 911 or investigating for myself. With no weapon and having little or no skills at martial arts or hand to hand combat, the logical thing would have been to close and lock the basement door and call the professionals. I, however, in an extremely rare moment of perceived masculinity, decided to live free and die hard. My name is Bruce W. after all.

I moved carefully down the first few stairs, cringing with each alarmingly loud creak of the wood beneath my feet. There were six stairs down to a landing and three more stairs after turning a blind corner before reaching the basement. If someone was waiting on those lower steps, I would have little time to rush back up the stairs to lock the door.

I listened again and the odd, broken noise was louder. If I could describe it, I would say it sounded like someone with asthma taking a long, wheezy breath. I froze. The sound was almost identical to the breathing noise that Jason Voorhees made behind his mask in the Friday the 13th movies. My mind tortured me with the words that followed his intense respiration on film…”kill, kill, kill.”

Then my nostrils flared at a sudden, pungent smell that I didn’t expect. It was a hot smell, not like wood burning or fire, but like burning hair. It was strong and getting even stronger.

I slid down the wall and peeked around the corner, not sure what I might encounter, but very relieved to see the sliding glass doors that led outside were closed and locked, glass still intact. The breathing sound continued to grow louder and the stench was beginning to smell like burning rubber. My heart beat furiously in my chest and my own breathing was becoming somewhat panicked.

I moved onto the landing and stepped down, but stopped short of the last step. The light switch for the basement family room was just around the corner and I twisted my arm around blindly to find it. I half expected someone or something to grab my hand in the dark, which would have surely caused me to drop dead of a heart failure or at the very least awaken everyone within a five block radius with my high-pitched siren scream.

I found the switch and with a deep breath flipped it upward, bathing the area in the warm glow of soft white bulbs. The noise and smell did not alter or stop; and whatever was causing it apparently had no fear of me or any weapon I might be bringing with me down the stairs. I considered yelling out some manly threat like, “I’ve got a gun,” or “the police are on the way,” but I was pretty sure that the fear in my voice would come out sounding like Barney Fife or a six year old girl, so I stayed stoically silent.

Gathering all my nerves, I peered around the corner to see what horror awaited me. My eyes scanned the room for shadowy figures or grotesque monsters and finally settled upon two furry lumps lying calmly on the green felt of our pool table.

The grey tabby looked at me like I had just woken her from a peaceful slumber. The black cat was more alert, but taunted me with a “what are you doing here?” look on his face. If not for the loud, hissing breathing sound still emanating from somewhere in the room and the stench burning my eyes and nose, it could not have been more peaceful.

Let me stop here and explain a little bit about the cats. It’s no secret that I am not a pet person. This is not to say that I don’t like animals. That is not true. I enjoy visiting zoos and love a good horse movie. I think aquariums full of fish are really swell and I was a big fan of the Lassie shows as a kid. I like animals just fine. I just don’t particularly want to have a pet.

I’m can’t remember how we got those two particular cats, but I know that I had nothing to do with it. Like most of our horrible experiences with pets I’m sure it started off with someone’s best intentions. You know the kind. They always say things like, “Every child needs a pet, blah, blah, blah,” and “those allergies are all in your head.”

As usual, I went along for the ride (mostly in the backseat, and sometimes in the trunk).

Anyway, the cats were not guests in our house for a very long period, and their untimely demises (which I assure you were not of my doing) are now the stuff of neighborhood legend, but in their brief stay we seemed to have had a mutual agreement to stay out of each other’s way. Most of the time, it worked out just fine.

I stepped down and walked over the table, relatively sure at this point that no one was lurking in a corner to get me, but still completely perplexed over the continuing noise and the overpowering smell. The cats watched me with their wide, glassy eyes and I asked them, “Okay, what did you do?”

And then I saw it.

Behind the pool table, lying on the floor, was our ironing board…and beside it, hissing loudly and burning its way through our carpet and the foam pad beneath, was our iron.

I grabbed the hot iron and pulled it from the sticky, melted mess of the carpet and pad. Thank goodness for the cheap material of the low cost floor covering because a good shag rug would have probably burst into flame rather than melt into black goo. We were very lucky.

One thing I know is that Connie is very vigilant about turning off the iron when she uses it. Most of the time she unplugs it, but she always turns it off. Anyone who’s seen my wrinkled shirts knows that I rarely iron, so that left me with one explanation. Obviously one of the cats had jumped on the ironing board and toppled it over. When the iron hit the floor the switch had somehow turned on.

After unplugging and safely putting away the ruined iron, I gave the cats one last disappointed look (which they totally ignored) and made my way back to bed. Connie looked relieved when I walked back into the room and asked what had happened. It was too late and I was too tired to go into detail, so I just said “stupid cats…” before collapsing into bed and pulling the blanket over my head. She knew me well enough to let it wait until morning for the rest of the story.

Going Batty

It was a dark and stormy night…

Actually, no…it was dark, but the sky was clear and the air was crisp and cool. It was a beautiful October evening; the night before Halloween 1996. I swear upon the grave of Daniel Webster that the story I am about to share is true.

It was a little after 9pm. We had just tucked our Shelby and Ashlyn into bed and Connie and I had settled onto the couch to watch a little television. I can’t remember what we had planned to view because within minutes of sitting down, the phone started ringing. I stepped into the kitchen to answer the phone and barely started the conversation when I heard Connie scream.

Our kitchen at the time had a door on one end that opened into the hallway that led out of our living room to our bedrooms. The other end was open to a small dining nook and back into our living room. Essentially, you could make a circle through our kitchen into our living room and back.

As I looked up in reaction to the frightened yell of my usually calm and rational wife, I heard the strange flap of wings and came face to fangy face with a large bat. It swooped past my head and flew through our kitchen, making a wide turn through our living room and back past my face again.

This was not one of those little bats that you see flying out of chimneys and caves at twilight. I’ve seen those before. I don’t like them, but I’m not completely freaked out by them. This was what I call a “movie” bat. The wingspan was over a foot wide and its head looked to be the size of a tennis ball. It looked like the thing that Gilligan turned into in that weird vampire episode I watched growing up.

I know what you are thinking. I am obviously exaggerating the size of what was simply a regular bat. Or maybe it was even a bird that I mistook for a bat. In the hysteria of the moment, I could have only thought it was a bat. That is logical, and if I were alone when it happened, I would tend to agree. However, as I said, my very logical and clear headed wife can confirm my story. It was a bat. It was big. And it was in our house.

I hung up the phone (after politely saying I would have to call them back) and told Connie to run back and close the kid’s bedroom door. Crawling quickly through the flight zone, she did just that, and locked herself in with the girls.
I dodged the next pass of the bat and ran to the front door, unsure of what to do except hold the door open and hope that it would fly out on its own. From behind the glass of the storm door I watched as it circled, again and again, and wondered how long I could wait. Looking once again at the wingspan and the pointy ears on its massive head, I decided I could wait a good, long while. It was a beautiful night and I decided that the fresh air would do me good.

After twenty minutes of watching and carrying on an anxious conversation with Connie through the window of the bedroom where she was trapped, I saw the monster bat finally fly through the opening and disappear into the night sky. I hurried inside, closing and locking the door.

We checked all the windows and access points (upstairs, downstairs, attic, and basement) and could find no obvious point of entry for the creature. We never found a sign of its existence. No scratch marks on the walls, no little bat droppings. We had no idea how long it had been in the house before it made its presence known. It could have been hiding under our bed or in one of our closets for days or even weeks. It was more than a little un-nerving.

The mystery has never been solved.

It won't happen to me...

A recent study claims that despite new laws banning the act of texting while driving, the percentage of accidents due to texting might actually be increasing. The study suggests that now that drivers can be stopped, ticketed and fined when they are seen texting by police officers, they have not discontinued their behavior, but are doing so in a more discreet manner. Instead of holding the phone at windshield level (where their actions can be viewed), they are holding their phones lower; therefore taking their eyes and concentration even further from the road.

How stupid are we?

I won’t go into the numbers. The statistics are overwhelming regarding the percentages of drivers who text and the number of deaths caused by distracted drivers. Do a Google search: “Texting while driving.” Pages and pages of the same data will be available to you, but do you really need it?   Does it take a genius to know that this is an incredibly dumb and dangerous thing to do?

In today’s world, texting is becoming the default communication. It’s the way teens (and a lot of adults) talk. Many feel that not responding to a text immediately is the same as ignoring someone who asks you a question face to face. Even while driving, they consider it “rude” not to answer.

Amazingly stupid.

Like all idiotic things people do on the road (speeding, aggressive driving, driving while under the influence), it wouldn’t be so bad if they had the road completely to themselves. We have all heard the expression “they think they own the road.” Apparently, many people actually do.

When I heard of a single car accident in Knoxville a few months back where the driver was killed while racing down a busy street at speeds in excess of 120mph, I felt bad for the family (and no matter how an accident happens, there will be pain and loss experienced by someone), but I was also glad that this person was no longer on the road. I drive that road with my family. My wife drives that road. My daughters drive that road.

People get behind the wheel of their car and forget the awesome responsibility that they are taking on. The crushing weight, speed and power of the vehicles we drive can change from a beneficial mode of transportation into a violently brutal weapon of destruction in a matter of seconds. Unlike the little Matchbox cars I pushed around my bedroom floor as a child, they are not toys.

We are spoiled and selfish. We want what we want. We get aggravated when someone is driving in the passing lane and going too slow (I’m as guilty of this as anyone). We fuss and fume when people do not race through a yellow light so that we can follow. We honk our horns if they do not floor it as soon as the light turns green.

We are not only the most important person on the road at all times; we are the only person who has the right to actually be there.  I have places to go and things to do! Why don’t these people get out of my way? Why don’t they know where I am going? Where did they learn to drive?

Our excuses and justifications are endless:

I am an excellent driver.


I’ve never had an accident.


I’ve never had a speeding ticket.


I only had a couple of drinks.


I don’t text often…


It won’t happen to me…

I get angry about this kind of thing because it’s personal. It’s not just personal to me; it should be personal to all of us. My worst fear is that dreaded phone call or knock on the door, when someone’s moment of stupid might forever change my family’s future.

Part of me wants to grab my wife and kids and go hide somewhere deep in the Canadian woods (this is also my fall-back plan if Sarah Palin is ever elected President), but I’m not sure the kids could handle the lack of cell phone reception.

Yes…my kid’s text. So does my wife. Occasionally I even get my own chubby fingers to bang out a message. Like many things taken on their own, texting is not evil. It’s just the way that we opt to use it.

My kids know my rules. They know that if I ever find out that they are texting and driving they lose the phone (and a good bit of their driving privileges). They know that if they need to answer or make a phone call while driving, they need to pull over. They know these things. I pray they do these things, because I can’t be with them all the time (and I think they know that despite what I have told them in the past, I do not actually have a video camera hidden in the car).

I hope that if I have taught my children anything about responsibility, it is that they are not just responsible for themselves, but also those around them. As I’ve told my daughters many times, the only thing worse that causing an accident that gets yourself killed, is causing an accident that kills someone else and having to live with that the rest of your life.

Springs Eternal

It could be a long, rough, angry life if we didn’t have the ability to laugh at ourselves. If I’ve learned one thing about myself, it’s that I am a walking amusement park of stumbles and gaffes, so if I didn’t laugh I’d have a long row to hoe. As it is, I would rather giggle than fume, so I try to look at things with a reasonable perspective. As long as I haven’t hurt anyone else, I try to shrug off my goofs with a smile.

I was a clumsy kid; and apparently it was a very rare thing for me not to have some type of bandage, stitches, a plaster cast or a large, purple bruise somewhere on my body. If there was a tree root snaking through the grass, I would trip over it. If there was a slick spot on the hardwood floor, I would slip on it.

By the time I was twelve years old I had fallen face first into a galvanized bucket (8 stitches), rode my bike into a barbed wire fence (10 stitches) , crashed into a coffee table (5 stitches) and broken both arms. Trust me when I say that these are just a few highlights from a long list of injuries (and I have the scars to prove it), but I think you get the picture.

One of my greatest humiliations, and therefore the one that brings my children the greatest joy whenever they hear the story, was an incident that occurred in my freshman year of high school. At that time it was required that all ninth graders take Physical Education (or as I liked to call it: one miserable hour of unrelenting HELL in an otherwise stressful day).

When you are blessed with neither the slightest shred of gracefulness nor an ounce of athletic ability, the daily torture of attempting to perform a variety of seemingly impossible tasks while wearing a snug white t-shirt and ill-fitting white shorts gave new meaning to the term “awkward.” Like most kids who were teasingly called “pudgy” (at least on a good day), white was not my color. It was an incredible boost to my self-esteem.  (sarcasm)

Of course, I was well aware of my own limits. When it was time to climb the big rope (which hung from the roof of the gymnasium some 40 or 400 feet above), I told my parents that I would probably fail the class. Not only was I completely positive that I did not have the physical ability to climb to the top of the rope, I was absolutely certain that when I inevitably lost my grip and slid downward with ever increasing speed, I would severely burn my hands and inner thighs in the attempt to stop. Between that foregone conclusion and a fairly strong aversion to the big knot at the bottom, I knew that my climb would not end well.
Through a careful balance of luck, skilled avoidance and faking sick, I was able to skip out on the joys of “rope-climbing” days.

The story that haunts me, however, even today, did not involve the rope. It was one of those winter days when we couldn’t go outside and run. Rather than play Volleyball, which was one of the few things I actually enjoyed, Coach Kuhl decided to teach us the intricacies of the trampoline.

For safety, he had us all gather around the outer edges of the trampoline. We were instructed to be careful of flying feet and elbows, but also that it was our responsibility to stop any of our fellow students who bounced wrong and became human projectiles. We braced ourselves to save lives.

I can still remember, very clearly, his detailed instructions on the proper mounting of the trampoline. From the narrow end of the stand, we were to grasp the frame firmly with both hands and jump straight up, dropping our head and pushing up with our arms so that we could tuck and roll smoothly on to the top. It looked very easy. He called on one of my more athletically inclined classmates to show us how it was done, and they did so with the grace of an Olympic gymnast.

In my deluded mind, I could see and feel myself doing the same. Jump, push, lift, tuck, roll…I could do this.

Although the class was not officially co-ed, there were certain activities in which the girls having class during that period joined the boys. Trampoline day was one of those days. In hindsight, I’m not sure it was a spectacularly great idea to have teenage boys and teenage girls watch each other jump up and down on a trampoline in tight white t-shirts and shorts, but I personally have no memory of it being a problem or a distraction. I was completely focused on the task at hand.

As each student took their turn, we slowly rotated around the trampoline frame. When I finally reached the end of the line, I was ready. I grasped the frame like I was supposed to, then waited for the Coach to give me the nod to go ahead. I closed my eyes and talked myself through the mounting steps.

I jumped…and felt myself rising. I dropped my head…chin to chest, just as I had been told. My arms tightened and lifted my body even further….then I felt myself tuck and start to roll forward. I could feel the watchful stare of forty pair of eyes upon me. I was almost there…

…and then my forward momentum stopped.

It took a moment to realize where I was and what I had done. I was not lying on the black mat of the trampoline like I should have been. I was still gripping the padded frame with both hands and my feet were flailing wildly above my body. Somehow (and I find this particularly amazing considering the size of my noggin), as I tucked and rolled, my head slipped between two of the heavy springs which provide the bounce in the trampoline and got stuck.

I’m not sure what this must have looked like to my classmates. I’ve tried to visualize it in a way that looked somewhat natural or even cool, but after years of trying I have accepted that it is impossible. I was stuck upside down, legs flopping wildly in all directions, head missing in the underworld of the trampoline.

My kids would rob a bank to buy a video of this.

I don’t know how long I stayed there like that. It seemed like hours. I don’t recall hearing laughter, although with my ears pinned so tightly in the grip of those springs, I don’t think I could have heard anything anyway. Eventually, Coach Kuhl got over his shock and came to my rescue. He grabbed the springs and spread them apart enough for my head to pop free. Fortunately, my legs were flopping in the direction of the trampoline, so I collapsed into a motionless heap…surrounded by a large group of my peers.

It took a while to get my body to move again, and I wasn’t up to bouncing or doing flips at that point, so I just rolled to the edge and slithered off the side. Although my legs were shaking I was able to stand and walk. Coach Kuhl said I could hit the showers early and it wasn’t until I was looking in the mirror in the locker room that I saw the striped red whelps that had burned into both sides of my neck and face. Small patches of hair were missing and later found still trapped between the tight coils of the trampoline springs.

I’m eternally grateful that this little experience took place in the days before cell phones and viral videos. I would not enjoy being a YouTube laughingstock.

Still, I can look back on it now and laugh. Not as hard as my kids do whenever they think of my head stuck in the springs of that trampoline. Not nearly as hard as my friend Thaddeus, who asks to hear the story again like it’s a child’s favorite bedtime story. Probably not as hard as any of my classmates whom I have foolishly hoped wiped it from their memory.

The only one who doesn’t laugh quite as hard is my sweet, loving wife Connie. She looks on with a balanced mix of compassion, good humor and concern. I’m pretty sure that the concern is not for me, though. I know that she is thinking, “Why did I marry this guy?”

Road Trips

I enjoy the concept of a road trip. The dream of the open highway and the beauty of the American countryside flowing by is a glorious thing. If not for time and scheduling, I’d rather drive than fly. There’s something freeing about being behind the wheel and in control of your own destiny.

Like a lot of things, however, these trips can get idealized in our minds before we ever open the car door. The open road is not really so open. There are other cars, pickups, motorcycles and massive trucks which get in our way, block our view and endanger our existence. There’s road construction and speed traps and potholes; you have to take the good with the bad.

Last Saturday we left home at 8am to drive the two hundred and eleven miles to my parent’s house to surprise my Mom for her birthday. Shelby and Ashlyn couldn’t get off of work, so it was just Connie, Taylor and I. It was the first time we’ve only had one child in the car for a trip since before Ashlyn was born. Instead of the constant chatter of three voices in the back seat, we only had the constant chatter of one. That evening as we drove back home, I was reminded of some of the best and worst things about our family road trips.

Best

The excitement of leaving.  There’s something about getting out of the house early in the morning and getting settled into the car that gives you a little thrill. This is best if you know you are actually heading off to a real vacation, but it’s still fun just to know you’re going somewhere.

Worst

The frustration of leaving.  Those last minute arguments and searches for shoes, IPods, cameras and car keys. The check and double check of lights, stove, locks and windows. The battle over who sits where in the car and why it’s not fair because someone ALWAYS has to sit in the middle. Of course, after everyone is settled and you think that you are ready to go, someone remembers something they absolutely must take and you have turn off the car, get out, unlock the house and start all over again.

Best

Road music! Certain songs seem made for cruising down the highway. My personal playlist would include almost anything by the Eagles, Jackson Browne, Lynard Skynard, Boston, Kansas and REM. Certain songs seem to merge with the speed and rhythm of the road, but you have to be careful. When I was commuting back and forth to college I wore out the cassette tape of The Police performing the song “Synchronicity II.” That song started out fast and built in tempo as if the drums, guitar and lyrics were racing each other to see who could reach the end of the song first. My foot seemed to want to keep the beat as well, and I often found myself edging past 90 mph on Interstate 64 on my way home. I soon learned I was better off listening to the Eagles singing “Take it Easy.”

Worst

Road Music! I have learned the hard way that my experience with road music is only great if I am in complete control of the music and I am the only person in the vehicle. Connie and I both love the “70’s on 7” channel on satellite radio, but when a disco song comes on, I want to change it and she goes into foggy eyed memory mode. I do not “boogie.” Never have, never will.

It’s even worse when the girls are in the car. No matter how well I hide the audio cable that plugs their IPods into the car sound system, they always seem to find it. They have also learned how to make their own mix cd’s. These are often painful and contain no central theme or pattern, other than the songs they like at the moment.

While I argue that they need to bring headphones to listen to the music that they like, they insist that we should all HAVE to listen. They are like parent’s trying to get kids to eat brussel sprouts: “If you try it you will like it…and if you don’t like it at first, or it makes you feel nauseous, just keep going, it will get tolerable and eventually you’ll love it.”

On a good day, there might be one song in twenty that we all equally like. Depending upon the general tolerance level of the moment (and let’s face it, there’s not a lot of tolerance amongst my three girls as they sit in the backseat of a car), they can either listen to a song they don’t like with mild disdain or decide that they won’t have to hear much of it if they simply grumble their way through it.

Best

Road food! One of the joys of driving for a long distance is the promise of stopping along the way to eat. My general preference is to try something new, not the same old thing I can get in my home area. With the family, however, stability and familiarity is important, so we’ve learned we can’t go wrong with Cracker Barrel or McDonald’s. Both for variety or price, these give us the options we need and the speed to get us back out on the road quickly. It’s a rare road trip that we don’t stop at one (or both) of these establishments.

Worst
Road food! Although I should know better, I have many weak moments where I tend to forget who I am dealing with and make the mistake of asking, “Where would everyone like to eat?” The battle that follows is bloodless but verbally brutal. No one likes the same thing, and their individual likes and dislikes seem to change from hour to hour. If they liked Arby’s yesterday, they simply “aren’t in the mood for it today.” (This is usually in response to someone else saying “I would really like some Arby’s!”).

I’ve made lots of mistakes, but I’m learning. I’ve learned that a Wendy’s Frosty is not a satisfactory replacement for a Dairy Queen Blizzard.

I’ve learned that no matter how sincere a person seems when they say “I’m not picky…you know what I like, “ that I should just hand them cash and INSIST that they order for themselves.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that no matter how much they beg, I should never stop for Mexican food or let them order chili.

Best

Time together! At its best, a road trip can remind you how much fun your family can be. For some strange reason, I am much funnier in our car than I am at any other time. Even Connie, who generally stopped finding me amusing quite some time ago, will laugh at my quips in the car. Maybe it’s the hypnotically lulling sounds of the tires. It reduces her resistance.

When the girls aren’t arguing over music or food or whose elbow is in whose side, they can be adorably sweet in the car. They will break into song and harmonize together. They will play silly games. They laugh.

When it’s quiet, I’ll move the rearview mirror just so I can watch them sleep.

Worst

The smells! If boys are grosser than girls, I’m glad we didn’t have any sons. I’m fairly positive that some of their tennis shoes and sandals were made with possum hides, because when they take them off in the car, it smells like week old August road kill. Other odors flow forward as well, and they can’t be blamed on the shoes. As mine and Connie’s windows roll down and we gasp for breath, the giggles follow. Apparently, there is no shame amongst family.


As we crossed the state line on our way back into Tennessee Saturday night, darkness had fallen and Taylor was sleeping quietly in the back seat. She didn’t have to sit in the middle on this trip. She had the entire seat to herself and was stretched out across it.

I couldn’t help but wonder if she was more comfortable sleeping that way, or squeezed in between her sisters with her head on Shelby’s shoulder? Our trips are changing. Fewer and fewer trips will find us all together. Sooner than I am prepared for it will be just Connie and I, driving in relative peace, listening to the music we want to listen to.

I’m sure that as I think back on our family road trips, even the “worst” things about them will be cherished memories.

Swiss Cheese Mind

Since I was never very good at sports, or much of anything else, one of the rare qualities I could take some small measure of personal pride in was my ability to remember random, frequently useless bits of lore, legend or unimportant fact. In particular, I was good at movie and television trivia.

Throughout high school and college, I devoured books and magazines about films and film-makers. I don’t know whether it was due to my youth or just a keen interest, but my brain was able to retain that information like a fat sponge. For years it was a useful party trick, and I think that often people thought I was much smarter than I was because I didn’t just know the year a film was released, but also who wrote it, directed it and whether the lead actor had an affair with the lead actress during filming.

Fortunately, they didn’t ask me any questions that would require Algebra.

Before we all had access to the World Wide Web, friends and family members would call me for the sole purpose of asking, “Who was that guy in that show? You know…the one with the girl?” I’m not sure what was scarier…that they would ask such a vague question…or that I would usually know exactly what guy and what show they were talking about.

So, I had a reputation. In retrospect, it was kind of sad and pointless reputation, but it was basically all I had, so I shined it up and placed it on my mantel. Did you need to know the chronological filmography of Spielberg, Scorcese, DePalma or Hitchcock? I was your guy. Curious about the color template of cinematographer Gordon Willis, or the editing style of Verna Fields? I could regal you for hours. It was a hobby that was more interesting to me than any job I ever had.

With the advent of the Internet, I found new avenues of information. Websites devoted to the kind of details I loved; operated by kindred spirits. I learned the term “film geek” and recognized immediately that I had always been one…I just didn’t know the name.

My lovely wife Connie, who…like most women…had dreamed of marrying a tall, dark, rugged and handsome Sean Connery or Sam Elliott type had to adjust her expectations a wee bit to accommodate my average height, pale skin, and injury prone clumsiness. I was lucky that throughout our months of dating, I often had a cold, which fortunately lowered the timbre of my voice by at least an octave. By the time my sinuses cleared and she heard my natural speaking tone, with its occasional higher pitched falsetto exclamations, we were already married. Occasionally I will attempt to treat her to a Connery style Scottish brogue, usually failing miserably, but even after a week of strep throat I don’t try to imitate the gravelly baritone manliness of Sam Elliott. I don’t think that her heart could take the laughter.

Connie was not aware that she had married a “film geek.” She thought that I was a smart guy with a lot of potential. Little did she know that my knowledge was primarily focused in areas that allowed for minimal income producing possibilities. Still, I was somewhat useful to have around.

If we were at a movie or watching a television show and someone came on screen that looked familiar, all she basically had to do was glance my way and I’d give her a brief rundown of that persons film credits. Eventually I would say the name of the film or show that she remembered so she would nod and say “that’s it.” I may not have been Sean Connery, but it was my own little Bond moment.

Recently, however, I’ve noticed that I’m not quite up to my game. Connie will give me that questioning glance during a movie and I’ll hesitate, finally telling her, “You know…he was on that show we liked. The one about the doctors.”

I know that it’s age. Like the rest of my body, my brain is slowing down. I’m just not as sharp as I once was. It feels like I’m half asleep all the time.

My short term memory is pretty well shot as well. I’ll go to the grocery store for bread and milk…that’s all…two things (!)…and as I’m driving home later with four bags of groceries that I hadn’t planned to buy, I’ll realize that I didn’t get one (or both) of the two things I went there to get in the first place.

I have recently found myself watching a television show for 30 or 45 minutes, then when a commercial comes on I’ll channel surf (I am a guy, after all) and after a few minutes of perusing what else is on, I’ll completely forget what I was originally watching. I could say that part of that is based on the fact that television shows today are relatively forgettable, but it’s still pretty sad.

I can still remember the days when people, including my wife, said that I had a mind like a “steel trap.” Now I sometimes feel that drudging up memories is like trying to catch water with a fish net. I need to clear the cobwebs and spray some mental WD40 on my rusty hinges. It’s time to wake up.