The Other Shoe

Monday, July 15. I have new assignments coming in. Jack started band camp at the middle school he'll be attending in August and he's doing well. Jay and I spent a fun (if busy) weekend in the mountains. Okay, I'm just going to admit it: My life is good right now. There, I said it. Why do I hesitate to broadcast that things are good? Perhaps it's because I'm fearful that if I'm too boastful about the good in my life, something bad will happen just to take my happiness down a peg. Even as I write this, I'm holding my breath just a little waiting for that other shoe to drop. You know the one. It's the 400 pound loafer that comes crashing down just when you think you're in the clear.  Or maybe it's a boot ... or it could be a flipflop.
   Regardless of the type of footwear, just what does this saying mean? Apparently the adage was coined about 100 years ago. Here's the origin as related on worldwidewords.org:

A man comes in late at night to a lodging house, rather the worse for wear. He sits on his bed, drags one shoe off and drops it on the floor. Guiltily remembering everyone around him trying to sleep, he takes the other one off much more carefully and quietly puts in on the floor. He then finishes undressing and gets into bed. Just as he is drifting off to sleep, a shout comes from the man in the room below: “Well, drop the other one then! I can’t sleep, waiting for you to drop the other shoe!”

"Waiting for the other shoe to drop" means something adverse has happened and there's a very likely chance that some other bad even will occur soon because of a direct relationship between the two occurrences. As in, you have two shoes, so if one hits the floor with a thud, it's reasonable to anticipate that the other one is gonna thud too.
   But if I'm making good choices and doing good work and there's no reason to believe that anything adverse is about to happen, why do I still anticipate the worst? Answer: The Upper Limits Theory.

   In their book, "Centering & the Art of Intimacy", Gay Hendricks and his wife, Kathlyn (both psychologists) write about the phenomenon they call "the upper limits." This law of human dynamics states that we can only stand so much happiness before we undermine ourselves and find something about which to be miserable. The authors contend that we derail our happiness as adults because we learned as children that happy occurences are often followed up by unhappy or humiliating ones. For example, you win the spelling bee, but trip on your shoelaces on the way to pick up the trophy.
   Of course, Buddhism teaches that our suffering (or dissatisfaction) in life is caused not by an event but by our perception of the event. When I attach my happiness to a particular outcome, I'm bound to be disappointed. The dropping of that other shoe is inevitable, so why decide that it's bad? Why take it personal? Why lament over something that is completely beyond my control?

Friday, July 19. On Wednesday I banged my head on the Upper Limits. Doh! Although Buddha never said, "If you want to be happy, never, ever read the Explanation of Benefits (EOB) provided by your insurance provider," if he had Blue Cross, he might have made that the Ninth Fold in his Eight Fold Path to Enlightenment. Suffice to say, I read mine. Turns out I owe $1200 for lab tests sent by my doctor to a lab outside my Blue Cross network. Ouch! Suddenly I'm spiraling downward in a funk. Yes, I'll appeal the claim and maybe, just maybe I'll get some relief on that bill, but nothing takes the wind out of my sails like an unexpected major expense.
   I've learned from my Buddhist practice that becoming emotionally bent out of shape over setbacks doesn't help anything. I don't always lose it.  Sometimes I can turn a loss into a win without much effort at all.
   For example, last week, the power went out during a big summer storm. Jack had a friend spending the night and pretty soon the boys had run down the batteries in their game devices. Luckily, I found a big flashlight in the basement (thanks, Jason) and we opened the cupboard in the living room that holds all the board games. No batteries required. Had the power stayed on, the boys would have holed up playing Minecraft all night and I would have contented myself lounging in bed watching "Glee" on Netflicks.
   But this adverse condition produced a great outcome. I love board games, always have, so I was not-so-secretly thrilled that the boys were enthusiastic not just about playing, but about including me. First we played Monopoly, which went well until Jack's friend realized that Jack was about to take him to the cleaners. (Jack's a Monopoly shark.) We switched to Yahtzee, which we were content to play until the power came back on five hours later at 11:30 p.m. We all cheered as the utility man restored the lights and—even more important—the air conditioning. Then Jack made a request for the one board game I abhor.
   "Let's play Life!" he said.
   Have you played The Game of Life lately? You start off with college debt. Then you're asked to randomly choose a job and move around the board into the shark-infested waters of law suits and mortgages. Plus you're heaped with expenses depending upon the number of plastic children you add to your little plastic convertible. Oh, and you have to pay taxes and losing your job means selecting a whole new career. Windfalls do arrive, but in the form of winning the equivalent to America's Got Talent. And no, I am not making this up! I find the whole thing depressing.
  "No thanks," I said to Jack. "I'm living that game, I don't need to play it."
   "You always say that," said Jack.
   "Because it's true," I replied.
   With the power restored, the boys plugged in their devices and returned to the electronic world they were building in Minecraft while I sorted the play money and put away game pieces. At least in Monopoly there's only one shoe. And when it drops, it might land on Boardwalk or Park Place.

The New Girl

The moment I saw her, I knew we would be best friends. The feeling wasn't a hope or wish. It was intuition, perhaps the first true intuitive feeling I ever received.
  On the first day of seventh grade, a new girl entered the fishbowl society that was Our Lady of Holy Souls school. Most of us had attended classes together since beginning our grade school career in first grade under the watchful eye of Sister Brenda. The transition into junior high was made easier by the fact that the school's curriculum continued through eighth grade. Even so, I experienced the stereotypical awkward bumbling into puberty and needed all the help I could get. I was 13 years old, woefully flat-chested and still playing with my Barbies—when given the opportunity. I wanted to be grown up and mature but I had no idea how to accomplish that feat. That's when Wendy Rooney entered my life.
  She was from the north—Canton, Ohio to be exact—about as far north as I could imagine in those days. I grew up in Little Rock and had not traveled further than Silver Dollar City, Missouri. At the time, Ohio seemed worldly and exotic. Borrowing from an overwrought line from one of the coming-of-age teen mystery books in which I consistently had my nose buried (remember "Trixie Belden"?), when I first saw Wendy I "knew we would become fast friends." And we did.
   She was the New Girl and I made an effort to introduce myself and sit next to her at lunch. If she thought I was weird for carrying a Snoopy lunchbox (the yellow metal one shaped like his doghouse), she never let on. Somehow, inexplicably, she accepted me as her friend. Wendy with her real bra (not a trainer) and her northern accent and her long, flowing blonde hair befriended me back. Wendy was a seventh grade miracle.
  I became enamored of the entire Rooney household and their easy-going ways. Her parents were always present, but didn't hover. Her mom left goodies in the fridge for our snacking pleasure. Coca Colas. Chips. Frozen pizzas. From Wendy I learned the joy of eating frozen Ding Dongs. I became a fixture in the Rooney home on weekends, often spending the night.
  Wendy's room was the quintessential girls' domain with twin beds covered in matching chenille bedspreads. We stayed up late listening to music on her stereo and talking about the boys we thought were cute and the girls we thought were mean. But we also discussed God and the Razorbacks (one and the same to many Arkansas fans), and just about any topic that popped into our teenage heads. Nothing was too silly, or too serious or taboo. Since my mother wasn't comfortable talking about menstruation and sex, finding a friend like Wendy was essential.
   Wendy inherited a big box of cosmetics from her older sisters Peggy and Barb. For me it seemed a treasure chest that—if wielded skillfully—could yield my transformation from little girl to woman. Standing before her bathroom vanity, we'd dab our lids with generous amounts of azure eye shadow and slather waxy white concealer beneath our eyes. We painted our lips coral, pink and red to see which color we liked best and topped it off with a generous layer of iridescent Maybelline Kissing Potion lip gloss with its roll-on applicator. We dusted powder and blush all over our young faces to hide non-existent flaws, as if we could improve what was natural and nearly perfect. (Oh to have that skin again!)
  Most of all, we laughed so hard our stomachs ached. Wendy was witty and always quick with a clever response. For the life of me, I wish I could remember some of the things we found so hysterical. I do recall one particularly magical summer after we first earned our drivers' licenses (Wendy's birthday was just 20 days before mine.) With little else to amuse us in Little Rock, we drove around the local neighborhoods in her Dad's El Camino, singing top 40 hits along with the radio, talking and laughing. Somewhere near Hall High School (our high school's arch enemy), a cute boy in a convertible drove past us. Wendy and I shared a looked and then she made a U-turn and gave pursuit.
   We didn't know his name, only that he probably attended the rival school — and that he was a hunk. We didn't intend to meet him, but we followed him through the winding streets of the neighborhood, laughing our heads off at our boldness. We were laughing so hard that we didn't notice when the Hunk came to a stop in front of his house, got out and and waved at us. We were busted, which brought another round of incoherent giddiness.

   I wish I could remember more of our adventures. You always think you'll never forget those seminal days. I thought those moments would be captured like a little movie in my mind and yet, even the best memories fade with time.
   In the same way, I can't remember when Wendy and I stopped being best friends. I don't recall a rift or slight. Sometime during high school we simply drifted into separate interests and took on boyfriends. We attended different colleges and I moved away from Little Rock.
   I saw Wendy only once or twice in all the years that followed. We talked briefly at our 20th high school reunion and I told her I would call and we would get together the next time I was in Little Rock. Years passed. Life got in the way. Caring for growing children and declining parents are among my excuses (the good ones, at least.) I didn't call. I didn't know that she'd been diagnosed with cancer until I got a group text announcing that Wendy was gravely ill. By that time, she was hospitalized with little hope of recovery. Then, just a day later, word came: She had passed away.
   The fact that I could be out of touch with Wendy for 30 years and still feel her loss deeply is a testament to the effect she had on my life. True friendships are like that. It doesn't matter if the relationship lasts two or twenty years.
   Throughout my life I've been given wonderful friends to help me through the most difficult times. Wendy was the Godsend who carried me through puberty. She taught me it was okay to be silly, and okay to be serious. She taught me it was okay to carry a Snoopy lunch box. Just by being my friend during those oh-so-awkward days, she taught me it was okay to be me.
  I regret that I did not take the time to call or see her over the years, but Wendy had many, many friends who loved her. I am grateful for the time we had and the laughter we shared. Even in death, she leads me toward maturity, for today I see that no one is really lost. We are the sum of our experiences, an ever-changing collective. I would not be the person I am today if not for the time I spent laughing with Wendy so many years ago.

Third Chance

Jack stepped up for his final turn. He had two throws. He had to land both to win a prize.

The girl handed Jack a ball. He squared himself in front of the plastic bushel basket and then lightly tossed the green ball into the basket's center.  The heavy, rubber ball made a thud at the bottom of the basket and rolled from side to side before coming to a rest inside. He did it! One down. One to go. The pretty girl working the game booth handed Jack his second rubber softball. I placed my hand over my eyes but watched between parted fingers. "Oh, please, let him make it," I prayed, although I hate to ask God for something as petty as an arcade prize.
- - - - -

We'd spent the day at Legoland, riding the Dragon coaster, eating overpriced panini and gaping in wonder at the intricate "builds" of  Star Wars characters, battle scenes, Manhattan skyscrapers and an assortment of critters made from 1-inch Lego bricks that rivaled the live beasts at the San Diego Zoo. Everywhere you looked, there was a Lego masterpiece. Our clothes were still damp from our ride down the giant orange waterpark flume when we headed to the final attraction on Jack's agenda for this near-perfect day. He wanted to play an arcade game and win a much-coveted prize.

All day Jack watched as other kids (and, more often, their parents) toted their bulky prizes around the park, and he determined to make one his own. He had $22 left of the money he'd saved up for the trip, but he decided to spend as much as $12 (four turns at three bucks a pop.) Jack handed over six dollars for two plays.

The game appeared deceptively simple. A row of plastic bushel baskets hung at angle about four feet from the throwing line at the low counter. The baskets were tipped up slightly so that the ball could rest there without rolling out -- if it wasn't thrown too hard. The ball itself was rubber about the size of a softball with little nodules all over it, like an osage orange. We observed several people win at the game before Jack decided he wanted to play. Playing arcade games at theme parks is much less risky than playing at the state fair where carnies hawk impossible odds and are in it purely for the profit. Legoland just wanted everyone to have a good time, and although they charged for each play, the college students who worked behind the counters were obviously instructed to use their discretion and sense of compassion when dealing with the young patrons.

Of course, Jack had a secret weapon: Jason. Although Jason never played baseball, he is tall and athletic with better-than-average eye-hand coordination, so I respected Jack's deference to Jay when it came to the serious business of winning an arcade prize. I was also somewhat relieved that Jack had not asked me to throw for him. Honestly, I thought I might be able to do it, having played softball as a kid and later with a co-ed softball team. But the thought of losing was too much pressure. Jay tried twice, getting one ball in each time. But when the winning play required two successful pitches, there was no room for error. After his second attempt, the girl behind the counter gave Jay a bonus try, but it bounced from the plastic basket and hopped onto the floor along with our disappointment.

"I'm sorry," Jason said to Jack, "Why don't you give it a try?'
"I'll play two more times," Jack said and handed the girl six more dollars.

The first ball had too much polish and hopped from the basket. Disappointed, he threw the second ball and  it rolled to the edge but stayed in the basket. Still no prize, but he now knew what to do—and what not to do. His confidence was shaken but he wasn't giving up. It was down to his last chance.

----

On his final throw, the green ball hit the bottom of the basket, bounced up, hit the bottom again and then rolled ... out onto the ground where it bounced beneath the rack that held the buckets. Jack looked down at the fallen ball. The girl handed him another one. "Try again," she said.

Jack smiled and eagerly took the ball. Once again he gave a soft underhand toss toward the center of the basket. The ball hit squarely at the bottom ... and bounced out again. Before Jack could turn away, the girl handed him another ball. "One more time," she said. "Since you've been such a good customer."

I turned away and covered my face with my hands, but I couldn't stand the suspense. I turned around again just as Jack tossed the final ball as lightly as he could. It landed on the side of the bucket ... bounced ... and then ... settled at the bottom with the first ball.

The girl rang the bell above the row of prizes. "You won!" she said. "Which prize do you want?"

As I jumped up and down, Jack proudly claimed his prize. I beamed a smile at Jay.  If he had kept throwing—hellbent to win the prize— Jack would not be enjoying this victory. And I was so grateful to the benevolent girl behind the counter for giving my son a second—and a third—chance. If he'd won straight away would we have been so elated? Sometimes third chances are the best.

The enormous yellow prize was half as big as Jack. As I tried to wrap my arms around him and the over-stuffed plush toy, I realized how happy this win made me feel. We always want our children to win, to get the prize, to succeed, but often it doesn't happen. So in times like this it's nice to revel in the glory, even if it's for a simple stuffed animal prize that I had no idea how we'd fit into our luggage.

Bedtime Rituals

Jack with a few of his favorite Domos.

"Mom, are you afraid of the dark?" Jack asked.
   I knew where this conversation was heading. It was time for bed.
   "No, I'm not," I replied. "I like the dark."
   "I think it's scary," Jack said.
   "Why?" I asked.
   "Because it's dark, and I can't see."
    I leaned over and switched off the lamp on Jack's bedside table. For a second, Jack's desk, chair, chest of drawers, and the Lego's heaped on Jack's desk, chair and chest of drawers were not visible. Only for a second. By merit of the night light in adjoining bathroom, the hallway light and the street light beyond his closed Roman shades, form quickly took recognizable shape again.
   "Jack, it's never really dark," I said. "Not most places at least. We're surrounded by light."
    My logic was sound, but the look on Jack's face—which was illuminated by the hall light—told me the conversation wasn't over yet.
   "But it's still scary!" Jack said.
   "Why is it scary?"
    "Being in the dark makes me worry," Jack said.
     Ha! I have to hand it to the kid, he doesn't give up easily. Having lost his battle with me about fear of darkness, Jack shifted to another topic: worry. He also knows that he is effectively staying his bedtime by engaging me in this type of conversation. What Mom could leave her child in the dark, scared and worried? Yes, he had me, and since I've been practicing Buddhism, the concept of no-worry is one of my favorite topics.
   "Jack, there's never any reason to worry. Either you can do something about it, or you can't. Either way, worrying is a waste of time."
   He looked at me blankly. So much for paraphrasing the Dalai Lama, "If a problem is fixable, if a situation is such that you can do something about it, then there is no need to worry. If it's not fixable, then there is no help in worrying. There is no benefit in worrying whatsoever." Even the DL's wisdom was not going to lull my son to sleep tonight.
   "So, what are you worried about?" I asked.
   Jack thought for a moment.
   "What if the house catches on fire?"
   Good one, I thought. How does this kid do this? How does he randomly hit upon the very concern that kept me staring at the ceiling when I was his age? Is it in his DNA?
   When I was ten I was so afraid of fire, I wouldn't strike a match if my life depended upon it. (I'm sure that cost me a Girl Scout badge or two.) My parents' old furnace was the source of my late-night fears. When my father removed the metal access door to light the pilot, the flames that rose up reflected orange, blue and gold on the tile floor, giving the impression that the house was on fire.
   Around that time, the local fire department came to my school and talked about creating an emergency escape plan in our homes. How would we get out safely, for example, if there was fire in a hallway, blocking our route to the front door?
   Some nights, I lie awake drawing these plans over and over in my head, and then enacting them in my mind. I would crawl out my bedroom window and jump to the ground. It was only about an eight foot drop.  Fortunately, I never had to enact my plan. My childhood home survived and all those nights of worrying were for naught. It occurred to me that it would be a good idea to go over an emergency escape plan with Jack, but now was not the time.
   "See that little green light glowing on your ceiling?" I asked him. "That's the smoke detector. There's one of downstairs and one in each bedroom. If there's a fire in our house, we'd know about it as soon as there was smoke. Don't you remember how the toaster oven set off the one in my apartment?"
   Jack nodded.
   "Besides, the chance of our house catching fire is very slim. Why make something up to worry about?"
   Jack shrugged. I didn't know the answer either and I hoped he maybe he did.  Even when my life is going well, when I know the bills are paid, I'm at peace with my family and friends, and we are in good health, I can still conjure up worries. For Jack, worrying about the house catching fire was a way to delay bedtime. Do I use worry as a means of procrastination too? Do I worry about the future to avoid the present? Yes, yes I do.
   I'm still not sure why I intentionally let my mind fixate on negative outcomes that have not—and will probably never—come to pass. In fact, researchers at University of Cincinnati found that 85% of the situations we worry about never come to pass.
   Fortunately I have learned a way to stop my mind from reeling: gratitude. Listing all the good things that are present in my life doesn't remove the threat of future disaster, but it does shift my perspective toward what is real and tangible. I decided to try it out on Jack.
   "Let's make a gratitude list. What are you grateful for, Jack?" I asked.
   "Pandas, Domos, my iTouch, my friends, my family, Pip (the cat,) Jaws (the turtle,) my room ..."
   The list went on for some time. Then he began to nod off.
    "Good night, Jack," I whispered. "I love you."
    "Love you too, Mom."

The Boys from Fyffe

If I've ever taken my career for granted, cursed the days when I wasn't sure when (or if) I'd receive my next assignment,  or longed for a more stable lifestyle, last week I was given a a reminder of why I love being a journalist. Reporting provides the ultimate opportunity to be present in the moment and to learn from every experience.

 Freelancing is a daily leap of faith. It's great practice for staying in the moment and not rushing ahead to whatever comes next. Being a freelance writer means—in the words of the venerable Tibetan Buddhist nun Pema Chodron—never getting my feet firmly planted on the ground. Chodron contends that the desire to know there is something solid under our feet is the reason for great suffering in this life. She teaches what we believe is "solid" is actually impermanent, and therefore will fade away. This idea is opposite of what Western culture tells us, which is that we should be "grounded" and that solid is good. Buddhism says that living in the not-knowing is living without expectation and therefore opens us up to endless possibility. In other words, I never limit myself by my own dreams, which are by my human nature, temporal and very short-sighted.

   Being okay with not-knowing can be difficult when I don't know when or from where my next paycheck will come. As a freelancer I have the choice of enjoying my slow time or making myself miserable worrying over when the next gainful assignment will appear. It's not easy to just relax and trust that work will come. And granted I don't "just relax." I'm always pitching stories, drumming up new clients, doing the n-word (networking) as much as possible. But I also spent a time writing my own stuff (like this blog), going to Baron's baseball games and taking long bike rides with Jack and Jason, and doing things I'd put off when I was gainfully employed, such actually going to see a doctor when I'm sick. I'm glad I used my time as I did, because as the adage goes, "When it rains, it pours." Last week, I was deluged with assignments ... and that's a good thing.
   I was so busy in fact that on Tuesday morning when I fielded a call from a good friend and editor, I almost turned it down. The last-minute assignment required me to drive to Montgomery the next day and cover the Alabama Future Farmers of America String Band competition. I'd have to get up at 6 a.m., drive  90 minutes there (and back) just to interview five members of this high school ensemble from Fyffe, Ala. (population: 1,100) and write 200 words. For my effort I'd receive $400, plus mileage. Was it worth my time? I thought for a few minutes before answering, "Heck yeah!"
  And just like that, on Wednesday morning, I'm driving south on I65 to Montgomery to attend the FFA string band competition.
   I spent the morning listening to some awe-inspiring blue grass music and talking with the boys and their FFA sponsor, Marty. He was so proud of these boys. Marty was the Agri teacher at their high school and said he didn't know much about playing music, but he certainly knew how to inspire his students. I followed Marty and the Fyffe boys as they warmed up back stage, and took notes as they readied themselves for the competition.
   According to Marty, the fact that this group made it into the FFA State String Competition was the biggest thing to happen in the history of the Fyffe FFA. No chicken or pig or dairy cow had brought such honor to the town. And if I sound like I'm mocking this community, I'm not. This was a really big deal. Four of the boys had been playing together since their freshman year and this would be their last chance at the state title. (They competed for it last year and lost.)
   I have to admit, it felt a bit like I'd stepped into an episode of Glee—if Glee had been set in northern Alabama. How in the world would I have ever experienced this event if I had not received the call from a desperate editor who needed me to cover this story at the last minute?
   When the Fyffe boys took the stage, I held my breath as they played a flawless set, including an original tune called "Grandpa John" about the Civil War. (The link is to a video of the band playing at the FFA competition. Check it out.)
   Of course, all the bands were very good, but Fyffe won the day, and the State Championship. They'll go on to the national competition in Louisville this fall. And to think on Monday of last week, I knew nothing about the FFA string band competition or this little group of talented musicians from Fyffe. (I hadn't even heard of Fyffe!) This is what I get in exchange for taking a last-minute assignment, for saying yes, for showing up, for being present. That's why I love my job.

P.S. If you want to hear these guys play, buy their soon-to-be-released albumn or find out how they fare at the FFA State Championship in Louisville, you can follow them on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/johntomjessaverylevichaw?fref=ts

Back to Nature

On a warm spring Saturday in April, Jason, Jack and I embarked on our first campout together. Although Jack and I slept in a tent last summer during the first night of the family retreat at Magnolia Village, this was to be his first real camping experience. We were all looking forward to spending the day at Oak Mountain State Park, building a roaring campfire, roasting marshmellows and sleeping under the stars. While Jason packed his Tahoe, I put together a few clothes in a backpack and dug out Jack's sleeping bag from beneath a mound of Legos and Nerf guns in his closet.
   Around noon Jason pronounced the Tahoe packed.

Jack's one previous camping experience was short-lived.
Last July 100+ degree heat drove us from our tent
(complete with life-sized Panda) to the comfort of
an air conditioned hut at Magnolia Village.

   I had a vision of the three of us singing old Girl Scout camp songs as we made the thirty-minute drive to the park. I had this romantic idea of pitching our tent in the solitude of the forest. We'd spend the afternoon exploring the park. After the sun went down, we would roast marshmellows and make s'mores, tell stories and play cards by the campfire. Then we'd crawl into our snug tent and fall asleep to the orchestral night sounds of cricket and cicada harmony. But even before we left the house, my fantasy campout began to unravel.
      "We'll have to take two cars," Jason added.

   Now the last time I checked the Tahoe was the size of a small bus. It's a monster by my Honda Civic standards. How was it that two average-sized adults and a small child couldn't all comfortably ride together?

   "It's full of gear," he replied.
   "Really?" I asked, dumbly. "What kind of gear?"
   "Well, there's the tent and cookstove and cooking equipment, lanterns, sleeping bags, the air mattress, my climbing gear just--just in case--and some other stuff we might need. I had to put the seat down to fit it all in, and we still need to pack the cooler and buy groceries. And if we want to take the bikes ..."
   For the record, let me clarify something. Jason is one of the most efficient packers I've ever met. In fact, his ability to neatly organize and load the trunk of a car is one of the many reasons why I fell in love in him. At the risk of making myself sound completely OCD, he even has specific containers for various gear and understands the value in folding, rewinding and otherwise properly replacing items after use. So for him to say that the Tahoe is properly packed and without room to spare could mean only one thing: We were taking too much stuff.
   I took a moment to gather my thoughts, not wanting to sound too control freakish.
   "Um, honey ..." I said in my kindest, gentlest voice. "We are only going for one night. Do you really think we need to take all that stuff and two cars?"
   "Well, if we're gonna cook out we do," he said. "There's nothing like waking up to the the smell of bacon cooking over an open fire. And I have this great coffee pot made just for camping ..."
   Apparently Jay had his own ideas of what camping meant. He had all the gadgets and gizmos needed. And cooking out was a big part of his ideal. But I wasn't so sure how we'd pull off dinner for Jack, who is challenging the Guiness record for World's Pickiest Eater. The boy doesn't eat hot dogs or hamburgers. He wouldn't appreciate a campfire dinner unless we could find a way to deep fry chicken nuggets.
   "The problem is, you have to take as much gear for one night as you do for a week if you're cooking," Jason said. "But I suppose we could just go out to eat. There are plenty of places right around the park."
 "Maybe we should simplify things," I said. "I think we're trying to do to much. It's already afternoon."
    He seemed a little disappointed, but in the end we agreed that scaling back the equipment—and the time it would take to set up—was the best thing to do. We left the cookstove and cooking gear and took only the essentials: Lanterns, air mattress, warm snuggly sleeping bags, a hatchet to cut fire wood, a small cooler for soft drinks and snacks, the tent, Jack's fishing gear, pillows and a change of clothes. It was still a lot of stuff, but Jason managed to pack all we needed in the trunk of my Honda Civic coupe. By 1 p.m. we headed out for our wilderness adventure.

   Oak Mountain Park is a 50 mile state-managed nature preserve that offers camping, boating, horseback riding, golf, cycling paths and hiking. On the weekends it's a very popular spot. We arrived at the campgrounds to find that there were many other families who were also taking advantage of one of the first nice weekends of spring. Jay picked campsite #49 for us on the campground map and bought two bundles of firewood.
   There were huge, fancy recreational vehicles parked just off the road, wedged under trees that could not camoflage their shiny cabins and sleek amenities. Tents of all shapes and sizes were pitched beneath the soft, green canape of carefully maintained forest. The campsites were level and covered in pea gravel. A fire pit offered a grate on which you might place a grill or griddle, if you were of the ilk to forgo the local Applebees and Waffle House.
   With Jason and I working together the tent went up in record time, but we ran into a hitch with the air mattress. Neither one of us remembered to bring the pump. After a brief consideration of our options which included driving back home to get the pump or buying a new pump at the nearby Walmart, we decided to first ask a fellow camper if he had one we could borrow.
   The next campsite was about 30 yards away. I as neared the large tent and gear-laden tables, I saw three young children running in and out of the tent. The oldest urchin couldn't have been more than five. A young man sat in a folding chair whittling on a walking stick while a young woman sat at a picnic table that held a large box of Pampers.
   "Hi there," I called. "We just got here and we forgot the pump for our air mattress. Any chance you have one we could borrow?"
   To my relief, the woman immediately agreed to let us borrow theirs, which was powered off a car's cigarette lighter. As she rose to retrieve the pump for me, I got a good look at her rounded belly. She looked as though she might go into labor at any moment.
   "When are you due?" I asked.
   "Well, I'm not that far along, only 26 weeks, but I'm having twins," she said.
    I followed her to her truck to retrieve the pump while trying to imagine myself camping with three young children while being very pregnant. Definitely not my style. But here she was, seeming to take it all in stride. Amazing.
   The pump made short work of inflating our comfy air mattress and Jason wrangled it inside the tent. Jack added the stuffed animals that he had squirreled away in his backpack, and he immediately flopped down and began playing Minecraft on his iTouch.
   "That's not why we're here," I reminded him.
   Without complaint, he abandoned his game and we set out for a hike at the Wildlife Rescue Center, which is also located within the park. The center takes in baby birds, injured o'possums and any wild critter in need of TLC. They have numerous cages holding owls and hawks and even a vulture or two. We hiked for a while, then tried our hand at fishing. After Jack hopelessly snagged his favorite lure in a shrub, we decided it was time for dinner. But tonight there would be no roasting of weenies under the stars. Practically ruled the day and we made for the nearest Ruby Tuesdays, which served (among other things) Jack's favorite, chicken fingers. No, this was exactly roughing it in the wilderness.
  After a brief foray at the nearby Walmart for graham crackers, marshmellows and Hershey bars, we headed back to our little campsite. Jason brandished his trusty hatchet and made quick work of the wood that we purchased from the park's gift shop. Soon he had a roaring fire going, which was nice since the evening had turned chilly once the sun went down.
  It was only then that I realized how not-alone we were. There were at least a dozen camp sites within sight. Looking out across the camping area, each site was illuminated with its own campfire and/or state-of-the-art LED lanterns. On the road just above us, a group of teenagers laughed and chatted as they sat by their RV under strands of white Christmas lights. I could hear strains of a baby wailing coming from the direction of the little family who had loaned us their air pump.  We could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble by just pitching a tent in the front yard of my house for all the solitude we were enjoying here in this little, tented subdivision. This wasn't exactly the back-to-nature experience I thought it would be.
   As if reading my mind, Jack blurted out, "This looks like a refugee camp!"
  I'm not sure when or where my 11-year-old has seen photos of refugee camps, but his analogy made me laugh out loud. What does it say about our culture that we go out of our way—not to mention the expense—to deprive ourselves of running water, electricity, heat and shelter for the sake of recreation? I hummed strains of Tom Petty's anthem the rest of the night.
   No, this was not my idea of communing with nature, and I admit I was a little disappointed that when I looked up at the sky that night, I couldn't see stars for the glow of the nearby street lamps. Campfire roasted or not, this was not my cup of tea. But as we climbed into our sleeping bags and said our good-nights, Jack reminded me of something I'd completely forgotten.
   "This has been the best campout ever!" he said, snuggling close to me on the air mattress.
   For Jason and me, the campout might have fallen short of our expectations, but for Jack—who had no expectations because he had nothing to compare this experience to—it had been a perfect day. Turns out all he wanted to do was to eat melted marshmellows and chocolate bars and sleep on an air mattress in a tent. He didn't care where we were. All that matter was that we were together.
  The next morning, after a breakfast of leftover graham crackers and camp fire coffee ala Jason's portable French press, we packed up our tent and supplies and drove our smokey-smelling bodies back to my urban home where hot water flowed aplenty. Now that it was all said and done, we had a great time. It was, after all, Jack's first "real" camping trip and it was one none of us would ever forget.

Under the Header: Be Careful What You Wish For

Here's the challenge: You must develop and produce three monthly magazines for three disparate Birmingham communities ... from scratch. You have no budget for articles or photography. There's no art director, so you'll be making all the design choices -- although the publication does follow a template with limited options. There's no photo editor, so you'll have to color correct every photo and select your own stock images. There's no copy editor or fact checker, so it's your job to proof read and vet every page. There's no production manager, so you'll also be uploading photography to the server, and proofing and flight checking every page. Of course, there's not money for an editorial assistant, either, nor resources even for an unpaid intern. And you have to learn inCopy and how to navigate a complex content management system that is undergoing updates and refinements so that just when you think you have the system down, they change it. Oh, and you're expected to get out and engage three very distinct communities, two of which are an hour roundtrip commute (without being paid mileage!) and convince the people who live in those communities to provide you with articles and photography — for free.

Sound like bad reality TV show? Nope. It's a publishing model that's been launched across the country.  And it's being met with some success. But not by me.

Last summer I went through a bout of financial insecurity. Being a freelance writer means an ebb and flow in income, often with variables that are entirely beyond my control. Editors change jobs. Freelance budgets tighten or dry up altogether. A new manger decides that more copy should be written in-house. So when I was offered this full-time editorial job with an insurance and 401k benefit package, I became seduced by the illusion of security. The salary wasn't great, but I could work from home and (ostensibly) have a very flexible schedule. I liked the idea of developing publications that could be reflective of a community's unique voice. I also liked the idea that an editorial product could live and breath in less than rarified air. After a 20+ year career in publishing and media, I'd seen a variety of business models, but this one was truly unique. It was so bold I thought it could work -- and it still might. But it didn't work for me.  I had to cry uncle.

Yet the job was not without merit or karma.

In six months I produced dozens of articles, many of which I reported and wrote myself. I wrote at least 30,000 words and put out 12 distinct issues (4 each in three communities.) And I took a lot of photos, too. The work was not the stuff of Pulitzer but it resonated with the locals. People loved these magazines because their friends, neighbors, ministers, business owners populated the pages. ( I did receive one curt request to "please remove me from your mailing list" and an irate email from a woman whose daughter's name I misspelled but other than that, people were kind and the responses were we-drank-the-Kool-Aid positive.)

In six months I wrote two feature stories about two different community programs for adults with special needs,  a cover story about a grass roots foundation started by friends of a young mother with cancer who died from the disease but wanted to keep helping other women with cancer pay their bills. I researched and wrote about a wellness program for teachers in the public schools of one community. I wrote about a teenager who's making money to attend college by performing as a children's party entertainer (he looks just like Justin Beiber.) I wrote a cover story about a nine year old boy who might not see adulthood because he has a terminal form of muscular dystrophy. His parents were so appreciative for the publicity. They are trying desperately to find a cure for him and other children with this same disease. I wrote a story about a woman who decreased the number of unwanted pets at her county humane shelter by 1/3 without using euthanasia. I wrote stories about non-profits who help children and the elderly, and about mom and pop businesses that put the focus on local commerce and philanthropy.

I met with business owners and teachers, with mayors and housewives. I edited stories by grade schoolers and retirees. All these voices became a part of the fabric of the publications.

And I published photos from local photographers, some professionals, some not. I even retouched an almost destroyed image of a woman's 100 year old mother. I drove an hour to pick up images of a young man who'd been serving in Afghanistan and was due home in May. (His mom didn't have digital images.) And on an cold evening, three days before Christmas, I met with the aging mother of the young woman who succumbed to cancer to receive precious images of her daughter.  These people trusted me to tell their stories. I suppose that trust weighed heavy on me. In the end, it was not the company for whom I worked that kept me going, it was the people in the communities I served. I didn't want to let them down.

I was told that people read these stories and were moved to action. Donations were made, items purchased, awareness created, word spread. A TV producer for a local network read my story about an  art therapy program for homeless people and she produced a story about the group just in time to promote their fundraiser. Of course, I'll never realize the ripples that were extended out into the world by my six month stint on this crazy adventure. I have heard that some good came of it. I'm sure some ill came of it too. I could not check and double check every name, every phone number, every URL. I'm sure there were things I got wrong, but hopefully there was much more I got right.

My final cover had a circulation of one. It was a
gift to Jack in honor of his 5th grade graduation.

But producing three monthly magazines proved more than I could bear.  I worked an average of 60 hours a week, getting up at five or six a.m. and working well into the evening on most days. I've worked in the media business all my adult life and long hours are nothing new. But without a staff, this was a lonely pursuit.

I tried to tell myself it would get better. I hoped once I had enough community contributors and I was no longer reporting so many stories myself, that I wouldn't have to work so many hours. But I was told that I had to produce another three publications.  And six magazines threatened to become eight or even ten before long. I would be little more than a curator before it was done. Most important, I could not maintain any type of quality control or the personal touch that I gave each magazine. Producing three magazines left me stressed out and exhausted. I feared I made a big mistake taking this job. I was afraid to quit, but I didn't know how I could keep up the pace and maintain any semblance of quality of life.

I was finally pushed to make a decision.  Just a few days before my son Jack turned 11, he asked me if I would be able to celebrate his birthday with him.

"Of course," I said. "I always celebrate your birthday with you!"

"It's okay Mom," he said. "I know you probably have to work."

"No son, I don't have to work," I said. I knew I had to resign. I knew I couldn't wait until I had another job. I would return freelance writing. No amount of salary or benefits could compensate me for the time I was having to spend away from Jack. As my Dad used to say, "He'll be all grown up before you can turn around three times."

And Dad was right. Time is fleeting.

Now here it is: the beginning of another summer. I'm grateful to be unburdened of the task of Sisyphus and to have the time to spend with my family. Sure I still have to work, but now it's on my own terms. And yes, it's a little scary not having a solid source of income (again) but it's a trade-off I'm now willing to make. Last year, I longed for the security of a full-time job, and I was  given what I wanted so I could appreciate all that I have ... and what I truly need.