Dear Spike:
We're going to China.
Love,
baba
Showing posts with label traveling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label traveling. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
CHAIRMAN AND SPECIAL
Dear Spike:
When we named your stuffed cat "Chairman Meow" we thought we were being quite clever. Turns out that the word for "cat" in Mandarin is "mao," (or so you tell me) so we could have named the little furry feline "Chairman Mao" and been just as savvy and ironic.
It wouldn't likely change the way you feel about him, which is to say that he's pretty much your best inanimate friend in the world — except for maybe your favorite blanket, a sea green knitted throw you've taken to calling "Special."
You go pretty much everywhere with Chairman and Special. And you won't go to sleep without them. Not without a fight, at least.
Which is why I am, at this moment, sitting on the folding table of the laundry room in the oh-so-posh Desert Inn Hotel, across the street from Disneyland, while you, just upstairs, are fighting sleep like a death row inmate being dragged down the green mile.
In retrospect — goodness, I say that a lot these days — we may have played up this Disney adventure a little too much. We've been talking about it since your birthday, nearly a month ago. And each day of this long trip, we've reminded you that your impeccable behavior would be rewarded with a visit to the Happiest Place on Earth.
Hell, we might as well have called it Mickey Mecca.
You didn't get much of a nap today after playing on the beach with your new friends in San Clemente (turns out you like the ocean after all, but that's another happy story.) So when it came time to put you down to bed, tonight, we thought for sure you'd fall fast asleep, visions of Tinkerbell dancing in your head.
As it turns out, though, you were a little too excited to slumber. In fact, you were pretty much bouncing off the hotel's wall paper.
But you were tired.
So you were a little upset.
And then upset turned into cranky.
And then cranky turned into sick.
And then you puked macaroni noodles all over the hotel bed.
And all over on Chairman.
And all over Special.
It fell to me to find a laundromat — and luckily there was one just downstairs from our room — to clean all that up.
But I've got the easy job. I really don't envy your mother, who at this moment is sitting at your bedside trying to keep you calm so that — in 31 minutes when this drier has run through my buck-fifty and I appear heroically at the foot of your bed holding your freshly-washed friends — you don't respond by puking all over your best buddies again.
If all goes well, though, you'll be curled up with Chairman and Special very soon.
And in any case, I've learned my lesson. I'm not saying the "D-word" again until we're walking down Main Street, U.S.A.
Love,
dad
When we named your stuffed cat "Chairman Meow" we thought we were being quite clever. Turns out that the word for "cat" in Mandarin is "mao," (or so you tell me) so we could have named the little furry feline "Chairman Mao" and been just as savvy and ironic.
It wouldn't likely change the way you feel about him, which is to say that he's pretty much your best inanimate friend in the world — except for maybe your favorite blanket, a sea green knitted throw you've taken to calling "Special."
You go pretty much everywhere with Chairman and Special. And you won't go to sleep without them. Not without a fight, at least.
Which is why I am, at this moment, sitting on the folding table of the laundry room in the oh-so-posh Desert Inn Hotel, across the street from Disneyland, while you, just upstairs, are fighting sleep like a death row inmate being dragged down the green mile.
In retrospect — goodness, I say that a lot these days — we may have played up this Disney adventure a little too much. We've been talking about it since your birthday, nearly a month ago. And each day of this long trip, we've reminded you that your impeccable behavior would be rewarded with a visit to the Happiest Place on Earth.
Hell, we might as well have called it Mickey Mecca.
You didn't get much of a nap today after playing on the beach with your new friends in San Clemente (turns out you like the ocean after all, but that's another happy story.) So when it came time to put you down to bed, tonight, we thought for sure you'd fall fast asleep, visions of Tinkerbell dancing in your head.
As it turns out, though, you were a little too excited to slumber. In fact, you were pretty much bouncing off the hotel's wall paper.
But you were tired.
So you were a little upset.
And then upset turned into cranky.
And then cranky turned into sick.
And then you puked macaroni noodles all over the hotel bed.
And all over on Chairman.
And all over Special.
It fell to me to find a laundromat — and luckily there was one just downstairs from our room — to clean all that up.
But I've got the easy job. I really don't envy your mother, who at this moment is sitting at your bedside trying to keep you calm so that — in 31 minutes when this drier has run through my buck-fifty and I appear heroically at the foot of your bed holding your freshly-washed friends — you don't respond by puking all over your best buddies again.
If all goes well, though, you'll be curled up with Chairman and Special very soon.
And in any case, I've learned my lesson. I'm not saying the "D-word" again until we're walking down Main Street, U.S.A.
Love,
dad
AS WE DID
Dear Spike:
We'd been planning on spending the a good part of this week lounging on the beach, making sand castles, splashing in the waves and collecting shells.
You took one step into the ocean and decided otherwise.
"No!" you screamed. "I can't. I can't."
Your mother and I looked at each other with mutual — and utter — confusion.
First of all, where in the world did you learn to say "I can't"?
And secondly, what do you mean you can't? It's the ocean. It makes up three-quarters of the planet's surface. It's a sunny day in Venice Beach. What could possibly be the problem?
Maybe given a few more days, you'll find out that you really do like the beach. But it was a bit sad for both your Oregonian mother and Californian father to realize, in the midst of your panicked screams, that our Utahn daughter isn't going to have the same relationship with the ocean as we had growing up, chiefly because she's just not going to see it as much as we did.
OK, it wasn't a bit sad. It was a lot sad. A whole lot sad. My daughter's afraid of the sea — I'd never felt so guilty for moving our family to Utah as I did on Monday.
Still resolved to get you better acquainted with the beach, but not to scar you for life, we took a break today and instead took a hike a Malibu Creek State Park to the place where the show M*A*S*H was filmed. At the sacred spot, some volunteers have set about recreating the camp's footprint with ropes and stakes and helpful signs. They even recreated the famous 4077th camp sign, next to which we stood for a photograph that will stand as proof of our family's nerdy obsession with a show that ended nearly a quarter-century ago.
We then marched up the path of the old helicopter landing pad, found a patch of shade and sat on the hillside and listened to you tell stories about what you saw in the "camp" below.
"There's Colonel Potter," you said.
"Where?"
"Hiding in the trees... Hello Colonel Potter! I can see you!"
"Who else do you see?"
"Klinger!" you said. "And Radar and Hawkeye... Hello Hawkeye!"
Funny what you pick up from your parents. And funny what you don't.
You appear to have picked up our love for an old television show — but not for the ocean. I guess one out of two isn't bad, though if I had a choice, it would be in the opposite order.
But I guess parents don't really get a choice about those sorts of things. Kids pick up some passions and pass on others.
Tomorrow we'll try the ocean again. And I'll love you no matter what happens when we get there.
Love,
dad
Today we decided to
We'd been planning on spending the a good part of this week lounging on the beach, making sand castles, splashing in the waves and collecting shells.
You took one step into the ocean and decided otherwise.
"No!" you screamed. "I can't. I can't."
Your mother and I looked at each other with mutual — and utter — confusion.
First of all, where in the world did you learn to say "I can't"?
And secondly, what do you mean you can't? It's the ocean. It makes up three-quarters of the planet's surface. It's a sunny day in Venice Beach. What could possibly be the problem?
Maybe given a few more days, you'll find out that you really do like the beach. But it was a bit sad for both your Oregonian mother and Californian father to realize, in the midst of your panicked screams, that our Utahn daughter isn't going to have the same relationship with the ocean as we had growing up, chiefly because she's just not going to see it as much as we did.
OK, it wasn't a bit sad. It was a lot sad. A whole lot sad. My daughter's afraid of the sea — I'd never felt so guilty for moving our family to Utah as I did on Monday.
Still resolved to get you better acquainted with the beach, but not to scar you for life, we took a break today and instead took a hike a Malibu Creek State Park to the place where the show M*A*S*H was filmed. At the sacred spot, some volunteers have set about recreating the camp's footprint with ropes and stakes and helpful signs. They even recreated the famous 4077th camp sign, next to which we stood for a photograph that will stand as proof of our family's nerdy obsession with a show that ended nearly a quarter-century ago.
We then marched up the path of the old helicopter landing pad, found a patch of shade and sat on the hillside and listened to you tell stories about what you saw in the "camp" below.
"There's Colonel Potter," you said.
"Where?"
"Hiding in the trees... Hello Colonel Potter! I can see you!"
"Who else do you see?"
"Klinger!" you said. "And Radar and Hawkeye... Hello Hawkeye!"
Funny what you pick up from your parents. And funny what you don't.
You appear to have picked up our love for an old television show — but not for the ocean. I guess one out of two isn't bad, though if I had a choice, it would be in the opposite order.
But I guess parents don't really get a choice about those sorts of things. Kids pick up some passions and pass on others.
Tomorrow we'll try the ocean again. And I'll love you no matter what happens when we get there.
Love,
dad
Today we decided to
Monday, June 22, 2009
KEEP IT UP
Dear Spike:
What a trooper you've been.
Halfway through our trip, you're clearly starting to feel the strain of jumping from place to place, sleeping in strange beds and visiting pretty much every last one of the 37 million residents of California.
But you've remained in pretty good spirits — and for the most part, you've remained on your best behavior, too.
Keep it up, kid. Disneyland awaits.
Love,
dad
What a trooper you've been.
Halfway through our trip, you're clearly starting to feel the strain of jumping from place to place, sleeping in strange beds and visiting pretty much every last one of the 37 million residents of California.
But you've remained in pretty good spirits — and for the most part, you've remained on your best behavior, too.
Keep it up, kid. Disneyland awaits.
Love,
dad
Thursday, June 11, 2009
LONG AND SHORT
Dear Spike:
Your mother seems to be on the road to recovery. And barring a turn for the worse among the other members of our family, it looks like we'll all be on the road to California in a couple of days.
It's a trip that feels quite a bit overdue. Your cousin Stas was born way back in March and we still haven't met the little guy. How can you miss someone you haven't even met yet? Because that's how I feel.
While we're in Los Angeles, we'll take a turn through Disneyland — a belated birthday trip for you to the purported Happiest Place on Earth. Stas and his parents are scheduled to join us there, as will your Gaky and Papa.
Along the way we'll do a bit of sightseeing, hit the beach, pitch a few tents and, undoubtedly and repeatedly, listen to Uncle Mikey's song, "Keep Moving," — your favorite tune for drives both long and short.
Best of all, we'll all be together, having an adventure.
Love,
dad
Your mother seems to be on the road to recovery. And barring a turn for the worse among the other members of our family, it looks like we'll all be on the road to California in a couple of days.
It's a trip that feels quite a bit overdue. Your cousin Stas was born way back in March and we still haven't met the little guy. How can you miss someone you haven't even met yet? Because that's how I feel.
While we're in Los Angeles, we'll take a turn through Disneyland — a belated birthday trip for you to the purported Happiest Place on Earth. Stas and his parents are scheduled to join us there, as will your Gaky and Papa.
Along the way we'll do a bit of sightseeing, hit the beach, pitch a few tents and, undoubtedly and repeatedly, listen to Uncle Mikey's song, "Keep Moving," — your favorite tune for drives both long and short.
Best of all, we'll all be together, having an adventure.
Love,
dad
Sunday, December 21, 2008
DAY OF DISNEY
Dear Spike:
We weren't sure how you'd react, but my money was on "scream and flee."
But when it came time for you to meet Winnie the Pooh, we could hardly hold you back. You ran into his arms like a bear to honey.
Your mother and I have always been partial to Disneyland. But as it turns out, it's about 38 times better when you do it with a little kid. And since this was your very first sojourn to the long-purported Happiest Place on Earth, it was especially fun to watch you take it all in.
You're sleeping now, after a long day of Disney, and no doubt dreaming of dancing dolls, drunken pirates and spinning teacups.
And I'm only worried abut one thing:
How do I explain to you, tomorrow, that we don't get to do this every day?
Love,
dad
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
FEELS LIKE HOME
Dear Spike:
You're back from your big Oregon adventure — and at this moment sleeping between your mother and me.
Home feels like home again.
Love,
dad
You're back from your big Oregon adventure — and at this moment sleeping between your mother and me.
Home feels like home again.
Love,
dad
Saturday, November 8, 2008
BIG OLD HOUSE
Dear Spike:
You and your mother are visiting our family in Oregon this weekend, so I'm all alone in this big old house. Funny, it doesn't seem so big when we're all here together. And it doesn't seem so lonely, either.
I woke up last night expecting to hear your sweet little snores over the baby monitor. It took me a few moments to remember why it was so very quiet. I tossed and turned and finally fell back asleep, only to wake up an hour later when I rolled over to hold your mother and got nothing but an armful of pillows.
Your mom called me twice today to tell me about how much fun you're having with your Aunt Molly, Uncle Matt and cousins Jay and Brett. Today you went to the Portland Children's Museum, where you played in the Bob The Builder exhibit. (I can only imagine your excitement at "meeting" the characters of which you've grown so fond. Tomorrow you'll head down to your grandparents house, where you'll be meeting up with more aunts, uncles and cousins. And then on Monday, you'll be visiting your Godmother and her new baby, Aaron.
I miss you, but I'm excited for your adventures and happy you're getting to spend time with people who love you. And I'll keep this big old house warm for your return.
Love,
dad
You and your mother are visiting our family in Oregon this weekend, so I'm all alone in this big old house. Funny, it doesn't seem so big when we're all here together. And it doesn't seem so lonely, either.
I woke up last night expecting to hear your sweet little snores over the baby monitor. It took me a few moments to remember why it was so very quiet. I tossed and turned and finally fell back asleep, only to wake up an hour later when I rolled over to hold your mother and got nothing but an armful of pillows.
Your mom called me twice today to tell me about how much fun you're having with your Aunt Molly, Uncle Matt and cousins Jay and Brett. Today you went to the Portland Children's Museum, where you played in the Bob The Builder exhibit. (I can only imagine your excitement at "meeting" the characters of which you've grown so fond. Tomorrow you'll head down to your grandparents house, where you'll be meeting up with more aunts, uncles and cousins. And then on Monday, you'll be visiting your Godmother and her new baby, Aaron.
I miss you, but I'm excited for your adventures and happy you're getting to spend time with people who love you. And I'll keep this big old house warm for your return.
Love,
dad
Saturday, August 30, 2008
LOSS FOR WORDS
Dear Spike's Friends:
A lot of you have e-mailed to ask about Cuba. At the moment, I'm still at a loss for words to describe the geopolitical pit of poppycock that Fidel Castro, in cooperation with every American President since JFK, has managed to make of such a beautiful country — one with such enormous economic promise.
I'm working on several articles about Cuba which I'll link to at dearspike.com when (if?) they are published. Among my subjects: The resurrection of Cuba's sex trade; the explosive growth of protestant churches in Havana's poorest quarters; life in the long, dark shadow of the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay; and the precarious return trips being made by Cuban exiles.
In the meantime, I've posted a slideshow of photos of the trip on YouTube. You can watch it here.
Thanks for all of your kind words in the wake of the burglary, during my time away, and while I've been recovering from my nasty case of Fidel's Flu. As always, you can reach me at dearspike+at+gmail+dot+com
Love,
spike's dad
p.s. — Yes, I'm still planning on posting the letters from the Dear Spike project here. Stay tuned.
A lot of you have e-mailed to ask about Cuba. At the moment, I'm still at a loss for words to describe the geopolitical pit of poppycock that Fidel Castro, in cooperation with every American President since JFK, has managed to make of such a beautiful country — one with such enormous economic promise.
I'm working on several articles about Cuba which I'll link to at dearspike.com when (if?) they are published. Among my subjects: The resurrection of Cuba's sex trade; the explosive growth of protestant churches in Havana's poorest quarters; life in the long, dark shadow of the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay; and the precarious return trips being made by Cuban exiles.
In the meantime, I've posted a slideshow of photos of the trip on YouTube. You can watch it here.
Thanks for all of your kind words in the wake of the burglary, during my time away, and while I've been recovering from my nasty case of Fidel's Flu. As always, you can reach me at dearspike+at+gmail+dot+com
Love,
spike's dad
p.s. — Yes, I'm still planning on posting the letters from the Dear Spike project here. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
BE HOME SOON
Dear Spike:
I'm off this morning, bright and early. My plane leaves Salt Lake City at 7 a.m. By early afternoon, I'll be in Mexico. By midnight I'll be in Havana, Cuba. And if all goes well, within 24 hours of arriving in Cuba, I'll be on the easternmost part of the island, looking out over the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay from the same vantage as Cubans have had for more than 100 years — nearly 50 of those in which the base has been an international flashpoint, first in the so-called Cold War and now in so-called the War on Terror.
I'll be gone a little over a week — by far the most time you and I have ever spent apart. While I'm away, your grandmother (you call her "Gak") is coming to stay with you and your mother — a last-minute change to our plans precipitated by the burglary of our home last week. She and your mother will take good care of you while I'm gone.
Still, I don't want you to forget me. So I've recorded a few of my normal letters to you on video and also made you a slide show of photos of you and I together. I know it's not the same as having your father home, but I thought it might help, if only just a little bit.
I'll be home soon.
I miss you and I love you.
Love,
dad
Thursday, August 7, 2008
QUIETLY DREAMING AWAY
Dear Spike:
We're all asleep in a tent in your grandparents' backyard.
OK, to be precise, you and your mother are asleep in a tent in your grandparents' backyard and I am beginning to think very seriously about getting some sleep, too.
It's hard, though, because I'd really much prefer just to stay up to watch you, curled up against your mother's belly, quietly dreaming away in your white flannel pajamas.
Sigh.
Love,
dad
We're all asleep in a tent in your grandparents' backyard.
OK, to be precise, you and your mother are asleep in a tent in your grandparents' backyard and I am beginning to think very seriously about getting some sleep, too.
It's hard, though, because I'd really much prefer just to stay up to watch you, curled up against your mother's belly, quietly dreaming away in your white flannel pajamas.
Sigh.
Love,
dad
Friday, February 1, 2008
ALL THE HASSLE
Dear Spike:
I'll admit I wasn't too fond of the idea when your grandfather called me, a few months back, with a plan to surprise your grandmother.
"I'd like to fly the three of you out for her birthday," he said. "It would be the best present in the world for her."
There are few things I wouldn't do for my mother, but I still was dreading the trip. I could already see the other passengers' spiteful gazes and hear their impatient sighs. Heck, for all the love we could expect to get from our fellow travelers, I feared, we might as well walk onto the plane wearing shirts that read: "About to meet my virgins."
But things went remarkably well on your first airplane trip. We got through security with no major hassles. One of the flight attendants encouraged us to take an extra seat for your safety chair, since the plane wasn't full. I didn't notice a single angry glance from our fellow passengers as we boarded (rather, quite a few of them looked up at you and cooed.) And you were remarkably well behaved during the hour-long wait for the plane to arrive and the hour and a half flight from Salt Lake City to Oakland.
We arrived, safe and sound, at your grandparents' home this evening — and nearly gave your grandmother a heart attack when we walked in the door.
It really turned out to be no great hassle at all, but the look on her face when she saw you would have been worth all the hassle in the world.
Love,
dad
I'll admit I wasn't too fond of the idea when your grandfather called me, a few months back, with a plan to surprise your grandmother.
"I'd like to fly the three of you out for her birthday," he said. "It would be the best present in the world for her."
There are few things I wouldn't do for my mother, but I still was dreading the trip. I could already see the other passengers' spiteful gazes and hear their impatient sighs. Heck, for all the love we could expect to get from our fellow travelers, I feared, we might as well walk onto the plane wearing shirts that read: "About to meet my virgins."
But things went remarkably well on your first airplane trip. We got through security with no major hassles. One of the flight attendants encouraged us to take an extra seat for your safety chair, since the plane wasn't full. I didn't notice a single angry glance from our fellow passengers as we boarded (rather, quite a few of them looked up at you and cooed.) And you were remarkably well behaved during the hour-long wait for the plane to arrive and the hour and a half flight from Salt Lake City to Oakland.
We arrived, safe and sound, at your grandparents' home this evening — and nearly gave your grandmother a heart attack when we walked in the door.
It really turned out to be no great hassle at all, but the look on her face when she saw you would have been worth all the hassle in the world.
Love,
dad
Friday, January 25, 2008
THE WHOLE DEAL
Dear Spike:
I’ll be heading out of town for a few days, starting this morning.
Viva Las Vegas.
I suppose I should be happy about that. Vegas is, after all, “The Entertainment Capital of the World” — or so the brochure says, anyway.
I am hoping to fit in at least a few hours to see some cards at the Binion’s poker room. I’ve been assigned to travel with my good friend, Rick Egan, the photographer with whom I went to Iraq in 2005. And the assignment I’ve been handed is different enough from what I normally do that it should definitely be an interesting weekend.
But really, I’m feeling rather uninspired about the whole deal. And I’m worried that I’m going to miss something while I’m gone.
It seems like every new minute you’re doing something completely different and amazing.
Last week, for instance, you started imitating your mother when she coughed — it’s really quite funny when you do it. And just this afternoon you started giggling when your mom tickled your feet.
And then tonight, just before bed, there you were in your crib, quoting Spinoza — from memory.
OK, I made that last part up. You had some notes scribbled on your hand, but I pretended not to see.
I’m going to miss you.
Lots.
And lots.
Love,
dad
I’ll be heading out of town for a few days, starting this morning.
Viva Las Vegas.
I suppose I should be happy about that. Vegas is, after all, “The Entertainment Capital of the World” — or so the brochure says, anyway.
I am hoping to fit in at least a few hours to see some cards at the Binion’s poker room. I’ve been assigned to travel with my good friend, Rick Egan, the photographer with whom I went to Iraq in 2005. And the assignment I’ve been handed is different enough from what I normally do that it should definitely be an interesting weekend.
But really, I’m feeling rather uninspired about the whole deal. And I’m worried that I’m going to miss something while I’m gone.
It seems like every new minute you’re doing something completely different and amazing.
Last week, for instance, you started imitating your mother when she coughed — it’s really quite funny when you do it. And just this afternoon you started giggling when your mom tickled your feet.
And then tonight, just before bed, there you were in your crib, quoting Spinoza — from memory.
OK, I made that last part up. You had some notes scribbled on your hand, but I pretended not to see.
I’m going to miss you.
Lots.
And lots.
Love,
dad
Friday, December 21, 2007
A SUDDEN CONNECTION
Dear Spike:
Snowing again today. Nine inches, maybe more.
The roads haven’t been plowed yet, so your mother decided to walk to work. We’re upstairs watching this amazing white world from the window in my office (which over the past few months has come to more closely resemble your office.)
A few short and random thoughts on this beautiful winter morning:
• Over the past few days, I’ve spoken to or corresponded with several friends whom I have not seen in some time. I’ve made an effort this year to reengage those friends with whom, for whatever reason, I have lost contact — and there’s a long list. I’m glad I’ve done this. It’s been especially rewarding to share with them your story and to hear about their lives, their families and their journeys.
• I think I may have made a new friend in Kenya this week. He’s a fellow journalist who wrote me in response to an article I penned regarding America’s use of Third-World mercenaries to defend its military and diplomatic bases in Iraq. Seems we’ve got a lot in common and we’ve begun to correspond.
• A song comes to mind... “Make new friends but keep the old,” I think it goes.
• I heard on the radio this morning that machete sales are up in Kenya. And though I’ve never even met my new friend in the flesh, I felt a sudden connection to that place, where candidates for parliament and the presidency have been stirring ethnic divisions in an attempt to win more votes.
• I’ve had similar experiences when reading or hearing reports from many of the places I’ve traveled and many more where I have friends. It is often a woeful experience, but I feel very privileged to be connected to this world in this way.
• Another song comes to mind (and probably won’t leave my head all morning now) “it’s a world of laughter, a world of tears, it’s a world of hope and a world of fears.”
• Outside it looks as though someone has shaken a snow globe, with tiny flakes swirling about in the air up, down, left, right. The trees look like cotton bushes. The street is like a long, flat sheet of white paper.
• It looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas. And so will those we know and love in places like Herat, Afghanistan; and in Frankfurt, Germany; and in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
• Yes, it’s a small world after all.
Love,
dad
Snowing again today. Nine inches, maybe more.
The roads haven’t been plowed yet, so your mother decided to walk to work. We’re upstairs watching this amazing white world from the window in my office (which over the past few months has come to more closely resemble your office.)
A few short and random thoughts on this beautiful winter morning:
• Over the past few days, I’ve spoken to or corresponded with several friends whom I have not seen in some time. I’ve made an effort this year to reengage those friends with whom, for whatever reason, I have lost contact — and there’s a long list. I’m glad I’ve done this. It’s been especially rewarding to share with them your story and to hear about their lives, their families and their journeys.
• I think I may have made a new friend in Kenya this week. He’s a fellow journalist who wrote me in response to an article I penned regarding America’s use of Third-World mercenaries to defend its military and diplomatic bases in Iraq. Seems we’ve got a lot in common and we’ve begun to correspond.
• A song comes to mind... “Make new friends but keep the old,” I think it goes.
• I heard on the radio this morning that machete sales are up in Kenya. And though I’ve never even met my new friend in the flesh, I felt a sudden connection to that place, where candidates for parliament and the presidency have been stirring ethnic divisions in an attempt to win more votes.
• I’ve had similar experiences when reading or hearing reports from many of the places I’ve traveled and many more where I have friends. It is often a woeful experience, but I feel very privileged to be connected to this world in this way.
• Another song comes to mind (and probably won’t leave my head all morning now) “it’s a world of laughter, a world of tears, it’s a world of hope and a world of fears.”
• Outside it looks as though someone has shaken a snow globe, with tiny flakes swirling about in the air up, down, left, right. The trees look like cotton bushes. The street is like a long, flat sheet of white paper.
• It looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas. And so will those we know and love in places like Herat, Afghanistan; and in Frankfurt, Germany; and in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
• Yes, it’s a small world after all.
Love,
dad
Thursday, August 16, 2007
LOVE HER SO
Dear Spike:
We had a lovely visit with your grandparents this week. When it was over, we all crammed into the car to see them off at the airport. They kissed you and kissed you and kissed you again, and then, finally, turned and walked toward the terminal.
As we drove away, your mother looked out the passenger window and watched them as they gathered up their suitcases in front of a sliding glass door.
“They’re crying,” she said. “They love her so much that they’re crying.”
The depth of love you will feel from all sides of your family will be oceanic. Perhaps you know this already. Or sense it, at least.
I am often saddened when I think of how far we live from everyone in our family. But as I’ve told you before, we are a family that finds family wherever we go. Already, you are finding family here in a growing group of people who know you and love you and would go to the ends of this Earth for you. And I find some consolation in the knowledge that your concepts of “family” and “community” will be little different.
As for those special family members with whom we share blood? We will speak frequently. We will write and exchange photos. As the years and technology allow, we will find new ways to tell each other that we love each other.
And we will wait, eagerly, for our next visit.
Love,
dad
We had a lovely visit with your grandparents this week. When it was over, we all crammed into the car to see them off at the airport. They kissed you and kissed you and kissed you again, and then, finally, turned and walked toward the terminal.
As we drove away, your mother looked out the passenger window and watched them as they gathered up their suitcases in front of a sliding glass door.
“They’re crying,” she said. “They love her so much that they’re crying.”
The depth of love you will feel from all sides of your family will be oceanic. Perhaps you know this already. Or sense it, at least.
I am often saddened when I think of how far we live from everyone in our family. But as I’ve told you before, we are a family that finds family wherever we go. Already, you are finding family here in a growing group of people who know you and love you and would go to the ends of this Earth for you. And I find some consolation in the knowledge that your concepts of “family” and “community” will be little different.
As for those special family members with whom we share blood? We will speak frequently. We will write and exchange photos. As the years and technology allow, we will find new ways to tell each other that we love each other.
And we will wait, eagerly, for our next visit.
Love,
dad
Monday, July 30, 2007
FEW BETTER STORIES
Dear Spike:
We’re in a KOA campground in Vernal — “Utah’s Dinosaurland” the sign read on the way into town — getting ready to toast some s’mores and then turn in for the night.
We were going to meet some old friends here tonight and visit Dinosaur National Monument tomorrow, but as I was checking in at the main office, the woman behind the desk stopped to answer the phone.
“It’s for you,” she told me.
Our friends’ car had broken down in Colorado. They wouldn’t be making it into Utah after all.
“So just one site, then?” asked the woman behind the desk, who’d been listening in.
“I guess so,” I said.
I’ve never been to a KOA before, but it’s quite the experience — not so much camping as parking and pitching a tent, really. There’s a line of RVs across the way from us, and behind that another line of mobile homes that look anything but mobile.
Kids with way-too-deep -to-be-healthy suntans are peddling about the park on low-riding bikecars. An older man in black socks, sandals and a pair of tight cut-off shorts is wandering around with a beer in one hand and a propane tank in another. And a group of large women in tiny bathing suits are congregated near the camp bathrooms, smoking.
“It’s like we’ve been let inside the petting zoo!” your mother exclaimed as we took in our surroundings.
On our left, not more than 20 feet away, is a family of pudgy Alabamans who told us they’re on their way “Yellarstone.” On our right is shaggy bearded biker daddy and his long haired hippy mama, on the last leg of a ride that began three months ago and has taken them from their home in Tigard, Ore. down the California coastline, across to Arizona and New Mexico and back up through these parts en route back to the Beaver State.
A soccer game of migrant workers, who have pitched their tents here as they wait word on jobs further inland, just broke up. They played in jeans and chunky black workboots — some of them managing to dribble the ball downfield while simultaneously gabbing away on mobile phones with their families in Jalisco — and laughed an infectiously communal laugh as they knocked each other around the makeshift pitch.
Now as the camp has begun to settle down for the night I can barely make out a soft symphony of crickets chirping — just below the roar of nearby Highway 191.
So as it turns out, your first camping experience hasn’t at all gone the way I’d imagined — but I’ve got a philosophy that I’m hoping you’ll adopt: Things that go as planned rarely make for good storytelling later on.
A couple of years ago, your mother and I found ourselves curled up together in a sleeping bag in a courtyard next to a church cemetery on the seedy side of Victoria, B.C. We hadn’t even planned on being in Victoria that day, but that’s where the roads and rivers led us. Sure, I’ve had better nights of sleep — but I have few better stories.
And so tonight find us at a KOA in Vernal. And tomorrow will find us on the road to find our friends in Colorado.
And the next day? Who knows?
That’s just one life’s great joys.
Love,
dad
We’re in a KOA campground in Vernal — “Utah’s Dinosaurland” the sign read on the way into town — getting ready to toast some s’mores and then turn in for the night.
We were going to meet some old friends here tonight and visit Dinosaur National Monument tomorrow, but as I was checking in at the main office, the woman behind the desk stopped to answer the phone.
“It’s for you,” she told me.
Our friends’ car had broken down in Colorado. They wouldn’t be making it into Utah after all.
“So just one site, then?” asked the woman behind the desk, who’d been listening in.
“I guess so,” I said.
I’ve never been to a KOA before, but it’s quite the experience — not so much camping as parking and pitching a tent, really. There’s a line of RVs across the way from us, and behind that another line of mobile homes that look anything but mobile.
Kids with way-too-deep -to-be-healthy suntans are peddling about the park on low-riding bikecars. An older man in black socks, sandals and a pair of tight cut-off shorts is wandering around with a beer in one hand and a propane tank in another. And a group of large women in tiny bathing suits are congregated near the camp bathrooms, smoking.
“It’s like we’ve been let inside the petting zoo!” your mother exclaimed as we took in our surroundings.
On our left, not more than 20 feet away, is a family of pudgy Alabamans who told us they’re on their way “Yellarstone.” On our right is shaggy bearded biker daddy and his long haired hippy mama, on the last leg of a ride that began three months ago and has taken them from their home in Tigard, Ore. down the California coastline, across to Arizona and New Mexico and back up through these parts en route back to the Beaver State.
A soccer game of migrant workers, who have pitched their tents here as they wait word on jobs further inland, just broke up. They played in jeans and chunky black workboots — some of them managing to dribble the ball downfield while simultaneously gabbing away on mobile phones with their families in Jalisco — and laughed an infectiously communal laugh as they knocked each other around the makeshift pitch.
Now as the camp has begun to settle down for the night I can barely make out a soft symphony of crickets chirping — just below the roar of nearby Highway 191.
So as it turns out, your first camping experience hasn’t at all gone the way I’d imagined — but I’ve got a philosophy that I’m hoping you’ll adopt: Things that go as planned rarely make for good storytelling later on.
A couple of years ago, your mother and I found ourselves curled up together in a sleeping bag in a courtyard next to a church cemetery on the seedy side of Victoria, B.C. We hadn’t even planned on being in Victoria that day, but that’s where the roads and rivers led us. Sure, I’ve had better nights of sleep — but I have few better stories.
And so tonight find us at a KOA in Vernal. And tomorrow will find us on the road to find our friends in Colorado.
And the next day? Who knows?
That’s just one life’s great joys.
Love,
dad
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