It’s time for another trip.  Even though The Camping Machine is now hibernating for the winter, snug inside its cover and with the nasty pink stuff in the plumbing, we’re headed out on a family adventure.  Normally I’m all about adventures, especially when I take time off from work to go.  And as I write this, we’re 48 hours away from departure.

And I couldn’t be less excited.

Why, you ask?  You’re the Camping Machine Guy.  Mr. Adventure.  You’re always looking forward to the next excursion, the next road trip, whatever awaits around the next bend.  You’re the guy that wants to get out of the house, hit the road, see and do something new.  Right?

Yes, that’s true.  For the most part.

“So,” you say, “what’s the deal, Camping Machine Guy?”  Well, at the risk of sounding like a bad parent, anti-American and just a plain grumpy old man, I’ll tell you why.

We’re going to Disneyland.

I can hear you now.  “What?  You’re going to Disneyland and you’re not excited?  What’s wrong with you, Camping Machine Guy?  Disneyland is awesome!  It’s the Magic Kingdom!  The most wonderful place on Earth!  What’s your problem?”

I know.  I have no response to your comments.  In my heart of hearts I know you’re right.  I should be jacked.  I should be pumped up.  I should be counting the days, the hours, the minutes until we arrive, just like my wife and two boys are.  I should be reading the guidebooks, planning the itinerary, going over the strategy of what to see, when to see it, and how to squeeze the most possible fun from this trip.

But I’m not.  In the spirit of honesty I have to admit that I’m less excited about this excursion and almost anything I’ve done in recent years.

I have no excuse.  For whatever reason, I’m just not into it.  Space Mountain?  Ho Hum.  Pirates of the Caribbean?   Yawn. Mickey and Minnie?   Wanna-be actors in mascot costumes.

I can only imagine the hate mail I’ll get when this goes up.  “You’re going to ruin this for your kids!”  “You’re un-American!”  “ You’re an evil Scrooge!” 

“Shame on you, Camping Machine Guy!”

Again, I have no defense.  Your comments are all valid.  I am not sure why I am not looking forward to this trip.  Maybe it’s just a case of the blues.  Or perhaps a mini mid-life crisis.

Rest assured I will not spoil this for my wife and kids.  My two boys have never been to Disneyland and I am not going to ruin it for them.  I’ll put on my happy face and go along for the ride, make sure they get to see and do everything they want to.  I will share in their excitement.  I want them to come away from this trip thinking it was the best vacation they have ever had.  And once we’re home, I’ll look at all the photos, help arrange them into the photo albums, talk about all the fun we have and do everything I can to make this trip, and the memories that come out of it, as meaningful and memorable as I can.

Look, I am at the age, or perhaps the stage, in my life where I realize now that what I have left in this life is not about me, it’s about my kids.  It’s about sharing in their interests, their lives, what is important to them.  It’s about being there for them, helping them grow, giving them guidance and direction without making them into what I want them to be.  It’s about providing an atmosphere that is safe, secure, comfortable and stable, while at the same time fostering an environment that provides for discovery, experimentation and exploration.  I have said this in some of the entries on the Travels page.  I want to take my kids to Yellowstone, Zion, Arches, and Canyonlands so they see and experience the natural beauty of the world around them.  I want them to be able to draw on these experiences and memories, where one day they will look back and say, “We sure did a lot growing up.  We went to so many places, saw so many things.  That’s what I remember about my childhood and my family.”

So if that is what I want, it would be hypocritical of me to ‘pooh-pooh’ the Disneyland trip just because I really don’t want to do it.  Even as I contemplate the thought of having to sit through a ‘Character Breakfast’ with Goofy.  How appropriate – I think a ‘Character Breakfast’ is goofy, no matter which ‘Character’ attends.

As it turns out, several people I work with have recently taken their families to Disneyland.  I’m talking five different families within the past month.  Somehow I guess I never knew just how many families make this trek.  One guy who sits near me takes his family there twice a year.  Every year.  His kids love it.  I get that.  He says he loves it as much as his kids to.  I don’t get that.

But to each his own.  In fact I’m glad he enjoys it so much.  Everybody wins – his wife, his kids, and he does as well.  That’s how it should be.

Who knows?  Maybe I’ll come back from this trip brainwashed like everyone else I’ve talked to recently. “It’s the most fun you’ll ever have with your family!”  “There’s nothing like it!”  “You’ll want to go back the moment you get home!”

Uh-huh.  Right.

Well, we’ll see soon enough.

M-I-C,   K-E-Y,    M-O-U-S-E.

Here we come.

 I work out four or five nights a week at a local fitness center. It’s one of the national chain outfits. The place is close to my home, it’s open late, the price is reasonable and it’s large enough that I never have to wait long to use a particular piece of equipment.

I go late at night, after Chris and Tommy are tucked in to bed. By the time I get there, between 9:00 and 9:30 pm, most of the crowd is gone. I see the same group of regulars; those people, like me, who for whatever reason find that this time of night is best for their schedule to work out.

The title of this post is not a reference to me. Not in my wildest dreams would I ever be considered to be The Toughest Guy in The Gym. No, I fall into the category of Old Guy Trying Desperately to Retain Some Semblance of Muscle Tone. On a good day I might sneak into the category of With Lots of Luck and Less Dessert He Might Once Again Fit Into His Pants. And once in a very great while, I spend an evening in the category of If He Were Ten Years Younger He Might Actually Lift That Barbell.

The days when I might even be in the running for Toughest Guy in The Gym are so far back in my rearview mirror I’ve forgotten what they look like.

But still, I’m a guy, and once in a while some testosterone makes an appearance in my system, and I start to look around and wonder, well, if not me, then who is the toughest guy in this gym?

There are some obvious candidates. The guy with the broad shoulders and narrow waist, who has such an extreme shoulder to waist ratio that he makes a 42 point Times New Roman capital letter V (Boldcase) appear to be an 8 point Tahoma lowercase letter u by comparison.

Or how about the guy with all the tattoos? He’s not huge, but very well defined, and in case you hadn’t noticed his body, he’ll use his colorful tats to draw attention to specific parts. There is the requisite barb wire band around both biceps, the flaming, screaming skull and crossbones across his back. The psychotic clown face on one of his calves. Yep, he must be tough. Tough enough to endure the needles required to produce all those tattoos. Tough enough to knock down anyone who dares to comment on how ridiculous he looks.

There’s the guy I call Philly Cat. A Southeast Asian guy, young and wiry. I don’t know him but he always wears the same shirt, a black t-shirt that says Philly Cats on the front. I think it’s a minor league baseball team. He not big, but he’s tough and cut. He is so focused, so intense, and he always takes every set to failure. He’s a tough dude.

A guy I call The Aussie might be the one. He’s a big, friendly guy. Barrel-chested, but not loaded with huge, rippling muscles. Still, he lifts more weight than almost anyone in there. I don’t know how he does it, but he puts up huge lifts, rep after rep, sets it down and walks of with a smile on his face. You can almost hear him say, "Hey, no big deal, mate!”

There are others. The guy with a single-digit body fat percentage, on whom I swear you can see capillaries. Jersey Guy, who looks like he was a roadie for Bruce Springsteen, can do 22 pull-ups. I watched him and counted. The Football Guy, who looks like he is one year removed from a college football team, 6’ 6” and about 280. He’s huge, scowls well and lifts a ton of weight.

Depending upon your definition of tough, I would have thought any one of these guys might have the right to claim the title of Toughest Guy in The Gym.

Until tonight.

Tonight I saw the person who owns that title outright, at least in my book.

The Toughest Guy in The Gym is…a woman.

You hardly notice her among the crowd I’ve just described. Like me, she sort of blends into the background, goes about her business. No posing, no posturing, just in there to work out, get the job done, go home. In fact, tonight is the first night I noticed her. But from what I saw of her, she must be a regular. She knows what she’s doing.

What makes her so tough, you ask?

She only has one leg.

Even though fall has arrived here where I live, most people in the gym are wearing shorts, or long, tight spandex pants. This woman is wearing full length track suit pants, loose and baggy. But one leg hangs very loose, and there’s no shoe at the bottom.

Other than that, and the crutch at her feet, you’d never know what her deal is.

But she’s there and she’s doing the full routine. Free weights, sit ups, lat pulldowns. She even does pull-ups, dropping down hard off the bar at the end of her set, landing on one leg, getting her balance, bending down to pick up her crutch before moving on to the next station.

She’s focused, moving with purpose, knowing exactly what she wants to accomplish while she’s here. Unlike so many of the others, she’s not sneaking a glance in the mirror to see how she looks. She just wants to be strong.

I’d be willing to bet hardly any of the ‘tough’ guys I described above would be in here working out like this on one leg. Their vanity would prevent it. Oh, one or two might come in, do some token sets, then shrug, as if to say, “Hey, what can I do? See this? It’s not my fault.”

But I don’t’ see that from this woman. It is what it is. She’s asking no quarter, making no excuses. One leg, two legs, doesn’t matter. Bring it. I’m here, she says. Let’s get to work.

Toughness is made up of many things. Among them I would count courage, resiliency, and fortitude. If that is part of your measure of toughness, this woman has more than her share.

I’ll say it right now. She’s tougher than me. I don’t know if I’d have what it takes to do what she’s doing. I’d like to think so. But in all honesty, I’m not sure I do.

This is the first time I’ve seen her. Maybe she normally comes at a different time, and for some reason had to come at this time tonight. I’ll probably never know.

But I’m glad I saw her tonight. For two reasons.

One, the next time I’m feeling like I want to cut my workout short, or skip it all together, I’m going to remember her. If she can come in here and do what she does, as well as she does, then, dammit, so can I.

And two, now the question has been answered.

Who’s the Toughest Guy in The Gym?

She is.

If you have visited this site before, you may know I was a television news cameraman for over ten years.  During that time I determined there were basically two types of news cameraman – news guys who happened to take pictures, and photographers who happened to shoot news.  The distinction may be lost on some of you – what’s the difference, you ask?  Well, for me, it was like this.  I knew many news photographers who just loved news – lived it, breathed it, ate it up every day.  They were political junkies, crime dogs, breaking news adrenaline freaks.  You couldn’t keep those guys from a story.  I was different - I really didn’t care so much if I was working on the hot story of the day or the fluff piece with the weather guy.  I cared more about what images I could make.  The rush for me was watching the news every night, seeing my pictures – MY pictures! – on TV, knowing they were being seen by thousands of other people.  If my pictures looked good, I was happy.  If I had the pictures for the lead story or the kicker that closed each newscast, I didn’t care.   I liked to make images.

Even after I left the TV News business, I never lost my interest in taking pictures.  I bought and sold a series of cameras, including a Hasselblad.  I shot a few weddings, some portrait work, and some commercial freelance projects.  I debated about opening a commercial photo studio, but after thinking about it long and hard decided against it.  I used the money I earned from freelance photography to pay my way through graduate school.

One benefit of my love of photography was that when it was time to have children, we knew we’d have plenty of pictures to fill the baby albums.  And that has certainly turned out to be true.  We must have one of most thoroughly documented childhood albums for seven and five year old boys ever produced.  I’ve enjoyed capturing all those special (and not so special) moments.  Some of them have turned out to be very unique.

Now I find that, even more than the taking of photos, I’m enjoying sharing photography with my sons.  With the advent of digital photography it is now so much more affordable to give a kid a camera and let him experiment to his heart’s content, knowing you won’t have to pay for processing of dozens of rolls of film and the associated prints.  Instead we can upload the hundreds of images they take to a computer, look at them on screen, delete them from the card and send the boys back out to take more pictures.

Both Tommy and Chris enjoy taking pictures, but Tommy seems more into it these days.  He’ll ask me where his camera is, ask me to help him get it ready, then wander around, taking pictures of whatever catches his eye.  He’ll make a point of showing me his shots on the screen on the back of the camera and ask me what I think.  He enjoys taking pictures, but I think part of it is he knows Dad likes to take pictures, so he wants to share in that with me.  He’s actually taking some interesting images.  So I thought I would share what happens when you give a kid a camera.

I think is fair to say that most kids age 5 are pretty self-centered.  That’s not a condemnation, just a statement of where their focus is.  So it is not surprising that many of Tommy's photos are self-portraits.

Tommy's camera is an inexpensive HP point-and-shoot digital camera.  It cost less than $100, so I am not too concerned with his experimentation.  Here he is in our backyard.  He's holding the camera and pointing at his face, pressing the button and hoping for the best, as he really can't see what he's getting.  Of the several of these he took, this one actually turned out to be interesting.  You can see the flash went off, giving his eyes a nice catch-light.  There is also some blur going on in the background trees, which gives the image a nice sense of movement.  I quite enjoy this photo.

But by no means is he done with his experimentation.


Here he is again.  This photo is taken sometime during or after lunch.  Note the fine detail, specifically the peanut butter on both sides of his mouth.  I'm not sure what, if anything, he is saying as he is taking this photo.  Perhaps he is simply trying to capture an image of the remains of his sandwich down in his tummy.

The framing is, or course accidental, yet even so it has a certain sense of composition to it. The fact that he has cropped out his nose and eyes draws the viewer straight into his mouth.  Intentional?  Hardly.  Still, luck is often present in a unique image, and he certainly has something going (in my opinion) in this image.

His fascination with himself continues here.


This image followed the previous image, with perhaps a few in between.  Here he has captured one side of his mouth, one dab of peanut butter, one nostril and one eye.  This photo is interesting to me for the detail and clarity in the eye.  You can clearly see the light brown shade of his eye, yet the angle and perspective has flattened it out considerably.  Dare I say Picasso-esque?  Yet the avant-garde framing of his face is offset by the clarity of the back porch seen in the far left of the frame.  The juxtaposition of the two clashing perspectives gives this photo a rare, fine-art aspect.  Truly a remarkable self-portrait.

Having taken self-portraiture to the highest level possible in a mere afternoon, Tommy began to turn to still-life compositions.  He is, of course drawn to his toys, in this case some action figure he received as a gift.  The image is self is not particularly remarkable - the background is somewhat distracting, yet in my view the artiste' that is Tommy has deliberately created a composition that creates tension and energy.  This warrior is preparing to go into battle, the soft-focus of his sword is deliberate, meant to convey the motion and power of the proud fighter. The distracting backgorund enhances the feeling of the chaos of the impending battle.  This is no mere figurine, my friend - this is a powerful statement of the warrior caste!

Having achieved the pinnacle of still life imagery in a single image, Tommy now turns to a new challenge - wildlife photography.
 

Once again Tommy has recorded a seminal moment in photographic history.  Note the focus and composition of the cat - his eyes focused on prey outside the frame, bringing a dynamic tension to the image.  What is he watching?  A bird?  A mouse?  Though relaxed, the cat appears intent, perhaps just now preparing to rise up and begin the hunt in earnest.   The focus is on the eyes of the cat, and the brilliant use of natural light allows the rest of the cat to fade into the background, returning the viewers eyes to the point of interest and impact in this photo.  Look, I am a trained professional - I know fine art when I see it.

As if you needed any further proof, look no further than Tommy's next image.

Here Tommy has turned to perhaps the final frontier - portraiture photography.  I could stop writing right now and let the image speak for itself - the use of deliberate underexposure to create a mood, the stark pose of the two central figures - confident, almost cocky, statuesque.  The angle of the woman, classically posed, yet at the same time so natural.  The use of the seated figure in the background, looking back, both a part of the foreground pair and yet not a part, illustrating possible tension. The dramatic twin contrails echoing the two standing figures.  This image is at once both a powerful image of the outdoors and those who explore it, as well as a somewhat dark, foreboding image of the challenges of the wild.

Yet as nearly all true artists do, Tommy is once again drawn to his creative roots.


Having reached the pinnacle of many of the classic photographic categories, having done all that could be done, having exhausted the creative freedom of the classic image arenas, Tommy returns to perhaps the final area left to fully explore - the self-portrait.  After all, having accepted all other challenges and surpassed his goals, he comes full circle to record those image which are the most beautiful in all the world - images of himself. And perhaps it is appropriate that the seminal image, the capstone image of his portfolio, is the self-portrait that many great artists have done at some point in their career - that in which they express their contempt of their own audience, those more mortals who lack the gift, the creative brilliance, that so few artistic geniuses possess.  For it is he, and not you or I, who have captured such a wide range of brilliant imagery, the likes of which you and I can only dream of creating.

Or, perhaps this photo represents Tommy's take on the words his dad has used to describe his work, and the fact that his dad has plastered his mug all over the Internet.

See what happens when you give a kid a camera?

I’m old.

 

That’s just a fact of life.

 

The problem is, lately, I’ve been feeling and probably looking older than I want to.

 

This is happening despite my best efforts to stay in shape, which have fallen off dramatically as I’ve not been to the gym in many months. 

 

Even so, I thought I’d been holding up reasonably well, all things considered.

 

So you can imagine my shock and dismay when I woke up and found I had aged 17 years overnight.

 

Everything seemed normal when I woke up this morning. The alarm clock said 6:30 a.m., just like it should. I got out of bed, groped and stumbled my way to the shower, feeling about like I usually do. I stay in the shower a long time, letting the hot water ease the stiffness in what pass for my muscles. Step out gingerly, towel off, look in the mirror. Dismayed, as always, not to find a younger, more handsome me staring back. It seemed like just another Friday.

 

But when I went downstairs and glanced at the newspaper, the date read Tuesday October 2, 2024.

 

2024!

 

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked more closely. There was no denying it. The date says Tuesday October 2, 2024.

 

Alarmed, I looked around my kitchen. Nothing much had changed, at least as far as I could tell. What the hell is going on? Just as I was about to look outside, Chris and Tommy came running into the kitchen.

 

“Hello Dad!” said Tommy.

 

“We’ve got something exciting to show you!” Chris said.

 

Oh. My. God.

 

Instead of my cute 5 and 7-year-old boys, I was looking at two towering grown men.

 

One stands about 6’ 3”, tall and lean. A swimmers’ body. His hair is light brown, just a touch darker than I remember it being back when he was 5. He wears it short. His green eyes still have that sparkle I remember so well. It can only be Chris.

 

The other is a touch shorter, probably 6’ 1”, a bit stockier than Chris. Lean through the waist, but his shoulders and arms are more muscular. His hair is blond, very light. He still has that intensity he’s had ever since I can remember. There’s no doubt – it’s Tommy.

 

Or is he going by Tom now?

 

Stunned doesn’t begin to express how I feel, staring at the adult versions of my two sons live and in the flesh. I listen carefully for the music from the old ‘Twilight Zone’ TV show, but hear nothing. Rod Sterling, where are you?

 

I still don’t understand what is going on. Since I can’t figure it out, I set aside the issue of ‘how the hell did this actually happen,’ and just stare at my two grown boys. My eyes well up with tears as I look at them standing there, strong, and healthy. God, they look good. Confident, smiling, secure in themselves and who they are.

 

I could die right now, a happy man, knowing my boys have grown into such fine young men.

 

But where the hell did those 17 years go?

 

I’m snapped out of my reverie by Chris, gently shaking my shoulder. “Dad,” he says, “are you okay? Come on, we have something to show you!”

 

“Of course,” I say, smiling. “Where are we going?”

 

“You’ll see,” says Tommy with a mischievous grin.

 

Suddenly the three of us are standing outdoors what appears to be the sales lot of a gigantic automobile dealership. This day is getting stranger by the second. I have no idea how we got from our kitchen to this car lot, but here we are. And this place is easily the largest car dealership I have ever seen. Acres and acres of vehicles. All kinds of vehicles.

 

Chris, gesturing grandly across the massive expanse of rolling thunder, says proudly, “Well, what do you think, Dad?”

 

I think I’ve lost my mind, that’s what I think. But of course I can’t say that. He’s clearly very proud of this. “Well, it sure looks great, Chris. But what is this place? Why are we here?”

 

“Dad, this is our car lot,” says Tommy proudly.

 

I look around, and sure enough I see the giant sign. ‘Chris and Tommy’s Cars and Trucks’ towers over the main drag in our town. In what I assume to be an astute marketing ploy, the sign appears to be written in orange crayon.

 

Chris puts his arm around my shoulder and directs me toward a group of cars. “Dad, we have more vehicles here than anyone in the whole state. And it’s not just cars – we have so many vehicles, you can’t believe it!”

 

We approach a group of sports cars. “See,” Tommy says, “here are all the race cars. We have every kind. Red ones, green ones, a white one and a blue one. They all go really fast!”

 

I notice a few things. The cars don’t appear all that new, and no two are the same. In fact, they look like giant Hot Wheels cars.

 

Plus, I notice that despite their size, Chris and Tommy are talking like they are little kids.

 

“And over here,” says Chris, “are the dump trucks. We have so many dump trucks. And they can all carry heavy loads. Do you want to buy a dump truck, Dad?”

 

No. I do sort of want to know what the hell is going on, though.

 

The boys lead me past the dump trucks and over to the fire trucks. There are easily 20 fire trucks of various sizes. Some have missing parts; others look sort of brand new.

 

I’m wondering why they are trying to sell these vehicles. I mean, they must be doing well to carry all this inventory. Maybe this is what the car business has become in 2022. But back in 2005 you didn’t buy dump trucks and fire trucks at the same place you bought your Chevy minivan. I guess things really have changed in the past 17 years.

 

We move on to the Military section. It’s huge. Jeeps, tanks, and all kinds of aircraft. Hey, you can have your very own F-16! Sidewinders not included, of course.

 

Moving right along, Tommy says to me, “We have a very nice selection of farm tractors, Dad. Can I interest you in one of those?”

 

“Um, no, not today, Tommy,” I said. “You know, I don’t really have a place to put it back at the house.” But then I wonder, did I buy a farm at some point in the past?

 

“No, dad, you didn’t,” says Tommy, reading my mind. “I always wished you had, though.”

 

That’s right. He loved to play with the little farm set we had.

 

And looking at these tractors for sale, they look suspiciously like the ones from that old set…only about 50 times bigger.

 

I notice that I have a pain now in my left leg. A throbbing pain, like someone is kicking me. I look down and don’t see anything. But it’s starting to hurt.

 

Chris says, “Why don’t you come back to the showroom and have a seat, Dad? It looks like you could sure use a rest.”

 

Good idea.

 

We start walking over to the showroom. It’s a large, grand building but it seems far, far away. Chris and Tommy are walking ahead of me, talking to each other in hushed voices. I can just hear what they’re saying.

 

Tommy: “Gosh, why is Dad so tired?”

 

Chris: “He sure looks old these days.”

 

All of a sudden, I’m in a soft chair in their showroom. This chair is comfortable. I think I’ll stay here awhile. Close my eyes, just for a minute. Now if only that throbbing in my leg would stop…but instead, it’s getting much worse.

 

And Chris and Tommy are now talking louder.

 

“Dad….Dad?”

 

“DAD, GET UP!”

 

Tommy, in a soft, plaintive voice, says, “Daddy, don’t you want to see the rest of my cars?”

 

I open my eyes, find myself back in my house. In my living room. I look around, see Chris and Tommy standing there, staring at me.

 

5-year-old Chris. 3-year-old Tommy.

 

Tommy is kicking my leg.

 

“Dad, we’ve lined up all of our cars, trucks, farm equipment, airplanes and army trucks. Don’t you want to see them?”

 

The living room floor is covered in toy vehicles, all neatly segregated by type. There are the Hot Wheels, the dump trucks, the military vehicles.

 

There’s the F-16.

 

And Tommy’s farm equipment.

 

“Dad, this is so great. Come over here and look at this…”

 

I get down on the floor and look at all the trucks. Chris and Tommy are so excited, they’re talking a mile a minute, having the best time.

 

I sit back and watch them play. So young, full of energy. Happy to sit on the floor and play with their vehicles. And I was missing this moment.

 

How many moments have I missed because I was too tired, too preoccupied, to busy to get involved with what they were doing?

 

How many more will I miss?

 

Will I wake up one day, see my tall, strapping sons standing in the kitchen, and wonder where the years went?

 

Or will I work hard to treasure every day, every experience, every moment with my boys, and make the most of our time together?

 

The answers to those questions are obvious.

 

I reach out, grab both of my boys, pull them close into a snuggly bear hug. “Guys,” I say, “You’ve done a great job organizing all your vehicles. And I want you to tell me all about them.”

 

“But don’t grow up too fast, okay?”

 

They look at me like I’m from outer space.

 

“What are you talking about, Dad?”

 

Never mind.

 

Just don’t grow up too fast.