For those of you reading this blog, I may not have told you - but I’m old. 

I also consider myself an ordinary man.

Old and ordinary – not exactly what I had in mind for myself. Yet, nonetheless, that’s where I seem to be.

I got my haircut this past Saturday – nothing significant about that. I try to remember to do it once a month or so. I go to the local chain discount hair place. No fancy-schmanzy salon for me. My cut is so ‘ordinary’ I could probably to it myself.

The woman cutting my hair was using the electric clippers, and I happened to notice the preponderance of gray hair that was falling into my lap. The gray was mixed in with the dirty blond/light brown hair that I thought I still had. The percentage of gray seems to be increasing with each haircut. Some guys have 'salt and pepper' hair - it makes them look 'distinguished.' I guess I'm getting 'salt and sand.'

Yuck.

The ‘stylist,’ as she likes to be called, noticed me noticing the hair in my lap and suggested a hair coloring treatment. “Many of my older customers are finding this to be very effective,” she said. Noticing my scowl, she quickly added, “…not that you’re old, of course, but it will help you keep your youthful appearance!”

Nice try, lady. See what kind of a tip you get!

Of course I didn’t stiff the stylist, but I left in a rather dark mood.

The next day, Sunday, I sat at the breakfast table with Chris and Tommy, glumly staring at the pile of vitamins I consume each morning. The pile seems enormous, both in the quantity of pills and the size of some of them. Vitamin B, Vitamin C, Vitamin K, some fish oil pill, a large multi-vitamin, and various others. In particular, the orange Vitamin C tablet that is only slightly smaller than a tennis ball stands out amongst the others. They are almost a meal in themselves – something Chris happened to notice as well.

“Dad, why do you eat vitamins for breakfast?” he asked.

“So I can stay healthy,” I replied.

He pointed to his purple Flintstones vitamin. “I just have one vitamin,” he said, “and you have a whole pile of them! You have as many vitamins as I have cereal!”

Looking at his bowl of Cheerios, it did seem like the quantity of my pile of vitamins was equal to the small amount of cereal we can get Chris and Tommy to eat each morning.

So Tommy joined in, and they both had a high time teasing me about eating vitamins for breakfast.

I go into work Monday morning, feeling old, gray, and grumpy from eating vitamins for breakfast. Washed down with V-8. Reporting to a boss who is younger than I am.

I got to wondering what happened to the 20-something year old TV news cameraman who could roll out of bed after four hours of sleep, get by on donuts and Diet Coke, go hard all day and still have something left in the tank to party into the night. The guy who would drive all night to go to a jeep rally, sleep for two hours sitting up in the drivers seat, crawl over rocks all day and drive home again, fueled by pop-tarts and Powerbars. The guy with the blond hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders who broke hearts all over the West - or thought he could have, if so inclined.

Okay, that last sentence is a bit much. But the older I get, the better I remember myself being as a young man.

MBW and I married later in life than many of our peers. That’s both good and bad. It’s good in that we’re both more mature and more realistic when it comes to our expectations – of each other, of our kids, of our lives. It’s better because we’re more financially stable, more grounded in our careers and more certain of our long-tem goals. Chris and Tommy are growing up in a secure and stable environment, and I think that is helping them grow up with a sense of confidence.

It’s bad in that we don’t always have the energy to do all that we feel we should with the boys. And, occasionally, we’ve each had moments where we’re a bit short of patience.

Maybe that happens to all parents.

Personally, I’m finding that there are days when I don’t want to climb out of my car after a long day in my cubicle and play whatever game Chris and Tommy want to play the instant I walk in the door. Of course they’ve been waiting anxiously for me to get home and they want my attention. Sometimes it’s hard to deliver.

So I’m trying to stay on top of it. I’m trying, with mixed success, to keep in decent shape. I’m trying to eat a healthier diet, but deep down inside I’m a donuts and Diet Coke guy trying to gag down oatmeal and blueberry yogurt every day. Someday archeologists will make an astounding discovery – I did have six-pack abs! This discovery will be made after carefully excavating through the layer of chocolate chip cookies to find them.

Which brings me back to the vitamins. I do take a handful each morning. I don’t know, honestly, if they help. Maybe it’s all a placebo. But at least I feel like I’m doing something. I consider the stakes to be high. When it’s all said and done I want my kids to remember their dad as an active participant, not some guy who sat on the couch. I want the stories to be about what we did together, not what they did and told me about.

Last I crawled into bed after my post-workout shower. I took my vitamins that morning, gagged down my oatmeal and V-8, had my lean turkey sandwich on some kind of oat bread for lunch (no trans-fat!), and limited my snack to less than a hundred chocolate chip cookies. Played some combination football-frisbee-swingset game with the boys after work (the rules of which I still don’t understand), helped give them a bath, read them their nightly books, tucked them into bed and went to the gym. Not the toughest guy there,, but did my full routine. Finally, the day over, pulled up the covers and sighed a great big sigh.

Just then I feel MBW snuggle up to me.

Hmm.

Yes, I may take all kinds of vitamins. A, B, C, K, you name it. I take it.

But so far, luckily, I have no need to take Vitamin V!

In April of 1991, after a couple of years of dedicated saving, a certain young man bought a red Jeep Wrangler. For some time he had dreamed of exploring the vast Rocky Mountain backcountry and the desert southwest. Now that dream could finally become a reality. Next to his modest townhouse, it was his most valuable possession.

The jeep had a black hard top that soon came off for the summer. And what a summer it was, full of four-wheeling, mudding, climbing and stream fording. There as also plenty of open highway cruising, for the young man soon re-learned the joys of motoring with the wind in his hair, the open sky above his head, and the endless sense of possibility.

Re-learned? Yes. This young man remembered, as a boy, riding with his father in a 1966 red Mustang convertible. He remembered the fun they had together coming home from minor-league baseball games; listen to the recap on the radio, looking up at the stars, occasionally falling asleep before arriving home. He remembered one night, in particular, when it began to rain as father and son were leaving the ballpark. Remembered his father saying, mischievously, “We could put the top up, but by the time we did, we’d be just as wet as if we drove home with it down,” and so they raced home, faster than prudent, laughing the entire way.

These memories, and others, flooded back that summer as the young man drove around the West. That summer, and the ones that followed, were full of adventure. There was the time, the Friday night before Labor Day weekend, he decided on a whim to drive all night to Moab, Utah and join up with a jeep rally over the red slickrock. Crossing a high mountain pass at midnight, top down, freezing cold, shivering like mad and singing with the tape deck at the top of his lungs. Pulling into a convenience store at the bottom of the pass an hour later, getting a hot chocolate, the clerk saying, “Hey, buddy, are you okay?”

“I –I-I’m j-j-j-ust f-f-f-fine thanks!” he replied.

Remembering sleeping upright in the jeep for two hours in a grocery store parking lot, waking up, eating dry oatmeal and granola bars for breakfast, then bashing over the slickrock all day. Driving home in the driving rain, top down. Sleeping for 14 hours the following day.

Other memories. Pulling a stranded pickup out of Salt Creek in the depths of Canyonlands National Park. Driving the Skyline trail in August, forced to turn back at 10,500 feet because of deep snow. A late September evening, accompanied by a comely young woman, both wearing t-shirts and shorts, driving from the valley floor up one of the steep canyons, trying to see who would ask to turn back first because of the cold. Getting to the top, neither one willing to give in. Both freezing cold.

One, very obviously cold.

Both, later, very warm.

There were many such adventures.

But the years rolled by. The young man changed jobs, became engaged, got married, bought a house, bought a larger, more sensible vehicle, and had kids.

In short, he grew up. And in the process, had far fewer adventures.

The Single Man became a Family Man, eventually the Camping Machine Guy.  But two things came along for the entire journey. Old Friend, and the red Jeep Wrangler.

Yes, I still have the Jeep. And no, I don’t drive it very often. It’s not that car-seat friendly, and with the SUV it really isn’t necessary to use it.

The past few years I’ve traded the Jeep back and forth with my dad. He keeps it for the winter, so he can use it to get up the canyons to go skiing. Apparently his candy-ass import luxury SUV isn’t tough enough to get up the hill when there’s a bit of snow on the road. That, or he prefers the look of the Jeep as he pulls into the parking lot.

I get it back for the summer, so I can take the top off and Go Have Fun.

But as I’ve just old you, I haven’t done much of that the last few years. There’s never enough time, it seems, and Chris and Tommy have been too young to enjoy it. Plus my full size SUV is far safer for the boys to ride in. Yes, I care about that.

But this summer I went up to dad’s place and claimed the jeep. Took it in for some service. Three days later and $1,500 dollars lighter in the wallet, the Jeep is back and parked in my driveway.

It looks damn good.

So Saturday I told MBW I needed a few hours to myself. I took the top off the jeep and headed out on the open road once again.

After about 30 seconds it all came flooding back. The feeling of driving with the wind in your hair, the sun on your back, the open road. The freedom.

And as I drove I began to feel younger, more energized, more virile. I glanced in the mirror and by God, it looks like the faint streaks of gray along my temples have disappeared! The lines around my eyes are fewer, less obvious. My stomach feels flatter.

And, hey, did that young hottie just Check Me Out?

She sure as hell did!

Now I am feeling fine as I head up the canyon. I remember all over again how great it is to go up one of the gorgeous, narrow canyons near where we live and be able to truly appreciate the beauty, because you can see so much more with no roof over your head. It’s simply wonderful, in the fall, to go for a drive and soak in the splendor without having to stick your head out the window and crane your neck up.

But as I go along I find that I am reminiscing less and thinking more about the future. About taking MBW, Chris and Tommy on these rides. I find I’m not interested in blasting off overnight to Utah and re-creating those adventures. I’m thinking instead about taking the day off from work, taking my family to Moab in the big SUV and towing the jeep. Spending the night in a motel. Waking up, having a real breakfast, and taking some of those wonderful trails, soaking in the experience, having a ball watching the expressions on my boys’ faces.

Maybe it’s a sign of getting old, slowing down. Or maybe it’s a sign of growing up, thinking about others instead of myself.

Maybe it’s both.

I’m now trading places with my father, wanting to share with my boys the fun of Riding With The Top Down. I’m thinking of all the things we’ll do.

I grew up in upstate New York, far from where we live today. Back there we didn’t have the majestic Rocky Mountains as our playground, the entire West as our personal Adventure Sandbox. It’s actually a massive coincidence that my dad and I live in the same city today.

But I’m a dad now, I have two great boys and we are going to do all of what my dad and I did, and more.

Recreating memories, and making new ones.

One last Single Man moment. On one of the many Jeep safaris I went on, our group was heading over a long road of broken slickrock at the bottom of a steep canyon. Up at the top was a highway overlook, where people could park their cars, get out, walk up to the rail at the edge of the cliff and look out over the vast, scenic network of cliffs and canyons. From there, you can see the trail we were driving on.

I know, because I once stood there myself. And I wondered where that trail went.

But now I was on the trail, about to find out. Looking up, I realized that I was one of the people Doing, not one of the people Watching. Going somewhere, not standing still. Experiencing life, not watching it go by. And I knew there was someone up there thinking, “I wonder where those guys are going?”

Write your address on a piece of paper and toss it over the edge, friend. I’ll send you a postcard.

A couple of years from now I’ll take Chris, Tommy, and MBW if she’ll come, and I’ll show them where that road goes. I’ll show them the Anasazi rock art that is over 1,000 years old, the rock art most of the tourists passing through never see. I’ll show them the hidden stone arch, even more beautiful than the dozens in the National Park, that you can only see from eight miles down a rugged, rocky jeep trail.. We’ll drive up the canyons in the fall, take one of the rough side roads, and experience the leaves as you can only do in a jeep.

And we’ll come home from a baseball game, in the rain, laughing all the way.

We’ll have adventures. We’ll make memories. And we’ll have a ball.

We’ll be the people who DO, not the people who Watch.

Hang on to your hats, boys! The red Wrangler is back.

We’re goin’ Jeepin!

I can’t wait.

I’ve just returned from a business trip. It seems like I’ve been traveling a lot for work lately. Four flights in the past five weeks. It’s getting a bit old.

When I travel for business I always pack a pair of jeans. I don’t get to wear them during the trip, as the meetings I attend always call for business attire. But when I get to the airport for the flight home, I duck into the men’s room and change from my dress slacks into my jeans. It makes the flight home more comfortable, signals to me that that business is over, and I can finally relax.

But this little routine of mine took an unexpected twist this time.

I walked into the men’s room at the Minneapolis airport to change my pants. I went into one of the stalls, shut the door and set my bag down. As I turned, the toilet flushed. I turned and noticed this stall had one of those motion-detected flushing systems. Those are nice – you don’t have to touch a handle and you don’t have to worry that the guy who used the stall before you left you a nasty surprise.

The stall was rather narrow. I slipped out of my dress pants and hung them on the hook on the inside of the door. That movement caused the toilet to flush again. I reached down and pulled my jeans out of my carry-on bag – and the toilet flushed again. I stepped into my jeans, began to pull them up – and the toilet flushed again.

I’m not really paying attention to this, just trying to change my pants and catch my flight. As I button my jeans, the toilet flushed again. And then I hear a man’s voice outside the stall say, “Man, that guy must be having a real problem.”

It takes me a second before I realize he’s talking about me. All of the flushing – the guy must think I’m sick, have diarrhea, or having a particularly bad time on the john. As I reach down to put my dress slacks into my carry-on, the toilet flushed again.

“Jeez,” says another voice. There must be two guys out there.

So I turn back to the toilet and wave my hand in front of the sensor. Flush.

“This must be a bad one,” I hear the first guy say.

I wave my hand again. Flush.

I moan a little bit. Wave my hand again. Flush.

“Hey, buddy, are you okay?” the first guy says.

“I’m…” wave the hand again. Flush “…uh, uh okay…”

“Let’s go,” says the second guy. “I don’t need to hear this before getting on a plane.”

I hear them leave.

When I got home I told the story to my wife. We both had a chuckle over it.

I wonder what stories the other guys told?

I love to read. Ever since I can remember, I’ve loved a good book

I’d like to think I’m well read, but I don’t know if the term technically applies to me, at least in terms of the standard definition. The literary classics don’t hold much interest for me. But I have stacks and stacks of books, of all different types, may of which I have read three or four times. What do I like? James Clavell’s Asian Saga. Michener, back in the day. Ludlum. Michael Crichton. Ray Bradbury. Frank Herbert (and the books Brian co wrote, but they strike me as potboilers). Many that I can’t name off the top of my head. Right now I love the Reacher novels by Lee Child and the John Rain books by Barry Eisler.

I also try to keep up with the Wall Street Journal, Business Week, B2B Marketing, and Sports Illustrated.

Not to mention your blogs. Each and every one of you.

Nerd admission – my parents bought my sister and me a set of printed encyclopedias when we were kids. I used to take a volume and read it, almost cover to cover, until I had read virtually the whole set.

As it happens, MBW also enjoys reading. We don’t share many of the same reading topics, but we both love to read. Right now on her nightstand is Janet Evanovich Eleven on Top.

Nerd admission #2 – when we were dating, MBW and I occasionally scheduled ‘reading dates’ where we’d get together at my place, build a fire, snuggle up on the couch and…read.

Well, for a little while, anyway.

And now, as parents, we understand the importance of reading to our kids. Mostly so they will be prepared when they begin school, but also with the fervent hope they, too, will grow up with the joy and love of reading.

So we read to our kids every day. Depending on the day, the weather, and what else is going on, we’ll read to them here and there throughout the day. But for sure, every night, the bedtime ritual includes climbing onto our bed, with either Mom or Dad in between Chris and Tommy, snuggled under the covers, reading.

As luck would have it, a branch of the County library is less than a mile from our home. When the weather is nice we’ll pull Chris and Tommy in the wagon over to the library to pick out some books. The limit on the number of books for any individual library card is 30. Between the two of us, we’ve had, on occasion, 60 kids’ books out at any one time.

Reading to the boys was a whole new experience for me. The only books I remember from my childhood days as a kid are the classics – Dr. Seuss and Curious George. I think I recall a book about Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. But that was about all I remembered.

Today the books for kids are, shall we say, different.

I’m guessing children’s books are Big Business. How else would you explain the ‘Counting Fish’ featuring the Pepperidge Farms Goldfish? The book, with thick cardboard pages, has little indentations where you are supposed to place the Goldfish crackers. Of course, you have to buy the Goldfish crackers separately. Each page has a space for one more goldfish, and some dopey rhyme that is nominally supposed to teach counting. The only thing it teaches Chris and Tommy is to eat what they call the ‘Fishy Crackers.’

There’s something fishy about that, all right.

There’s a book just like that for Kellogg’s Froot Loops, featuring Toucan Sam. In his book there ace little indentations for the Froot Loops cereal pieces. You’re supposed to put the cereal pieces in the indentations as you go along, again, to help you ‘learn to count.’ What a great idea – let’s see how much sugar coated cereal we can eat RIGHT BEFORE BEDTIME.

Even so, that book is not as bad as the one for Nabisco Oreo Cookies. Same concept. An even better idea. If you do each page, 1 through 10, you will have eaten 55 Oreo cookies. Again, not the best choice just before bedtime. “Hey, Chris and Tommy, have sweet dreams! If you ever fall asleep, that is!”

Did you know there are approximately eighteen billion children’s books about the alphabet? I mean, how many ways do you need to learn your ABC’s? I guess the only advantage is the variety is better than reading the same book every single night. Even so, it’s the alphabet, for crying out loud. After a while I don’t care who creatively you used each letter for an animal, a piece of firefighting equipment, a kind of truck, or a monster. I’m starting to have bad dreams about hard vowels.

And don’t get me started on Elmo. If I have to read ‘Flutter by, Butterfly’ one more time, imitating his squeaky little voice, I’m going to puke.

But tonight I read the most off-the-wall children’s book I’ve ever read in my life.

My wife had done the library trip and brought home a brand new pile of 30 books. It was my night to read, and I was excited for some new material. I rifled through the stack, not really looking at the titles, grabbed a few and headed up to the bed. Chris, Tommy and I got settled under the covers as I lifted the first book.

It was called Walter the Farting Dog.

Nope, I’m not kidding. I’m staring at an actual hardbound book with the title, Walter the Farting Dog. And on the cover, in full color, is an illustration of an ugly gray dog with green gas exploding out of his butt. Floating above him, in a cloud of noxious green fumes, is a little girl.

She’s holding her nose.

You think I’m kidding, don’t you? I couldn’t make this up if I wanted to. And I sure as hell wouldn’t want to. You can check it out for yourself. It’s published by Frog, Ltd of Berkeley, California. The ISBN number is 1-58394-053-7. The illustrious authors are William Kotzwinkle and Glenn Murray. With special thanks to Audrey Colman for the graphic illustrations of Walter farting on nearly every page.

The premise of the book, if you care, is that a family adopts this dog, Walter, from the pound. They quickly find out why no one else would take him – he farts constantly, the foulest, most awful smelling farts in the world. They try feeding him different foods, but nothing will stop the terrible farting.

Just before he’s supposed to go back to the pound, some burglars break into the family’s home one night. Walter farts them into submission, saves the day, and the family keeps the dog.

Is this your typical feel good, happy ending, kid’s book? I think not.

On the other hand, Chris, Tommy and I never laughed so hard in our lives.

The boys were laughing because they will laugh at anything that has to do with farts, poop and bodily functions. It got worse was they began to feed of my laughter, which quickly became a downward spiral of helpless giggling. I could barely read the words on the page because I was laughing so hard. Each time I turned to a new illustration of this ugly dog blowing green gas out of his ass I lost it all over again.

What should have been a five minute read took nearly 20 minutes. And I still couldn't finish the damned book. MBW had to finally come in and take over for me.

I’ll have to take another turn tomorrow.

I still break into giggles, three hours later, thinking about this book. And how stupid I felt laughing over something so, well,…stupid.

Children’s stories just aren’t what they used to be.

Where’s the Man in the Yellow Hat when you need him?

Saturday evening we went to visit my wife's sister and family for a barbeque. Even though we only live about 20 minutes apart, we haven’t spent much time with them lately. They have two kids just a bit older that Chris and Tommy, and I get along with my brother-in-law pretty well. I’m not sure why we don’t see them more often.

We’re sitting on their back patio, enjoying a cold beverage, as the amber sunlight splashes across their backyard. It is a beautiful Rocky Mountain evening. When I was a TV news photographer this is what we called ‘golden light.’ It’s the warm, special light, about an hour before sunset, that is flattering to just about everything.

We’re watching our children play. They have a large backyard and a nice swing set, and our kids are having a blast. My brother-in-law takes exceptional care of his yard. His lawn is so green and lush you could film a fertilizer commercial here.

As I watched Chris and Tommy play on this gorgeous summer evening I was struck by how special this moment was. The innocence and joy on my children’s faces was wonderful to witness. The warm sunlight highlighted their fair hair, creating what looked like bright halos as they ran around on the green grass. I enjoyed the simple pleasure of watching my kids playing outdoors in a safe, secure environment. At this exact moment in time the eight of us in this backyard had not a single care in the world.

It was a picture perfect moment.

“So what,” you say. “You’re The Camping Machine Guy. All we ever hear about is how wonderful your life is. What's your point?”

Well, I’ll tell you.

Occasionally in this blog I write about how fortunate I am to have the life that I do – a fantastic wife, two wonderful kids, a great job. We have a nice home in a decent neighborhood, we’re healthy, and we’ve got a few bucks in a savings account. Life is good.

Yet it is all so fragile.

My mother passed away on Memorial Day two years ago.  What you don’t know is that for the last 26 years of her life she was confined to a wheelchair after an accident in our home. She was 42 years old when it happened. One minute she was active, happy, normal. The next instant she was paralyzed for life.

My sister and I were in the house when it happened. It had a very profound effect on me.

One of Chris and Tommy’s cousins had a serious bout with cancer a couple of years ago. She’s cancer-free now, but it’s one of those things where you just never know. She was not even 10 years old when she was first diagnosed.

My brother-in-law, sitting right next to me, recently developed a health condition. We don’t know the extent of it and he doesn’t talk about it much. But watching the way MBW and her sister are whispering in hushed tones, I know there is some concern.

Another brother-in-law nearly lost his brother in a car accident three years ago. He suffered a serious injury that affects him to this day. He will never be able to do many of the things he once
took for granted.

In the nearly ten years I was a TV news photographer, I saw many terrible things.

A small plane went down just after takeoff at a rural airport near our town. A family of five, leaving to go on vacation, perished in the fiery crash. By chance I was one of the first to arrive on the scene. Through the lens, I saw the charred bodies of the parents and their children. They were still smoldering.

At 2:00 a.m. on a frigid Saturday night I was called out to a car wreck on the freeway. Approaching the scene I saw a body under a sheet. Long, blond hair spilled out from underneath at one end; patent black leather boots stuck out the other. To me, a nameless dead girl on a lonely, icy highway. To someone else, a friend, a sister, a daughter.

I was there, and caught on tape, when a distraught mother was told by a firefighter that her only son had drowned in the river after falling from a boat less than thirty feet from shore. As long as I live I will never forget the sound of her screams and sobs.

One moment you can walk. The next, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair wracked with pain. One moment you are cancer free, the next you are not. One moment you are happily leaving for a family vacation. The next, you’re the lead story on the evening news.

So many sad stories, tragic tales. Too many.

Yet, at this moment, in this backyard, our children play without a care in the warmth of the summer sunshine.

The Golden Light.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Tonight the Golden Light shines on my family. All is well.

And I am very, very grateful.