The Journey to Boston

In little more than 4 weeks, we will be visiting Jonesboro, my home town.  As has been my habit since dad died, when in town, I will go out to the cemetery with some bourbon, and have a drink with dad.  Mom is there now, as are Coachie and Miss Dot.  This will be a tough visit.  Dad's been gone for 13 years, Mom for 3, Miss Dot for 11, and Coachie for 2.  I have to have a drink with each, and stop and visit with Dr. Mckee too.  Scott's mom and Frank are near Coachie and Miss Dot, so we share a drink too.  Usually, when I visit, I am meloncoly.  I miss them all so very, very much, and I have to have a designated driver for the visit.

On this visit, I'm not going to be depressed.  I have good news to share.

On May 17th, 1986, in St. Bernards hospital, a little girl was born.  She screamed bloody murder, and began a journey.  None of us are are born the person we will be.  We are all the product of our mentors, our experiences, our decisions, and our determination.   She left everything she knew in Wynne Arkansas for Australia when she was a junior in high school.  On her return from Austraila, she moved to New Jersey.  After spending half a year studying beer and wine in Austrailia, she dropped mid year into a pointy headed intellectual school in New Jersey, and took up Soccer.  She excelled.  With each challenge she found, she found greater strength, and more resolve.  Daddy Doc would have been so proud.

She was accepted into Mount Holyoke.  It's a womens Ivy League school.  Two generations from the cotton fields in Mississippi, this girl is Ivy.  She's Ivy not because she's a legacy.  She's not Ivy because of a big donation or ethinic advantage.  She's Ivy because someone on the Admissions committee said 'holy shit, look at this kid'.

So, as with every kid, there was a idealistic streak that had to be massaged via a year teaching Spanish in an inner city school in New Orleans.  She left New Orleans still idealistic, just a more worldly and knowledgable idealist, and began Law School.

She went to law school at night, and worked as a cheese monger first, and later as para-legal by day.  She played Rugby on weekends, and tormented both her sister and her brother at every opportunity.  Buckwheat loved her more than can be said, but that true also for Dixie, Chaunti and especially for Tony Perez....and for most folks who have known her.  Landi and I count ourselves as being lucky to know many of her friends, some dating back to high school.  One, a doctor in the making, is like another daughter to us, and her father is one of the few people on this earth in whom I have absolute trust.  She has just a good a taste in friends as she does in dogs.

Tomorrow, my journey to Boston will be a short one.  South Plainfield to Boston isn't long or hard.  It's 4 lane all the way.  Her journey began in the rice fields of Arkansas.  It went through Australia, Jamica, Spain, and Bolivia.  It was a journey of academic and self discovery.  She has triumphs that only the birds saw, and failures that only she percieved, struggles where no one knew, and success. 

Strenght isn't succeeding when everyone cheers for you.  Strength is when you prevail when no one knows you are struggling.  She made every thing look easy.

She get's her license to practice law in Massachutsetts tomorrow.

If you cross her, give you soul to Jesus because your ass his hers.

My Bachelor's Party

Come April 30, I will have been married for 20 years.  It's been an interesting 20 years.   Landi and I lived in sin for about 9 months before we married because we just didn't see the reason to have two apartments.  Unfortunately, the preacher at the church we were being married in saw fit to preach an entire sermon at me about the evils of shacking up.  He did everything but point at me during the sermon.  Little did I know this would be but the first preacher I was going to have issues with.  I did get the last laugh, though.  About 3 weeks after our wedding, the preacher was arrested for soliciting a prostitute in Allentown.

So, as we begin the countdown to the 20th celebration, my thoughts go back to those days in 1994 when we were preparing for our wedding.   Landi was working out daily on a stepper and getting in pretty good shape.  That was the winter of 17 snowstorms, and I spent the winter drinking beer and shoveling snow from around the cars of every woman in the condo complex.   Everytime I would see a snowflake, I would get depressed.  We had 17 snowstorms of over 6 inches.  As we skidded out of winter and into spring, I noticed that Landi was looking very, very shapely.  I didn't want people to wonder why this beautiful young woman was marrying a fat slob, so I started working out and running.  In just a few weeks, I was running 5 miles a day, was down to a 30 inch waist, and feeling good about the big day.  It was looking good right up until my bachelor's party.

In those days, I still programmed.  I wrote code for an application called Cimpro which was a MRPII system for process manufacturing.  Yeah...blah blah blah.  Anyway, I hung out with about 3 other guys who were likewise 'Cimpro' guys.  We were the dream team of process manufacturing.   Jeff weighed about 400 lbs, and was the erstwhile leader of the group.  Frank had spent too much time in Texas to ever be comfortable or happy in Jersey again.  Snoopy was a brilliant coder and a high functioning manic depressive given to frequent disappearances.

Jeff arranged the bachelors party.  We all collected at Jeff's house, and piled into his car.  It was a small car, but we all wedged in and took off for the bar.  When I asked where we were going, Jeff's answer was evasive.  I was concerned that we were going to a titty bar.  I don't have anything against titty bars, but we are in Jersey and Jersey titty bars are not very good.  I grew up near Memphis.  Memphis has great titty bars.  Jersy, not so much.  If we were going to a Jersey titty bar, I didn't want to waste my time.  Anyway, finally, Jeff said we were going to a biker bar. 

I looked around the car.  It was me, a 36 year old computer geek.  Jeff, a 400 lbs nerd who talked like Hulk Hogan.  Frank who was lanky and could piss off a statue, and Snoopy, who who might disappear at any moment.  We were going to a biker bar. Oh shit.

No, I'm not going to a biker bar with this crowd, I insisted.  I pointed out that either Frank or Jeff was going to piss someone off, Snoopy was going to wig out, Jeff would have a heart attack and I was going to wind up in jail.  Nope, not going, I insisted.

I was wrong.  Despite all my protestations, we went to the biker bar.  Jeff led the way and we entered.  I expected the worst.  It was better lit that I expected, and I looked around.  My eyes stopped at the bar.  Standing at the bar, looking at us, were the bikers.  They were a filthy bunch.  Apparently they had just finished their ride.  Standing there in their stretch shorts, wearing their funny little hats, about a dozen bikers stood there stared at us staring at them.  No one blinked, but I may have snickered.  I realized that when Jeff said 'biker', he ment ten speed bike, as opposed to me, when I said 'biker' I ment Harley.

I was relieved.  We were clearly the roughest bunch in the bar.  We claimed a table, ordered drinks and began having a good time.  That's 'code' for getting drunk and talking computer crap.  Jeff was a very good programmer, but Snoopy was an amazing programmer.  He was probably the finest coder I have ever met.  We all drank beer, and discussed our on going projects.  Someone order tequila shots, and we continued to talk tech stuff because thats what nerds do when we get drunk.  More beer, and more tequila, and Jeff and Snoopy began to argue over the most efficient way to recalcualate a multi-demensial array without having to resort to 'cheap programming tricks'.  The argument got heated when they disagreed as to what actually constituted a 'cheap programming trick' as opposed to a really cool technique, and Frank and I just watched.  More tequila was ordered.  The waitress,when she brought the shots over and placed them on the table, cautioned Jeff to lower his voice and to quit refereing to Snoopy as 'Dickless' .  As she was walking away, Frank lit his cigarette and tossed the lit match towards the ash tray in the center of the table.  At that moment, Snoopy, having become frusterated with Jeff's argument, slams his fist on the table and shouts something which I can't remember, spashing tequila all over the table, and into the ash tray and onto the lit match.

The entire table burst into flames.  The bikes all froze in shock.  The bar tender grabbed a fire extinguisher, rushed over, and extinguished the blaze.  Frank took the brunt of the extuinguisher, and was pretty heavily covered in the 'powder' from the fire extinguisher.  Jeff and Snoopy looked at Frank as if this were a result of something he had done.  I was already wondering if Landi would bail me out of jail, and I had come to the conclusion that I would be spending the night in jail.

The bartender slowly looked around the table and made deliberate and angry eye contact with each of us.  "Set the table on fire one more time, and you guys are out of here!", he snarled.

We ordered more tequila.  The night was young.

How to Make Gumbo

First, go to the store and get a few big ole yellow onions, a some of bell peppers, a goodly amount of celery, and some red wine. Chop them up, and put them in a pot big enough for the gumbo you are making. Put some cooking oil in there, add salt and pepper to your pleasure and saute those suckers till everything is soft. While that is going on, take your chicken, and cut him up into pieces like you would if you were gonna fry him. Season him a little with salt and pepper, and then in your big iron skillet, brown him up a little. Keep and eye on the trinity (onions, peppers and celery) while you do this. As the chicken browns up, put it in the gumbo pot. Yep, that's a lot of chicken. Chunk it in.

Now, cut your smoked sausage into pieces about an inch or so long, and chunk it into the gumbo pot. Good sausage makes good gumbo, great sausage makes great gumbo. Pour in the batch of chicken broth you made last night from left over chicken backs you've been saving for a month. Remember, to take out the fat that rose to the top and hardened overnight in the refrigerator. Take your okra, and add it to the gumbo pot. Whole or chopped, it doesn't matter. Even if you think you don't like okra, put the okra in. It is going to cook away and be the thickening agent. The gumbo is just funky chicken soup with out the okra. If you like good gumbo, put the damn okra in. You just can't make good gumbo without it, and since you like good gumbo (or you wouldn't be reading this), you like okra, so shut up and put the damn okra in the damn pot.

Now, make your roux. Since I came down with the Sillyass disease, I can't eat anything with wheat gluten or I'll get the screaming sh*ts for a couple of days, which means a traditional flour based roux is right out. Nowadays, I use white rice flour. So, put enough white rice flout in the frying pan you fried the chicken in to make a nice roux. Keep it moving, and don't let it burn. It will be difficult to get the rice roux to the right color, but it will darken some. When it is about as dark as its gonna get, add it to the gumbo pot, and stir. Now, take the wine glass you've been drinking out of all morning, and fill it with red wine. Don't drink this one, pour the red wine, yes..pour the red wine in the gumbo, and stir. See the nice color? Who needs stinking wheat flour for a dark gumbo? Let that cook till the chicken is falling off the bone, then fish the chicken out and remove the bones. Return the meat to the gumbo pot. Reduce the heat till it's not too hot, and let it cook till the chicken falls apart.

Serve this over white rice (not minute rice) with Tabasco.

That's how to cook gumbo.

The Importance of Reading Instructions

Recently, my wonderful wife and I have been experiencing the joy of trying to teach teenagers to read instructions that accompany new things. Some things are complicated to operate, and kids tend to ignore the instructions and just begin messing with the 'thing' until they either break it, or it works. With Ipads and the like, it's not a problem. These things work intuitively. With other things, like watches, they are not intuitive, but more like a Rubic's Cube that tells time. My bride was somewhat more frustrated than me, and so I felt obliged to remind her how I learned to read the instructions.

When I was 50 years old, I helped coach Catfish's soccer team, The Storm. The Storm was made up of about 15, 10 year old boys who had an abundance of energy and enthusiasm and an utter absence of game sense and skill. As boys will do, they played hard, and had a hell of a good time as they slowly began to understand the game of soccer, and build the skills necessary.

As the season progressed, certain kids started to emerge as distinct skill sets. One kid, we called him Bigfoot, was an amazing athlete who slowly matured into and outstanding soccer player. The two smallest kids on the team were the back defenders, and we called them the 'Hornets' because they just swarmed to the ball and became the best back defenders in the league. We were lucky in that we had two goal keepers, and a set of hispanic kids who were the finest forwards in the league. The Storm became an awesome team. The other coaches and I often ran with them as the scrimmaged and acted as opposing players. It was an amazing experience running with 10 year old boys as they passed the ball around and behind wheezing, sweating middle-aged men.

One day at practice, we were scrimmaging, and the kids were really doing well. They burned one coach after another with quick passes, and juke moves. As the oldest coach, and the fattest, and the only one who had never played soccer, the little rats came to me frequently because I was the easiest to burn. Even at 50, competitive juices still flow. A little rat bastard with the ball broke toward me. I could see he thought he was going to put on over on me. I knew what he was gonna do. He was gonna toe the ball, spin it, jump over it and then whack it with his other foot and pass it to another little bastard with was trailing him. “Not this time”, I thought. He came closer. I broke down like a linebacker meeting Barry Sanders would. Head up, feet spread apart, knees bent, weight over the balls of my feet, arms spread wide. He came even closer, keeping the ball close to his feet, looking me in the eye. “I've got you you little bastard!”, I thought.

I was wrong. A hint of a head fake had me lurching to the left as Speedy Gonzolas burnt me to the right. I spun around and drove off my right leg to try to recover, and I heard what sounded like a gun shot, and suddenly blinding pain ignited in my right knee. I hit the ground, clutching my knee. I did my best to refrain from cussing, and for the most part was successful. The whole team gathered around and stood silently as I rolled in the dust. Finally Bigfoot spoke, “I think he's having a heart attack.”

What does this have to do with reading instructions, you must be thinking. Here's the scoop. I blew my ACL, tore my meniscus, and broke my tibia...brain bending, mind numbing, soul searing pain. Pain that you don't forget. Not knowing the tibia was split for a week was unfortunate because if you don't know your leg is broken, you might be temped to just suck it up and carry your 14 year old Labrador Retriever (Buckwheat) who has become deathly ill out to the car to take him to the Vet where you find out that you have to put Buckwheat down. Yeah. Carrying a 95 lbs dog out to the car on a wiggly, broken leg is painful. Putting the dog down is worse.

So, I had to have my ACL rebuilt. They did this 'orthoscopically'. The big advantage to this is that they only have to make three little holes, and one incision to accomplish the reconstruction. It is an amazing procedure. They take the center 1/3 of your petalar tendon, and use it to create a new ACL. The anesthesiologist knocks you out. The OrthoMagician does his stuff, and voila, a new knee.

The fog of anesthesia lifts slowly. I woke expecting the worst, but hey....no pain. My knee is in a huge brace, and wrapped up in bandages. The doc is explaining things to me, but I'm not listening much. I still have the foggy brain, but Landi is listening to every word. So we go home, and with crutches and Landi's assistance, I make it up the stairs to our bedroom, and go to bed. I wondered how hard it was going to be to get down the stairs to the spare bedroom tomorrow morning so I could use the passive motion device which would bend my knee 5 degrees for the prescribed 6 hours.

I awoke to a new hell. The pain medication from surgery had worn off and it felt like rabid gophers had eaten away my knee. Remember the center 1/3 of the petelar tendon, well, that sucker hurts. Sunlight from the skylight falling on my knee burned like fire. Landi, my angle of mercy, appeared with percocets, and insisted that I come down stairs and begin the passive motion therapy.

Reluctantly, I locked the hinges on each side of my knee brace. This was to pervent my knee from moving, which the doctor had said would be incredibly painful for a time, while I used my crutches to get down the stairs. I swung my leg off the bed to begin getting out of bed, and the cutting pain from the petalar tendon took my breath away. I asked Landi for another percocet because obviously the last one was not working. She called me a 'wimp', and said “Just get up and go down the stairs. The doctor said you have to.” Slowly, and with incredibly searing pain, I managed to get up and support myself on my good leg, and the crutches while my repaired leg dangled. Merely touching the floor with a toe made my stomach queazy. The pain was so strong and crippling that I was light headed as I approached the stairs. Each step down the stairs was a study in focused determination not to pass out because I knew for sure I did not want to fall down the stairs. Finally, after an eternity, I made it to the guest bed room where the passive motion device was located.

The bed in the guest room was a tall, brass bed with the passive motion device set up on it. I had to sit on the bed, swing my leg up on the bed, then position my leg in the passive motion device. I attempted to lift my leg, but the pain was searing. Landi commented that 'You don't look good.', and offered to help. Just her touching my leg took my breath away. Finally after 10 minutes of trying to find a way to lift my leg up onto the bed, I had to just grit my teeth, grasp my leg by my big toe and lift it on to the bed. I almost fainted, but I got it done. I was sweating, but I only had to get my leg into the passive motion device and then I would be done. I took a deep breath, and worked my leg into the device and secured the velcro straps that locked my leg in the device. I unlocked the joints on the knee brace so the knee would be able to bend.

Again, you must be wondering, so what's up with reading the instructions. You're thinking something terrible is going to happen with the passive motion device. Yeah, it was painful, but it worked like it was supposed to....once I unlocked the hinges.

If I had read the instructions on the knee brace, I would have known the 'lock' position from the 'unlocked' position. What I thought was 'locked' was actually “unlocked”. My whole painful and torturous journey from upstairs to the guest bedroom bed had been made with the brace in the unlocked position.

The other set of instructions that you should read is the ones that come with the percocets.   Suffice it to say that 4 days after surgery, I gave birth to a piece of firewood.

That is how I learned to read the instructions.

Do You Like My Hat?

On Saturday, June 8^th, after a grueling day of intense competition, South Plainfield's very own competition barbeque team, The Memphis Barbeque Company, walked away from the 3^rd Annual Mt. Bethel Fire Department Barbeque Contest as Grand Champions, having won first place for barbequed ribs and barbequed chicken. The contest was organized and run by the Mt. Bethel Fire Department under a modified version of the Kansas City Barbeque Society rules. Though a relative new comer to the world of competition barbeque, the Mt. Bethel Fire Department Barbeque Contest is quickly gaining favor among competitors as one of the premier one day barbeque events in the state.

Mark “The Monster” Johnson and I worked with the focused intensity of a tag team locked in a Texas Chainsaw Caged Death match throughout the day. 

Early on things looked grim. The team struggled and suffered a catastrophic tent failure. A back up tent was procured, but this did not go unnoticed by several of the competitors who eyed the guys like vultures sensing weakness. However, the team soon recovered, and successfully prepared the ribs and chicken for the smoker. A second crisis confronted the team when they ran low on bourbon at about 11:30 in the morning.  Again the vultures eyed the team, but soon an additional source of bourbon was identifed and again the vultures sulked away.

Four hours later, having been careful to avoid dehydration and having let the magic of hickory smoke do it's thing, the ribs and chicken emerged transformed into culinary Nirvana.

A little known aspect of competitive barbeque is that the real key to winning is in the presentation.  At these contests, it's all good barbeque.  You won't have bad barbeque there.  These guys are all good and in many cases, the difference between winning and being 8th is presentation.  Our secret weapon is Landi.  The only thing she has not been able to dress up enough for us to win something in is brisket.  Most of my briskets have been about as chewy as a brick, and every bit as tastey.  Landi dressed our ribs and chicken for success.
As has been known to happen, the post event celebration was conducted at Garner Lake, and as usual, most of the team swam, or were pushed into the icy waters.  Were it not for the copious amounts of bourbon that had been consumed, the icy waters of the lake may have cause hyperthermia.  Most of the neighborhood was pleased when the celebration terminated at midnight.

Don't Blink

Sometimes you can close your eyes and remember times long ago as if they were just yesterday.  The smell of frying chicken always takes me back to the 1960's, to a time when Mom would fry chicken to take with us to swim meets.  When I smell chicken frying, I close my eyes, and I can almost feel the summer breeze, and smell the chlorine, and hear the starters pistol.  I can see my little brother, standing on the starting blocks, looking over at Mom and winking, giving her the 'ok' sign.

Yesterday, I spent some time looking at a small plastic football.  It's a New Orleans Saints football from 1970.  Archie signed it.  Mom kept it on display as if it were a Holy Relic, which, I guess in a sense, it is.  Mom never attended Ole Miss, but Ole Miss never had a more loyal fan.  We all lived and died Ole Miss football in the Archie years, and Mom was one of the people who elevated Ole Miss Tailgating to the high art that it is today.  I can not look at silver candelabras without remembering them on white table clothes beneath the giant Oak trees of the Grove, and I can't visit the Grove without remembering Mom.

Mom grew up dirt poor in a struggling little town in an impoverished Mississippi county, but despite that, she had a vision.   They ate what they grew in the garden, wore clean clothes, and had perfect manners, and she dreamed of being an airline stewardress, which in those days, ment you had to be a Registered Nurse.  After high school, she left the dusty roads of the Mississippi hill country behind her, and went to the big city, Memphis, and became a nurse.  She never became a stewardress, but she did meet a handsome young doctor.

Mom's been gone three years this summer.  I can close my eyes, and I can still see her.  In our living room, we have most of the furnature from the Den at Mom and Dad's house.  In the fall, we sometimes sit in the living room, enjoying a roaring fire in the fire place watching football games.  Sometimes, if you look closely at the couch, the recliner, and the gold chair, you can see Mom, Dad, Coachie, and Miss Dot, smiling and laughing and cheering the Rebels.  Don't blink.  They'll all be gone, and all you'll have will be memories and smiles.

I hope you called your momma yesterday.

Diving the North Atlantic

Descending through the cold, green haze, the ghostly remains of a ship lying wrecked at the bottom of the sea gradually comes into focus. Looking more like a shattered junkyard than a 350 foot passenger liner, the wreck of the Mohawk is none the less captivating. Seventy feet beneath the choppy surface of the North Atlantic, hanging motionless and weightless in the water ten feet above the crushed wreckage, I survey the rusting remains of the old ship's bridge. My mind's eye journeys back 78 years, to a cold January night. I see a young helmsman, clad in a heavy, gray wool turtleneck sweater, as he glances briefly over his shoulder at lights of the small towns of the jersey shore that are visible through the frosty windows of the port side of the bridge. It's a bitterly cold night, and ice has formed at the bottom and in the corners of the windows. In the warmth of the bridge, the smell of strong coffee and pipe tobacco fills the air. It's quite. Suddenly, the helm goes limp. The steering gear has failed. The young helmsman shouts the alarm as the giant ship veered sharply, slowly, inevitably into the path of the on coming freighter, the Talisman. The Mohawk's watch officers on the bridge watched helplessly and braced them selves as the seconds melted away before the jarring collision. The Talisman, a Norwegian freighter, tore a gaping hole into the hull of the Mohawk. Barely one hour later, after all the passengers and crew had abandoned ship, Captain Joseph Wood entered his state room on the Mohawk, and closed the door one final time. He went down with the ship, joining forty four others who perished in the wreck. Floating above the wreckage, seeing all the life around it and picturing the events that put this wreck at the bottom of the sea, I was spellbound by the stark reality of this wreck. This wasn't some cleaned up and sanitized 'artificial reef' that an environmentalist thought would be nice to put here. This was a real ship wreck that was here because two 350 foot long ships hit each other on an icy January night 78 years ago, and this one sank. It's a real Jersey Wreck.

Diving Jersey wrecks isn't for everyone. Unlike most touristy artificial reefs, Jersey diving is a demanding, challenging, sometimes dangerous and always an amazingly rewarding adventure. The waters off New Jersey are cold and dark, and littered with the wreckage of centuries of bad weather, bad ships, and bad sailors. We usually have very limited visibility and often use dive lights. Jersey wrecks are covered with decades of lost fishing nets and monofiliment fishing lines lying in wait to entangle and trap the unwary diver. The North Atlantic has currents that are fickle, fast and powerful that can easily blow a diver off the wreck and into open water. A calm sea one minute can become a eternity of 4 foot rolling swells in a matter of minutes, making getting out of the water and on the boat something like trying to board a moving roller coaster. These factors ,and more, make for a brutally unforgiving diving environment, and account for the strict and highly developed training standards and safety protocols practiced in Jersey diving. The reward for managing the risks, mastering the skills and navigating the hazards is the opportunity to look upon some the shattered remains of what were once proud and majestic ships. Though they lie rusting and dissolving only 100 feet beneath the surface of the murky, green North Atlantic, these wrecks are seen by few divers.

Looking for adventure this summer? Consider Jersey diving. Anyone can safely dive the artificial reefs that are scattered about the Caribbean as bait for tourists as well as fish. Those dives are made in clear, warm water, on clean wrecks with divemasters who dive that site with tourists many times a year. The dives are usually not real deep, and specialized training isn't usually necessary. As with so many other things, Jersey is different. It's cold and it's dark, but the dive of your dreams was born on the night of someone else's nightmare. Welcome to Jersey diving.

A Florida Trip

As we planned our Florida trip, it became clear early on that we would need much more luggage space in the Expedition than we actually have.  With an Expedition, there are two options.  We could buy one of those racks that attaches to the trailer hitch, or we could get a roof top cargo carrier.  After some discussion, we settled on the roof top cargo carrier because it was water proof and lockable.

Day One:  I drove to the sears automotive center and bought a 18 cubic foot hard shell, rear opening, roof top cargo carrier.  It was exactly what I wanted.  The purchase took all of 10 minutes.  I took it home and was happy.

Day Two:   When I attempted to attach the 18 cubic foot, hard shell, rear opening roof top cargo carrier to the Ford Expedition, I discovered that I needed crossbars for the luggage rack, so back to Sears I went.  When I arrived at Sears, I was assisted by the three stooges.  It took super human effort to effectively communicate to them the need for crossbars.  I could see the crossbars in the rack, but I could not buy one.  I needed to buy the rail kit from the dealer,  they said.   I pointed to the rail kit on the Expedition and said "Like that one?".   Yep, the stooges agreed, like that one, but you need to get it from the dealer.  Why do I need to get it from the dealer?   The Dealer doesn't sell 18 cu ft, hard shell, rear opening, car top cargo carriers.  I need cross bars.  Yes, the stooges agreed, and said I needed a rail kit.  I looked out at the Expedition, and pointed at it and said "Like that one?".  "Yes", came the answer.

I got a refund and left.  No worries, I still have several days until we leave

Day three:  I drove to Pep Boys.  They are a north east regional car care chain best known for their customer service.    The young sales associate listened eagerly as I recounted my encounter with the stooges, and detailed my efforts to buy a rail kit for a hard shell roof top cargo carrier, and I was swiftly escorted to the area of the store where they had cargo carriers on display.  Again, I selected an 18 cu ft, hard shell, rear opening, roof top cargo carrier, and the rail kit necessary for mounting it "car top".  Amazed at the prompt, courteous and expert assistance, I immediately purchased the cargo carrier ($119), and the rail kit ($200), and headed home.

Day four:  Eager to attach the cargo carrier before the weather turned bad, I went to work.  I opened the rail kit and read it while sipping coffee.  "This", the instructions began,"car top rail kit is designed to support up to 150 lbs of evenly distributed weight.". The opperative words are "car top", and they should not be confused with "SUV top".

I returned to Pep Boys where yet another young and enthusiastic sales associate eagerly helped me.  I exchanged the "car top" kit for the "SUV top" kit and returned home.

Day five:  I brought the "SUV top" kit into the kitchen.  I poured a cup of coffee and began reading the instructions.  "This rail kit", the instructions began "will work with most SUV and Van cargo rails.".  In this case, the opperative word was "most".  "Most" is not "all".  Apparently, the Ford Expedition is why they say "Most" and not "All".  I poured two shots of bourbon into my coffee cup.

My wife, who has patiently witnessed this struggle over the last five days, was fighting to control her emotions at this point.  She was quivering, and was struggling to maintain her composure until she just couldn't.  I don't know if I was more hurt by the realization that she had found so much humor in my struggle, or the knowledge that the reason she was laughing so hard was that my only avenue that offered any hope of successfully attaching the cargo carrier to the Expedition was that which was first suggested by the three stooges nearly a week prior. 

Day six:  I called the dealer, and without going into the gory details of my struggle, explained that I was attempting to attach a roof top cardo carrier to my Expedition.  "You're gonna need the crossbar kit.", the parts man matter of factly said.  My hopes raised, "Do you have them?", I asked.  "Nope", came the answer.  My spirits crashed.  "I can have it here tomorrow morning", he said sending my spirits soaring.  I think I may be becoming Manic Depressive. 

Day seven:  I arrived at the Ford dealership at 9:00, and the crossbar kit was indeed there, and it was nearly $100 LESS than the cross bar kits I had been working with.  I feared the worst.  Nothing you buy from a dealer ever costs less than aftermarket stuff.  Nothing, and yet, the cross bar kit was.  I was convinced it would not fit, or it would be broken, or just be a nightmare in some other way

Day eight: No hardware.  The damn 18 cu.ft hard shell, rear opening, car top cargo carrier didn't have the necessary hardware to attach it to the stinking cross bars.  I returned to Pep Boys.  I explained I needed the U-bolt kit to attach the cargo carrier to the rails.  "They aren't supposed to go on rails.", the sales associate from the other side of the stinking world said to me with complete assurance.  "Yes, they are.", I countered.  "I've had one before."  "No longer.  It isn't done that way any more.  You must use a strap on.", he said as only a low functioning moron from the other side the world could say.  "So, why does the picture on the G** D**M box show it mounted on cross bars on a Ford f****g Expedition?", I said while wondering how long I would go to jail if I choked him.  "I will have to investigate.", he said and he disappeared into the back room.   "Investigate?"  Its a stinking parts store not a crime scene.  I should have choked him when I had the chance.  Of course, then it would have been a crime scene, and there would have been an investigation, but I digress.

While waiting for him to reappear, I walked over to the display area for the cargo carriers.  Rummaging around, I found the U-Bolt kit.  I decided to buy the U-bolt kit and to let my friend from the other side of the stinking world live.

I am eight days into putting a cargo carrier on my Expedition.  I have bought and returned two cargo carriers, and two sets of rails  I have an assembled cargo carrier, and the U-bolt kit to attach it with. It's 10 till 2:00 and I need to go get Becki at school before I attach the cargo carrier to the expedition.  I walk out to get in the Expedition, and I notice it's begining to snow again....and...I have a flat.

A Chimp is loose in the House

There really isn't a good way to describe the fear that permeates a parent when one of his children approaches driving age.  Jenn and Jordan passed through the early driving years without much trouble.  Both had been reasonably sane children and teenagers.  Both made great grades, though Jordan worked like a dog and Jenn merely attended class.  They were my girls, and when I gave each a set of car keys, I was confident they would come home safe and sound.  They made good choices.  They were confident, cautious drivers, who stopped, looked and listened, I thought.  I was content to think that because it kept me from being fearful.  I had confidence in the girls.

Now we have "the boy".  Having a small boy is a lot like having a chimpanzee loose in the house.  He's 16 now, and in New Jersey, that's when you get to start learning to drive.  Hell, I got my first ticket (45mph in a 20mph zone) on my 16th Birthday.  While the girls were relatively calm and thoughtful, the boy, when he was about 5 and having to take some horrible tasting medicine, thought it was a good idea to jump up and down and spin in a circle while throwing up.  Only in the mind of a 5 year old boy does that seem like a good idea.   This is the same boy who once told me that our labrador retriever, Buckwheat, had put poop in his diaper.  He also used to tell people that Buck was his brother.  I found him sitting on the banister at the bottom of the stairs and he told me he flew up there.  He flew down.  About a month after 9/11, he called 911 to report a dead soldier in our basement.  G.I. Joe's head had popped off.  The police department's response time in South Plainfield for calls like that is about 90 seconds.  Cops with guns drawn.  At 3 he tried to order the Phonics game because he did not feel he was reading at his grade level.  We had to explain to him that he didn't have a grade level.  In the 2nd grade, at the Spring teachers conference his teacher told us how helpful he was in explaining all the Jewish holidays to everyone because while there were numerous Muslim, Christian, and Hindu kids in the class, he was the only Jewish kid.  We told the teacher that he wasn't Jewish, but Episcopal, and having heard him explain baseball to a friend, I was fairly confident he had mangled the Jewish Holidays just like he mangled the game of baseball.

So now, my chimpanze has grown into a young man.  He's one of the 'hosses' of the swim team.  He lifts weights three times a week.  He plays indoor soccer twice a week, and is on the Honor Roll.  This time last year, he only knew foods, numbers and colors in Spanish, but now he can converse in it.  I look at him, and I remember getting dad's LTD stuck on the gravel road that runs beside Quail Hollow.  When he laughs, I remember when I got mom's Oldsmobile VistaCruser stuck on a muddy road off the By-Pass.  When he and his posse play pool and listen to music in the basement, I remember doing the same, but holy cow, they have some horrible taste in music!  Where we had the Stones, Creedence, Cream, Clapton and the like, they have...rap.  Is that even music?

So, now I'm going to cough up some keys.  16 years sure went by quickly.  His mother went into labor on Superbowl sunday in 1997 as the game was about to begin.  That game ended at about 10:00 or so, and we went to the hospital.  Roughly 20 hours later, a whole new game started.  It's been a good game so far.  The boy is becoming a young man.  He's a lot better at figuring things out than I was at his age, and given the profound lack of gravel roads up here, I am very worried about where he is going to get my Expedition stuck.