SUMMER OF 1972

Sometimes we lose sight of what’s important in life, the daily grind of work robbing us of precious moments spent with family and friends. Not so in the summer of 1972. My parents and grandparents packed their campers and we headed out West to see wild buffalo, prairie dogs, the Bad Lands, Mount Rushmore, and Yellowstone National Park, among other things.

It’s hard to imagine where thirty-five years have gone. I can still feel the warm breeze on my face as my brother maneuvers a miniature milk truck in a dusty parking lot. I was the loyal passenger, a nine-year old boy, waving to Dad while he filmed us; My brother making ever widening turns, our circles becoming larger and larger, as if we had known our freedom wouldn’t last forever.

It’s the silly things in life we cherish the most—like staying at a Flintstone themed park or enjoying the built-in swimming pool with mammoth slide (hey, that’s how I remember it). I may have chickened-out at going down the damn thing—I’d hear about it and regret it whenever Dad set up the projector and ran the film—but it didn’t traumatize me too much; I've learned to laugh at myself. And to see our late grandfather heading for the luxury showers with a towel in hand made us all smile.

Unfortunately, as I tried to duplicate my brother’s feat of feeding a fawn, I got a little extra something that I hadn’t bargained for. Seems to be the story of my life.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving. I’m leaving for Texas and promised not to blog while on vacation. See you when I get back.