The Giants Win the Penant (...)!

It only seems like the wait between posts has lasted longer than the Giant's World Series drought, and, incredibly, both streaks are over!

There is so much to say since the last post, Hunter started school, left school, found another school, some minors were trapped and freed and the Giants won the World Series. Did I say that yet?

We all know how big a Giant's fan I am, I even got so caught up in the frenzy of all the band-wagoners that I felt a little cramped in the train, people asking me how long I had been a Giants fan, or how many games had I been to? I began to get mad. That is like asking how long I have had black hair (of course, my students will say not for much longer, but that is a different story) and I was often annoyed at people for joining the fad, as if they could just slip on a black and orange hat and wear it like a yellow bracelet and live strong with 35 million others. So when I think back to last month, I remember my favorite moment very clearly. I was proud and I wanted to claim some sort of credit, or at least wear a badge showing how long I had suffered.

My entire lifetime the Giants went without winning, and blindly I followed because I was raised to care that way. My poor dad was such a suffering fan, that he had proudly come to live by the motto which states "all I ask is for meaningful games in September." In other words they have been so bad he only hope for mediocrity. So it was with great pride of knowing a familial wish had been fulfilled, as one of my dad's greatest dreams had been accomplished, so too were mine. And it was this pride that I too had a moment of fatherly pride fulfilled.

It was the moment Hunter learned to ride a two-wheeler. Now, I know you may think this has very little to do with the Giants, hang with me. Remember I was consumed, I mean this was the culmination of a life's passion. I was lucky enough to go to four of the games, imploring Heather that this is a once in a lifetime event. One of the games I went to was game 2 of the World Series, (the YouTube link has too much swearing so imagine this in Jack Nicholson's voice for all you movie buffs) -- we're talking about the World Series-- and the celebration the ensued lasted for hours in the streets as it could only in San Francisco. People were lingering around the park breaking into random group hugs, or quietly joyously crying together. It was intense, moments I will always cherish. And it was punctuated by Hunter.

Or should I say I was so emboldened by the Giants accomplishing the impossible, I hubristically pushed Hunter beyond the bounds of his family name.

In case you have not heard, Hunter likes to play outside. And so I play outside. And I noticed when he would ride his bike down our little street on his little Thomas the Train bike (I know it makes no sense, a ride-able train perhaps, but a bike just seems like shameless advertisement). So, anyway, down the street he go like the Little Engine That Could- or, listing to the side like a boat fighting the wind more accurately- and he would go maybe twenty thirty yards without his training wheels hitting the ground.

We have another bike with no training wheels so I convinced him to try that for like ten feet and he got off for the day. The next day, the same thing with his mom. The third day, was the day I came I home from the Giant's parade. Still euphoric from the historic event, I decided to take the training wheels off the Thomas bike. He is just barely three so it was a bit risky and I then I had a couple of flashbacks.

I remember when I learned how to ride my bike I was like 8 or 19 or something and I went with my dad and a buddy and his dad to my high school. We learned to ride together but it took lots of lumps and I was way too old to not know how to ride a bike. The fact that we lived on a steep hill was no excuse.

Of course, that is nothing like the time when I was like 6 and I tried to "learn" how to ride a skateboard by myself so I sneaked my brothers. It was about about 4 inches wide with a slippery, wobbly metal deck but I mounted it and considered bombing that same steep hill anyway. I sat cautiously at the top of hill girding myself, eventually paying no heed to the speed bumps or how far they might launch me. I stared down the hill, choosing my route carefully. The old mountain road was barely wide for a car and had a severe cliff on the right hand side. With a deep breathe of defiance I pushed off. Immediately I was flying like Superman! Flying down the hill, that is, until I bounced into a ditch. The board had almost immediately flown out from under me and went careening completely off the cliff, sending me yard sailing across the road and into that ditch which was covered with poison oak but not until I bounded like a super ball three or four times. That was me, and this is my son, so I had these thoughts while I was holding onto his shirt as he pedaled so ferociously I had to run behind him.

It took him about fifteen feet before I let go and he took off. And there is no looking back. I wish he would look back more because as he speeds by yelling I'm Faster Than You I wonder if he can see into my memories and know that he really is faster than me.

I should not be surprised because one day he saw one of those Razor scooters and tried to ride it and did not seem to like it. It was a Thursday. On Friday he went with my parents to Tahoe and found his cousin's old Razor. When I talked to him that day he had been out riding the scooter all day and could do moves. Need I remind you of my first day on a skateboard?

He was doing wheelies on the first day, and the joy on his face was matched only by his dad's face, on well... pretty much that whole week. That has to be one of the greatest weeks of my life.

Actually, one of the great parts about living where we live is that there is a bunch of kids on our little street. Hunter loves playing with neighbor Jacob and there is another litttle boy up the street and they ride around at night in their own little biker gang, the Blinking Light Boys as they are sometimes called. Because they started riding as a group just in the last month or so, it is dark when they ride, so I hooked them all up with little blinking bike lights so the cars could see them. Pretty cute.

There seems to be no stopping him physically. I hope to teach him to ski starting this week. Every time I ask him if he wants to learn how ski, he snarls at me and says "I already know how, dad." So my job should be pretty easy.




Certainly it will happen before the Giants win another World Series. That can't be a once in a lifetime event, can it?

It is beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Like the flakes before a snow storm, winter is gently settling in. It is during this time, with holidays approaching, when I tend to romanticize winter, and glorify it the way we all do. Like Bob Cratchit did. Before things went Scroogie. You know, a stocking covered hearth, basking in the warm glow of a fire, frosted windows, family cheer humming in the background ... (Ok fine it is San Francisco and October is the nicest month of the year here.) But I can still dream of my own idyllic, Dickensian style winter, it is my Blog after all.

So here I am on a chilly November night, cooking up a holiday turkey of my own... And so...With a warm cup of cocoa I sit --under my own warm pad of a hot laptop basking in the glow of the dimly lit computer screen (like so many burnt embers) alighted only by its blue-whitish hue, fogging the windows, with just the faintest hint of a humming hard-drive spinning in the back ground-- looking forward to another Christmas, which if Halloween is any indication, will be the first Christmas Hunter truly understands and enjoys.

As he gets older, it is imperative we set in the family values and traditions. Like so many families we are spread out and have to create new traditions where others used to prevail. We are lucky, despite the distance, this will be Hunter's second Thanksgiving with Rayne Droplet's family, for which we are grateful.

In fact, we are looking forward to another upcoming trip where Hunter can re-experience some great traditions at the Pattersons. Wonderful holiday traditions, these, and of course the food is fantastic where Rayne Droplet's favorite stuffing is a family jewel and there is no substitute for enjoying the warmth and comfort of home. There are other more subtle traditions, from the lighting of Christmas bushes, to putting up house lights, grace before dinner; really there are too many traditions to number, like so many wreaths passed down an attic latter. Last year he pushed boxes around the garage but this year I think he will remember his trip and burn an indelible image. Thus, I am also looking forward to Christmas this year for the same reasons really, or perhaps, I think, because he will have his cousins to share the day and learn traditions from. Christmas as a kid should be enjoyed with kids. This is how I did it and so it feels right to continue the tradition.

All it takes is one second to see Hunter with his cousins and it is clear how much they adore each other and how important it is for him to have that connection. Even though they are older than he is, they seem to genuinely enjoy his being around. And now that he is getting older he can really play with them.

Over the summer we had a great time in Tahoe with Hunter and Maggie. She was great. Maybe because she could boss him around and he would listen, or maybe because they can play with sort of the same toys but she was a rock-star. They played golf together, walked the dogs, went to the beach, played Legos, all these great, simple things that make a child's life so enjoyable.

And as for Big Cousin Blake, well that is a different kind of relationship. Wonderful. But different. I remember one time we made our way over to the Profile Chamber in Lake Tahoe. It's one of Blake's favorite places where you can look at fish and wild life in a wonderful little preserve. Hunter loves looking at animals, as his Gramma Cindy will tell you, evidenced by their weekly pet store excursions, just to look. Anyway, once we got to the profile chamber it was a blur. A crazed whirl-wind really, as the cousins were sprinting to show Hunter all of the fun elements of the Chamber. Look Hunter a bat! Or, Over here, check out this bear! And even, Don't worry those teeth wont hurt you, just climb right inside that mouth...

Poor Hunter, who was barely a year and half old, was trying to keep up, and not be scared, but he really was overwhelmed. Something about the fish calmed him as he genuinely seems to like fish. At some point, his cousins became distracted and wandered away, leaving Hunter by the window on a feux cliff pondering the creek and its fish. Other kids had now ventured in, adding to the distraction and hysteria.

Hunter could not keep up or get his cousins' attention. So he stood there for a second, coiled up his little face and yelled over the top, BLAKE! LOOK! BIG FISH! The whole place paused, hesitantly inhaling long enough to turn see Hunter pointing at these tiny fish swimming by before moving on...

He has done so much growing since that time. At that point he was painfully shy. He would barely even look at people and even then it was just to check if they were his momma or not. Mall Santa made him cry, for goodness sakes. Now I think of him at this just past Halloween, just two weeks ago. We went to a pumpkin patch and he wanted to go down the huge slide all by himself. Up and down he went.

His mom prepped him for the day's activities and we went to his cousin's house for the annual pumpkin carving
extravangza/excusetohaveabeerintheearlyafternoon before the evening's main event at his friend's house.

When it came time to trick or treat, I did not know what to expect. He had been practicing saying "trick or treat" for a couple weeks, but who knows how it will actually transpire? Lately he has developed an extreme sensitivity to odd noises, "scary things" (I had to turn off the Charlie Brown Great Pumpkin episode when Patty dressed up in her in witch's costume) and general darkness. It is only Halloween after all, obviously none of the these things will be an issue on this hallowed night...

And yet there he was. When he heard it was time to go he rounded up all the toddlers and their parents and almost pushed everyone out the door. The evening night was awash of strollers, plastic Elmo candy holders and toddlers. Of course we forgot our stroller, so Hunter had to walk. Well, I should not say walk so much as ebulliently, bounding and bouncing down the street, looking as if he forgot he was dressed as a Giraffe, he hopped on down the road like a Kangaroo.

The first house he saw, he literally sprinted across the street. We were supposed to walking a bit down the road, bring a traveling band of Princesses and Pirates with us, but he could not wait. Up he walked, right to the front door, pushed the button and opened his little bag. When the person smilingly answered, he said trick or treat! and got his candy and moved on. Just like he had done it a thousand times before. Mom and dad were proud.

My favorite moment was we when went to this particularly busy street where many of the houses go Grisswald with the decorations and this one house had a talking mummy right by the door that was scaring even adults. When Hunter saw it I had to pick him up as he was genuinely scared, and was loudly fussing to leave for fear. At that same moment it was time for him to get his candy, as I picked him up to leave I turned slightly so my left hand- holding a red plastic cup for, um, water- was facing her. Ignoring the crying baby, she proceeded to plop the candy in my half-full cup and obliviously began chucking candy at toddlers who were all freaked out by her mummy.

Classic. I mean, everyone knows what goes in those red plastic cups...


So with Christmas fast approaching and fall upon us, I do get a little whimsical and sappy about family traditions. I remember the loud bilingual gatherings of my youth, my grandma and her sisters fighting, Carmelita's impossible to replicate empanadas, cousins I did not really know and those I loved. Now, I have a reputation to uphold about being salty on all occasions, but large family gatherings are a part of the fabric of my rearing and I hope to instill in Hunter his own little modern Dickens story, completed by the warm glow of a blue hued computer screen.

And a smile.

No Sing, Mama, No Sing!

And with that, we have what is more than Hunter's first real sentence, as much as it is his first real plea to the world. And, maybe the first sign of baby/daddy solidarity. Because while we all agree Hunter is the only one who should be singing in our house, Rayne Droplet is a wonderful mother and beautiful wife, but she is now convinced she just might be bad enough to be on American Idol. And this is where Hunter and I agree because she is not.

A guilty admission of mine has been that I have allowed Heather to force me to watch American Idol, as I certainly don't really enjoy the the show. Although, ever since I picked two straight winners from the Audition episodes, I feel like I am a bit of seasoned judge myself. I mean I know a dawg when I see one, and when things sound a little pitchy. (Don't get me started on those bogus voter numbers they claim, or try to sell me the idea that America chooses...). Anyway, since we have begun watching the show together, it has been a great saying around the house that Heather is not a bad enough singer to get on American Idol. She can sing OK. Not (real first season winner) Tamyra Gray good. But not train wreck bad either. Thus, not bad enough to be on American Idol.

I feel for Hunter in that regard. Anyone who was at our wedding can recall how musically talented my uncle is. And my grandmother, too, of course. In fact, anyone who was at our wedding would be hit in the face, by my grandmother, if they did not remark to my grandmother -after her show stealing serenade- that she was obviously responsible for ALL his talent, (and for the whole wedding for that matter if you asked her but that is another blog for another day).

And then there is my mom. Also not bad enough to be on American Idol (but certainly young enough!). She is convinced that she sings Queen songs better than Freddie Mercury. Not that she has a better style or more charisma, because that would be ridiculous. Nope, she is convinced her voice sounds better than his. That she is a better singer. Again, I say, not bad enough to be on American Idol.

If you follow along below, you will see Hunter's American Idol Audition video comprised of such international megahits, as Itsy Bitsy Spider, and the Elmo's World theme song. And I must say he puts his own spin on it. The non-partisan judge in me says he makes these very familiar songs "his own" in a way that would certainly impress David Cook, who is falsely given credit for being the Idol to mix up songs, when Daughtry was really the first guy to do that.

So I wonder, as I watch him continue to develop athletic skills, and keep things organized, what skills beyond those of his parents will he develop? I mean we know where he gets his great looks and wonderful personality. And we also know where his sarcasm comes from. Sarcasm, you say? Yeah sarcasm, in a barely 21 month old.

A short story long, it is my blog after all... we were getting some Frozen Yogurt and Hunter had been blazing up and down the corridors, obviously inspired by my recent Dipsea Race, all the while yelling RUN! FAST! RUN! FAST! Well, we finally make it over to the yogurt place and the line is huge and now we are butting against that frozen time in the afternoon where if he is in the car too long he will fall asleep and ruin his sleep pattern for the night, so I actually am in a hurry to get him home, as we had a bit of a drive in front of us. So I pick him up, but he is too squirmy and the yogurt too cold to handle all at once, so I plea with him a couple times to get down and RUN! FAST! To which he coldly replied, NO. So finally I put him down and tell him has to run fast to the car. So he looks at me, gets on his hands and knees and starts to crawl slowly, saying, FAST! FAST! And when I picked him up he was laughing... And I was a proud papa.

Which explains how he always knows at exactly which note to look at his mom with the glint in his eye and smile on his face and say, NO SING, MAMA, NO SING.

Hunter at the bat

Before Hunter was born I remember everyone heckling me - or rather, being as mean as they possibly could for no reason, as if I had kicked their dog or something- by saying things like: what if Hunter doesn't grow up to like sports?

Ah, yes. What if?

The first real glimpse I got of his possible indoctrination, er, introduction, to team sports was during the dark period of my life I like to call, "the last time I coached soccer for Stuart Hall High School". Because of the amount of hours I would be gone from the house, on occasion Heather would bring Hunter to my soccer games. The first time I remember this happening was at the Polo Fields in San Francisco. It is difficult to convey the spaciousness of this ancient "coliseum" but there is enough room for 8 regulation soccer fields, with room to spare.

So at one point during a game I look up and see Heather pushing Hunter in his red BOB stroller at the field nearest mine. Next thing, I look up and I see Hunter pushing the stroller in some far away land, a little red dot on the green horizon, like the back of an airplane flying through the sky. He was maybe 10 months old but I could already see him in that high school game.

My memory is that the next day, for the first time, he was dribbling the soccer ball "better than players on my team" according to Rayne Droplet. Sadly, I agreed. He was running and dribbling the ball, perfectly. And kicking. Kicking. Always kicking. Still kicking. It had to be just from watching the players on that field that day.

Now I am coaching baseball. Much closer to home. Much better environment. And Hunter is at many more games. I have told this story now so many times, and it gets better every time.

The day after he came to his first game, we were in Target, as usual. And we went down the aisle where they have to toy baseball sets, so I could see what might be in Hunter's future. Someday.

Well no sooner are we on the aisle when I hear Hunter saying, well excitedly screaming really, BALLBALL! I followed his index finger pointing straight at the real hard ball. So I manage to find a safe ball and bat for him and turn to set off down the aisle, when I hear it again. BALLBALL!! Following his direction again, I see he has identified a box with a kid on the front hitting the ball off a tee. And I see, ages 4 and up. Hunter is 16 months at the time. Maybe 15. I try to tell him he is too young and we'll get him one later but he plays on my pride and forces me to get him out of his cart so he can try. I still don't want to buy this thing if he won't/can't use it so I fashion a small box on the ground and set a ball on top to show him how to use it. Before I can lean over- WHACK!!

<- (Please note in the picture, while he is not hitting the ball per se, that is a real bat and real tee.)

The ball went sailing down the into the baby food section. It was not so much a turn but more of a whiplash motion as I go to see from how far the ball went to where it came from.

And there was Hunter, bat on his shoulder. Pointing. Ball Ball, he said calmly pointing into the Gerber food section off into the distance. I darted my head around to see who or what had seen the hit or what would happen to us. So I grabbed a tee set and headed home.

On the way I called Heather to tell her what happened and at first it was her normal reaction to my excitement. Calm down you are way over exaggerating, what REALLY happened? All I had to do was to set up the tee to show her.

There he was, butt down, legs spread, bat on the shoulder, hands in perfect position on the bat. WHACK. I was already in Little League when I learned all that, and had to be shown. Not Hunter. WHACK. And he goes to get the ball, like the little red dot he was on the soccer field, off in the distance. It was Heather who said, I think this was what Tiger Woods' dad must have felt like!

<-(This picture, taken at Pac Bell when Hunter was maybe 11 months, should have been an indication. Perfect form already!)

It is both sad and incredibly wonderful that he is already a better athlete than I ever was. Varsity sports, and running medals be-damned.

I wonder, then, what if he doesn't like sports? He is a little mimic.

So will he enjoy reading, working on the computer, gardening, cooking? He sees us doing these things all day.

And I see him, bat on the the shoulder, little butt down. Whack! Ballball Daddy, Ballball.

Below is the link to the first video of Hunter at the bat:

Items in Memorabiliam

Since this past summer Hunter and I have really been on quest for awesome memorabilia...and by "Hunter and I", I mean I. And "we" have been very successful.

The newest addition to our collection has to be our most prized yet. We do have the Lance Armstrong signed hat and the Barry Bonds Bobble-head, but getting to meet Tim Lincecum and having him sign my jersey was really cool. Looking at him, he resembles any other barely twenty-something year old one might see on the street in North Beach- jeans, Sambas, beenie pulled low; he just has an air about him that lacks airs with all the cool. Meeting him was a breeze too, all you needed was some money and time to go to a card shop.

All of this got me to thinking about the hopes and dreams for Hunter and wondering what great things he will accomplish. Will he be an athlete or will he have an Olympic sense of clean like his mom? I was going to ask him what he thought about Lincecum --since this is about Hunter--but he was not able to be out late enough to meet the pitcher, so we will have to try and catch him before a game this year.

We did recently go the Giants Fanfest this year in what has become an annual event. Again, this is about Hunter. I mean why would I want to brave the crowds and get pushed against stage rails like a Who concert in Ohio? Only a devoted father would do that... Some of the allure and intimacy of the event has been lost by moving the event from a small warehouse to the ballpark -- frankly it smacks of overt commercialism and greed-- but it is still cool to get a "free" look at the park and to be able to run on the field. The highlight of the day was how friendly all the fans were. Hunter dragged me along so I could push his stroller and strangely a major league clubhouse does not have to be wheel chair accessible despite the median age of recent Giant rosters (one half expected that the AARP would have demanded ramps so the players would not have to walk up all those stairs). Anyway, many people were happy to help heft the stroller without our even asking. Giants' fans rock.

Once on the field, we did get a good look at many of the players and we got a few signatures for the baseballs we had, including Matt Cain and Aaron Rowand. All Hunter wanted to do was run around the outfield and he was in his glory. Random people were stopping to take his picture because he had on his Giant's beenie and jersey while he frolicked. For a second I dared to dream of him running into the alley to bring home a ball in a real game on that field. The sun was shining brightly by then.

Earlier in the winter we also procured a signed water bottle from Olympic medalist and local cycling hero Levi Leipheimer, the second piece of memorbilia personallized specifically for Hunter. That evening Rayne Droplet and I went out to a wonderful benefit overlooking the bay in Strawberry. Spectacular evening.

I wonder through all the chasing of the souvenirs if I will even care ten years down the line, or twenty, or in memoriam because the memories and traditions being carved are certainly more cherished than any piece of memorbilia.

Upside Down Cake

Ok, it has been awhile... Just enough time to reflect about how much Hunter has grown since his first birthday. It seems like only a few short months ago. Oh wait, it was...


For Hunter's first birthday, I was expecting something momentous. I remember that his cousin starting walking on her first birthday, for instance, and since he had been walking for some time by then, I thought maybe he and I would go toss around a football, or something, like I used to do on my birthday.

So many of my memories of my birthdays when I was a kid revolve around football, as the Super Bowl used to be played on my birthday. Every seven years the Niners would beat Cincinnati. I remember one epic birthday where people were invited based on whether or not I wanted them on my team. Or if I thought you would make a nice patsy for the birthday drubbing, you also might get a coveted invite. Like the Niners, I always won the big game on my birthday.

Later, we continued the drubbings by engaging in the age old UCSB tradition of mud-slosh-football (don't believe me, listen to Jack Johnson...). During one of those friendly games, I separated my shoulder abruptly tearing a thirteen, fourteen year tradition at its joint. Trying to tackle Raf was like shooting myself naked out of hot cannon at point blank range into a sharp, brick wall. I remember the last time I tried, laying there as he was dancing in the end zone after stomping on me, the unwanted bug on the kitchen floor, and upon seeing my arm spool behind me as if it were extra yarn on a knitting needle, I began asking everyone, how do you know if your shoulder is separated? The best part was walking myself to the hospital because no one wanted to end the game. Next time I invite Raf to my party, he'll be put on my team.

So anyway, I thought Hunter and I might play catch. Rayne Droplet still doesn't even really think I know how to throw a football, as she was almost in shock that Thanksgiving in South Dakota when I threw a perfect spiral. At least when I played "quarterback" I actually quarterbacked, and THREW the ball to someone. As opposed to handing it off to the one real player on the team like she did to win her powder puff chicklet league when she was in at Davis. The entire opposing team ran after the one good girl she faked it to, leaving her alone to carry the ball into the end zone to win the game and now she thinks she's John Elway.

Something momentous did happen on the birthday; it was quite fun. We had many people show up to my parent's house and we were able to enjoy two of Hunter's favorites: pizza and beer. The white sun was shining brightly on Mount Tam in the background and just about everyone came baring gifts for our little man. We sat on the deck and laughed and imbibed and genuinely soaked up a perfect summer day. Heather and Gina decorated festively with sporty attire while the food and music were perfect. The highlight came when Hunter ate cake. Or rather, the floor ate cake.

The poor little guy was propped up in a chair in front of everyone and given his own little cake to eat. He usually is a great little show-pony, performing tricks and offering a friendly smile to anyone. But here, he sat confused for a second. Since he has never had cake before he did not know what to do, so he stared at it for a while. After some urging, he poked at it for minute, getting some frosting on his finger. Eventually a bit made into his palm. Heather had the wherewithal to get some paper placed on the floor beneath him while he was staring at the white frosting on the yellow plastic tabletop in front of him.

Luckily, too, because he suddenly reached up, grabbed the cake in the middle, squashing it into two large mushy pieces. Then he heaved both halves onto the floor to his left. The side opposite the carefully placed blue napkins. Upside down cake indeed.

Seeing him now, he has grown so much. Today he would eat that cake. Or fling many pieces around the house, showing off his great arm. On that day, he gently toppled over the cake barely reaching the side next to him. Today he would splatter the roof.

And at least once a day he stares at the door where the dog balls are kept and looks at me and says "ball, ball" hoping I will go play catch with him.

Rocky Mountains? Hi!

The first trip I took to Colorado, I remember as being a fun trip to Reno. And a miracle.

I think I had been to Colorado with my parents when I was little, but who can recall that? However, I did drive through Colorado when I was just out of college near the closing of a cross-country trip to visit a friend of mine who was graduating from Brown University. So my buddy Raf and I crammed into my junkie car (yeah, it sounded like a good idea at the time, I mean he is only like 6 foot 4 and really picky about everything...) and we drove three thousand miles to Rhode Island, via Florida. And I returned home, alone, via the Rockies.

Now this has nothing to do with Raf, though he is a notoriously awful travel companion - think Pig Pen who has to mooch everything - I just simply wanted to see different parts of the country and so he returned with another group of people. I, however, almost did not return, which brings me back to my story.

Nearly at the end of my trip, feeling the haze one might when on a "trip" from the hundreds of miles of oceanic nothingness that is space between Utah and Reno, my car died. Now I had previously broken down in Wyoming, something about a fan belt, but I grabbed a bucket of water, not wanting to wait the week it would take to get the part, and headed west. Like the great pioneers of yore, off I wandered towards the sunset, nothing but open sky and a dirty windshield in front of me. I made all the way to Elco (Elk? oh?) Nevada and plop, plop fizz fizz went the fan belt thing.

So there I was stuck on the side of the road. In Elco, a one exit town and I had just passed the exit. I could hear the tumble weeds and carrion birds. With no prospects, I was stuck, until a miracle pulled up. By "miracle" I mean a convict with a trailer who towed me to Reno. Some dude who was on his way to jail swung by with a trailer he needed because he had to tow his car out of impound before they locked him up. This guy was as you imagine, tatoos, tight jeans, big boots, rolled up arm sleeves and a dog named "Stoli". As is the vodka. Into his car I went. The same car he used to ram into people during a fight. Dents still in the hood. He was on his way to jail and if I had died 10 minutes later I never would have met him. And he was the nicest guy I ever met. Thus,... miracle. A little like the miracle at the end of the Mel Brooks' "History of the World" minus the cute girl and white horse...but a miracle none-the-less.

The ultimate spin on the Wheel of Fortune it turns out. He dropped me off at the Hyatt after dropping my car off at the dealership. He even bought me dinner and refused any payment I offered him. I gambled and won I guess.

But now my memory will be of a different miracle. Hunter, Heather and I enjoyed a wonderful trip to Colorado visiting his god-mommy and her family. They graciously put us up in their beautiful home and let Hunter play with all of their toys. We went to Casa Bonita of South Park fame - who knew it was a real place?- and we even went to a Rockies game where we marveled at the spot Bonds hit a legendary home-run above the purple mile high line.

My highlight, of course, will not be our visitation of the Moots factory, (where Heather let me by something fun) though I did bow and kneel before the appropriate places upon entrance, nor will it be our trip to Steamboat Springs in general, where we thoroughly enjoyed the outdoors and the beautiful little mountain town. Fun, but not quite the fun of learning about Rayne Droplet's early life in Colorado... the pizza places, the snooping, all of it.

No, of course the highlight is that now Heather and I have our own miracle to share together on our first family trip to Colorado.