I woke up in my tent, cozy and warm with just a hint of light glowing outside. It was dead quiet. Rain must've stopped, I thought. I considered getting up to start the coffee and plan a hike, but I could tell it was much colder outside than I'd approve of. So I pulled up a book on my Kindle to read a while.
And then it seemed like a car crash happened just outside my tent door—but I knew better . . .
To hear my wife tell it, I present no shortage of difficulty when it comes to Christmas trees. She's probably right. Before our second Christmas I barnstormed with fury that we forget a tree and get a cactus instead, because that was something we could plant in the yard after making a spectacle of it. Well, that unfestive suggestion grew no wings and did not fly. We still found ourselves at a tree lot, looking for something perfectly triangular and uniform and just tall enough and something more or less out of a storybook and everything else that just doesn't come naturally to things that are, well, natural.
We bought one. Probably for 60 bucks. The whole experience left me dissatisfied . . .
My wife is the oldest of three siblings, so when her youngest brother settled into starting his Ph.D. earlier this year, I think that set off a small amount of anxiety in my father in-law. Not for the schooling, but because life was changing. You know? So he lobbed this idea of taking a full-on family road trip to see Yellowstone National Park in the summer of 2013; it's a trip he'd always meant to take his kids on, but other trips made thier way to the top of the priority list every year. His kids were now moving on to their adult lives, and who knows how much time each of us has left, so we all made it happen.
There are only certain types of folks who find great pleasure in driving long washboard roads in Mexico that end at barren crowd-free beaches. Fortunately, a few of them are my friends and we happen to be raising kids around the same ages. Earlier this year we made a trek down through ol' Mexico . . .
I stopped and looked around for another way. He, on the other hand, rolled by me on the passenger side, draped a wrist at 12:00 on the wheel, and entered the sludge at a creep. Life as we knew it unfolded in slow motion. The front tires touched the water and went down. They didn't stop, but they sank with such a dreamy, cartoonish pace that those of us watching had enough time to process, react, and theorize. So, we laughed . . .