barbie Q princess and the silver lined slippers

I should have just left them in the local grocer's freezer. Not typically a sucker for frozen food allure, the eight frozen crab cakes for $5 just felt right. I could probably convince the kids they were chicken nuggets and Lori and I would get a quick and mildly appealing (if not novel) meal. Oven preheating at 450, I went back into the living room to watch Rio with the kids.

After about 15 minutes I smelled burning plastic. I went into the kitchen expecting to find a melted spatula on the stove-top, but instead I found black smoke billowing out of the range. Disregarding everything I learned from the movie Backdraft, I opened the oven door, feeding the perfect gulp of oxygen to the fire that was raging inside.

What happened next occurred so quickly that my memory is a bit hit and miss.

Version 1: The fireball was sufficient enough to singe my eyebrows off and immediately engulfed the kitchen wall. At that point, it must have found some susceptible (and unsafe) wiring, as it proceeded to rip through to the living room, where the kids were peacefully watching the movie. The couch was the first to burst into flames, followed by the area rug and coat tree. I grabbed all of the kids in one fell swoop, just as the ceiling was falling in. I kicked open the front door and jumped through the flames, face covered in soot, sweat, and two angel tears. The kids were crying and clutching my neck. Now when people ask them what they want to be when they grow up, they respond, "Our Dad."

Version 2: I closed the oven door immediately, then thought to myself, "If the kitchen goes up in flames, what do I grab first?" The answer came immediately and emphatically: the blender. I fought the urge to grab the blender and instead ran upstairs to yell at Lori (who was in the shower), asking her where I could find the fire extinguisher. She responded with an "in the closet" that contained both information and judgment ("It's in the closet. What completely inane thing are you going to show the kids with the fire extinguisher."). Sensing her suspicion, I mentioned that the kitchen was on fire and that she might want to call the fire department. I really just wanted to see her run naked through our neighborhood. However, her hair was dry and make up was perfectly applied by the time the firetrucks arrived. All eight of them. (Lori insists that she still had conditioner in her hair and scrub on her face when she exited the house. Details.)

When the first firefighter popped out of his truck with an axe and about 78 pounds of gear, I knew he'd be greatly disappointed. We were sitting in our neighbor's driveway at this point. Before entering our house with hoses blasting, I told him that I was quite sure the fire had been successfully contained and eliminated (that's fire people speak). He confirmed my pyro prowess, then proceeded to break a lamp and book end, just to feel like a contribution had been made.

This all happened at about 6 pm on a Friday. At about 2 pm on Friday Ava had placed a Barbie in the stove. That Barbie, cooked at 450 degrees Fahrenheit, became * barbie-cued into a billion pieces covering almost every visible inch of our downstairs. The settlement came in from the insurance company today: after all was said and done, content damage (from smoke and soot) was $2154 and the ServPro cleaning bill came in at just over $7k. That's a lot of crab cakes.

The night of the fire as we were driving over to Cory and Mel's house--where we stayed during the four day cleaning--Zoe commented that, "the house will be really clean after the cleaners." Yes, that's right. What else, kids!? Brennan offered that, "maybe my legos will be ruined and I can get some money to buy something else." Ok. That's positive, I suppose. We're also getting a new stove out of the deal, our house is ridiculously clean, apparently I'm installing a new floor in our kitchen next week, all of our ducts have been meticulously flushed, and we're getting new skillets!

And my blender's fine. Thank you for the concern.

* thanks Mel.

(b)old and spicy

Spicy by association. Lori and Zach provided a nice, hot smoke screen. I slipped in undetected. Thanks for the bone anyway, Mags. And I hope you do great with NAVY. May it be everything and more that Buster experienced with ARMY. Just run in the opposite direction if they ask you to do some work with the SEALS.

On Tuesday evening Lori and I headed down to St. Louis to catch the Fleet Foxes at The Pageant. It was a great show. We were right next to the stage and even got there early enough to score a couple of seats with the other old people. However, it was right next to the general admission area (where people were standing) which meant that it attracted stragglers. People who got to the concert late, but still wanted to be close. As in, directly in front of us and obstructing the early birds' view of the stage. We allowed this during the opening set (a really great performance by country rocker Alela Diane), but I was having none of it once the Fleet Foxes came on.

First it was two women. I tapped one on the shoulder politely. "You're going to need to move down to the floor, or off to the right. But you are not going to stand right there." Pause. As with the others, they waited for me to flinch, trying to detect if I was a) an employee b) full of crap, or c) just crazy enough to make a scene. The answer was b. Every time. But they all guessed a or c. Every time. Next came the affable and clueless stoner. Authoritative tap. "Down, or back there...or you can kneel down." He gazed and grinned. Then knelt down. I felt so bad (read: good) about his decision, Lori and I offered him a bar stool next to us for the remainder of the show. Then there was the guy and his gal. "Dude, that's not happening. Down to the floor, or move on. Or watch from your knees." He looked at me, sized me up. I didn't blink. From Montezuma on he watched the show from a squatting position.

My best "old lame guy at the concert" moment came when I pointed out the dude and his hitter. To be fair, the guy had on a Primus t-shirt and was head-banging to White Winter Hymnal. He was disturbing everyone. And he was in the front row. Had he been of the laid back pot smoker variety, I would've let it slide (inconvenience outweighs principles). I got the attention of the security guard by pointing to the guy and making the internationally recognized 'smoking grass' hand gesture. He then called in the big mean looking security guard. Primus was never seen again. His name WAS mud.

Like a dog: marking my territory early and then defending it in earnest. I was determined to have a good musical experience and to ensure the unobstructed view of my fellow 'too old to be here' concert goers. I barked and did my best alpha dog...when really I am just a pansy in a pair of Chacos.

Like any good dog, I enjoy impressing my master. Which, more often than not is our children. So on Saturday when the kids encouraged me to join them on the slip and slide at my in-laws, I only said, "No, no," once before my shirt was off and I was lubing the slide with dish detergent for decreased friction and increased awesome. The first few slides were pretty impressive. It didn't hurt too bad and I got going fast enough to fly off the end and into the grass, popping up on my feet before the mud puddle.

Brennan then created a complicated game which involved rules and points: the game consisted of running, sliding on your feet, then leaping over the puddle at the end to see who could end up the farthest from the slide (Zoe: "And after you land, you yell, 'hotbox!'" She's still milking it.). Brennan went first. He athletically stayed on his feet the whole time, then landed a nice leap at the end for maximum points (which he awarded himself). At this point the neighbors had come by to observe the summer fun and Lori's father was watching from the kitchen window. Not to be outdone by my son I tore across the grass for my soapy takeoff. When I hit the slide my toe got caught underneath, whereupon my other foot slid too far in front of me, flipping me to the side where I crashed down on my face, slid five feet, then ended up a mangled, soapy mess at the end of the plastic carpet to hell with my right ear almost touching my left shoulder, left arm sticking straight up, and legs bent in all the wrong directions. I'm pretty sure the plastic sliver I pulled out of my butt yesterday was a toe nail. Ava had her hands on her mouth in horror, Brennan and Zoe began laughing hysterically, the neighbors quickly and awkwardly headed for home, and Lori's dad - not exactly the kind of guy who would fling himself down a slip and slide - asked Lori with concern (read: disgust), "Is he ok?" The consequence: two small scratches on my face, a bruised shoulder, abrasion on my back, and a neck in need of a Rainbow rub (which I'm still trying to get from the Italian).

And my pride? I think it's doing fine. The little bit that remained after the fall was left at the concert. Kneeling in front of me. Not to get out of my way, but rather in hiding. Ashamed to have ever been associated with the (b)old guy.

spontanuity. and my girls.

Mimi and Papa just bought a cabin in the woods of Minnesota. Their plan was to save some more money, then ease into the Minnesota woods, building a cabin on the land sometime in the next 5-7 years. That all changed when we descended upon Minnesota last week, only to discover the perfect cabin in the woods, up on a bluff, less than a mile from the cemetery where my Minnesotan maternal grandparents were laid to rest. I love the continuity. Our family will continue to build ties to the north woods. And I love the fact that the continuity came about by spontaneity...it had to be that way. It's how we roll. Plans shmans. Reckless precision.

the kiss of death

I love trying to get kisses from Ava. Every time is like a music video for Ben Harper's, "Steal My Kisses." She doesn't give them away easily, and I typically have to sneak my way into her affection. A couple of mornings ago, I figured she would be groggy enough to submit to my smooch, but when I asked for the kiss she turned away, and quite loudly, and teenager-ly yelled, "Kiss my back!" She's going to yell such mean things to me as we age, I have no doubt. I have a good friend whose older sister was competing in a cross-country meet in high school, and when her father overdid his encouragement as she passed by, she yelled "f&*k off, dad!" I am prepared for these outbursts. And a bit excited, I must admit. I can respect tenacity and passion. (Kirstin and Nancy, please correct me if I have misquoted what was yelled at Wane.)

zoe. spot on.

The Champaign public swimming pool has a great water slide. It's steep enough to be moderately exciting for kids (kids ride with adults on a two-person tube), yet short enough that the line keeps moving along quickly (which is important to me). The only downside is the end. And not because it's over, but because it dumps you into the lazy river. And while the lazy river isn't the problem, its inhabitants are. Upon being shot out of the slide into the river, the slide riders glide across the water into the people who are lazily drifting by. Groups of teenagers. Old, lazy river people. Giggling girls. The couple in their 40s on a first date at the public pool. The entire J.V. basketball team at Champaign Central HS. The single guy who hangs out in the river because of the chance that something lovely will glide into him. You get the point. Groups of people that don't want intruders, yet have no choice when the slide spews forth its phlegm. It's just uncomfortable for everyone. Conversations are stopped. Odd body positions are struck to avoid physical contact with a stranger. On separate occasions, I've heard at least 3 people fart during the human log jam. I was two of those people.

On Saturday while we were at the pool, Zoe asked to go down the slide, and I gave in without any objection. The place was HORRIBLY crowded, and I was excited to get out of the main pool area. We headed down the slide without incident, Zoe screaming and laughing hysterically the whole time, making the glorified slip and slide feel like a roller coaster. As we approached the end, I surveyed the humanity we would soon be joining, and realized that if the main pool area was HORRIBLY crowded, the lazy river was the lawn at my last Dave Matthews concert (it was SEVERAL years ago, for the record). I braced myself for contact and farts, and glided across the water towards an older couple, 4 teenage girls bound together by intertwined arms and legs, and three 10 year old boys. Butt cheeks clenched, gripping the tube, I was at a loss for something to say or do. I wanted to hand paddle my way to open water, but there was none. Not typically a guy who's at a loss for words or actions in a crowd, I froze. And then, I got outdid. Before we glided to a stop, nestled amidst our fellow river rats, Zoe yelled, "AWWWWKWARRRRD!!" So appropriate, so well-timed...so Zoe. Tension cut, people began to laugh and point at my lovely little daughter. We became one with the river crowd. We drifted along. The water bubbling two separate times below my trunks, just for good measure.

can't you smell that smell

Last week I commented on Facebook about my showering habits. This fueled a vigorous discussion led by my good friend Sam, who, during finals week of his last semester at Harvard Law School, went 100 hours without showering. He’s the smartest, stinkiest guy I know. I don’t take many showers these days. And occasionally I smell. I don’t care. I take that back, I do care. However, I know when and why I care and I shower accordingly. The rest of the time, I don’t care. Sorry guy in the library next to me. And thank you guy in the library behind me – your stench is a reprieve from my own tang.

As I sit here smelling myself, my olfactory senses whisk me back in time to the paternal smells of my childhood.

Regularity. Dad's bowels moved (your welcome, grandma) at precisely the same time, every day, for the first 17 years of my life. This coincided with my morning shower. I remember being shocked when using shampoo my first week of college. “Wait, shampoo smells good?”

Smoke. The people dad worked with, both his co-workers and his clients were surely chain smokers. All of them. And as my father listened to their problems, and said ‘yes’ to them more often than he should have, he also absorbed their smell. Every night, like clockwork, Dad came through the back door at 5:14pm. While my friends’ fathers were beginning their evenings at the bar, Dad came home smelling like one.

Wood. My father, as far as I can tell, has three real passions in his life. Family. Church. Wood. We’ve always had a wood burning stove in the northeast corner of the kitchen. And that stove is fueled by wood, which my father cuts with his own two hands (and a chainsaw). Because this love of wood was always preceded in priority by the first two passions, Dad only got to spend a handful of Saturdays a year in the woods for a marathon chainsaw fest. I didn’t join him on enough of these Saturdays, but when I did, or when I rode in his truck after one such marathon, the smell was wood. I have no idea what kind of wood (although I’m sure he told me…many times…in many different ways), but the smell was thick and delicious, and I never cared that I usually had saw dust in my eyes and was always WAY too hot in the kitchen during the coldest months of the year.

Sweat. When I had a job that required showers and suits, the kids would beg me to get out of my work clothes when I got home. They wanted me in a t-shirt and jeans, because that meant fun. My dad was the same way. I didn’t want the smoke. I’d already had my daily dose of poop. I could go to his truck for the wood. Sweat meant that Dad was home. The shirt was probably pulled from his gym bag where it had accompanied him on a sweaty dash ‘up’ the stair-master at the Jacksonville YMCA earlier that day (Exercise: passion number 4). No logos. Some holes. A mark where the pocket used to be. Relaxed and alive, Dad was home, and he was ours. And after he mowed the lawn, the sweat mixed with fresh cut grass to produce an earthy fragrance which to some would certainly be malodorous, but to me was life.

To the best of my knowledge, my father’s body has never been polluted by cologne, aftershave, or any anti-bacterial body wash. If it’s not a bar of plain Ivory, or Dr. Bronner’s magic, wordy, Jesus soap, Dad won’t touch it. His aura and his aroma are inextricably connected. And his aromas will be forever with me. A feat I may be unwittingly passing along to the next generation of Franz children. As it should be.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

alive

I never want to intentionally scare my children. I want them to fear me a little, but I never want to put any of our children in a position where they are scared for their lives. This doesn't make me a good dad. Rather it's proof that I have at least evolved to caveman: preserve and protect your progeny. We dashed this to pieces last week when, in an effort to serve our kids a good ol' fashion slice of Americana, we carted them off to Six Flags. We started out slowly: Thunder River. Log Flume. Kiddie Coaster. Then we progressed to the more aggressive rides: Ragin' Cajun. Lunar Blaster. And then, the Screaming Eagle. Brennan was already nervous in the line. He was watching people closely, trying to determine if they were preparing for death, or there to have a good time. He arrived at no conclusion by the time the safety bar snapped into place. As we click, click, clicked our way to the summit, Brennan refused to look right or left. He responded to my questions ("are you scared?" "see how small the people are?" "you know people don't fall out of these, right?") with a strained nod of the head, every muscle in his body rigid. As we screamed down the first descent, Brennan's face looked like this. After a quick jaunt up, during the second free fall he looked like this. I was fighting all of the Gs, straining my neck so that I could witness the horror I was inflicting upon my son. After the corkscrew, I was convinced that our relationship was damaged beyond repair. I don't even have an image for that face. We had progressed beyond horse in the car and swamp warrior holding a baby (ok, I'm definitely better than those parents). The ride didn't scare me a bit. I was too scared of what the ride was doing to my relationship with Brennan to notice that my stomach was inside out.

As we came to the screeching halt, and eased our way back into the port, I nervously looked over at my typically confident, completely sure of himself, son. He was white as a sheet. His hair was wind blown straight up. His eyes were as big as a cartoon owl's, and they were filled with tears. I said nothing. I waited for him to make the first move. Would it be anger? Regret? A tirade about me pushing him to do things beyond his ability? Whatever, it is, just let it be...I can't stand the silence! Without turning towards me, or changing his expression, he opened his little mouth, and uttered, "I feel so alive." Sigh of relief. Sweet victory. That's my boy! "See! Isn't it great to overcome something difficult!? Just doing it! Yes!" "No," he replied. "I feel so alive, because I'm not dead. And I really thought I was going to die." "Oh. Right. Yes. It is good that we are not dead." More silence. Then he looked at me and smiled. I grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him on the head. I felt so alive.

I would include Zoe in this post, but she didn't provide anything exploitable. She got on every roller coaster her 43 inches would allow, and simply rocked it, screaming and smiling the entire time. Including The Demon, which caused me to almost puke, and walk around dazed for a good 10 minutes afterwards. While upside down on The Demon Zoe had the gumption to look directly at me and laugh out loud, hysterically. She too was alive. Just a different kind of alive than her older Brother.

i go. you go. we go. mexico.

We are indebted to wonderful family and friends who made our vacation a reality by taking the time to stay with our kids, feed our kids, and cart our kids to and fro. We are also grateful for such good kids; other people tend to like them ok. Or at least that's what we think. Please don't tell us differently, it would ruin the gratitude. The week before we left, we were explaining things to the kids: we are going to Mexico, you will be staying with several different people who will be taking you to several different places. Brennan and Zoe grasped that they were being forsaken. Ava was not willing to let us go so easily. "You take me?" No, Ava. We not take you. However, we will tell you what happened while we were away. Here are some of my journal entries. Front-end apologies for the lack of brevity. As you'll see below, we had no clock, no agenda, and plenty of time to do whatever we wanted to do.

Day 1

flashback

From the instant he asked to borrow my pen to fill out his customs form on the way from Dallas to Cancun, I sensed a shared association. You see, Mormons have a keen sense of their own. Modar is like Gaydar in that the alerts are typically based on peculiar public behavior and curious wardrobe decisions. This guy and his female companion were obviously newlyweds as evidenced by their awkward display of public affection. It was sincere, and in a way kind of cute, but it was new, and oh so Mormon. As we disembarked, I walked up to them and asked if they were indeed newlyweds. After confirming this suspicion, I attempted to impress them with my Modar by asking, "Which Temple?" Without skipping a beat, or acknowledging the sophistication of my nuanced observation, he answered, "Salt Lake City." BYU-induced buzzkill. Everyone's Mormon. Duh.

It was a fun way to start the vacation--seeing an overly green, somewhat naive young couple celebrating the same milestone that Lori and I were commemorating 10 years later. And I'm glad that after 10 years, a look and a smile can say just as much, if not more, than sloppy in-flight French kissing.




enter Tulum

We knew we were in the right place, when, upon entering Tulum proper we stopped by a grocery store for some food, and found the place inhabited ENTIRELY by only two groups: Mexicans and Hippies. The locals lived there, and the hippies, well, they had also been there a while (beds at the Weary Traveler hostel in Tulum can go for as little as $.89 a day). The smell was a nice mix of chorizo and patchouli. I felt right at home. After purchasing plantains and Mexican oreos (thereby revealing our yuppie-bound hippiness), we made our way into the stretch of cabanas where, nicely settled in a patch of Mexican jungle, we found ours - the Robinson Crusoe.



Day 2

buddhists & nudists

Contrary to popular belief, Mormons, like everyone else under institutional constraints, like to break rules. There is a certain amount of satisfaction in being 'bad' but not 'bad enough.' This was not the impetus for our vacation to Tulum; we were there to reconnect and recharge. However, like the scene in Blue Lagoon where Brooke Shields and the dude recognize the implication of their togetherness, our vacation changed slightly when the Buddhist dropped his towel to reveal that the only thing between us and his Dalai Lama was the aforementioned dropped towel.

Nudity is a funny thing. To some it is art. To others, pornography. Regardless of where you stand on it, when you find yourself on a beach where the majority of its inhabitants are naked, the power of norms is a fairly persuasive agent. After the Buddhist, Porky, left with his puppy, a Yorky (not another penis euphemism, he really had a dog), two female nudists came along: one frolicking innocently in the waves, the other walking by nonchalantly. They were more like five year olds in the backyard than tri-Sigs on a Girls Gone Wild video. For whatever reason, maybe it was the private beach and paradisaical context, there was something that compelled Lori and I to want to join in. It just seemed right. And it was just 'bad enough' to be fun, and satisfyingly anonymous enough to be doable. Despite the allure, we refrained *. Me out of fear of an over-cooked bratwurst (back to the euphemisms), Lori due to Catholic girl inhibition. Maybe in the end being surrounded by nudists was bad enough.

* I skinny-dipped once. Weak sauce, I know.

Day 3

los conquistadores

What we did know about Tulum prior to heading here is its historical significance to the Mayan civilization. The ruins here are situated on a cliff overlooking the Carribean Sea. While the settlement was never a booming Mayan metropolis, it was a key port, critical to transportation and trade up and down the coast. A mere 8 km north of the Robinson Crusoe, we decided to discover the ruins on foot. We ran the first 5k on a local road, then ferreted through a fence to gain access to the last 3 km of rocky shoreline leading up to the ruins. We hiked along the rocks for a spell, jumping precariously from each bundle of jagged coral to the next. A fall would have resulted in a deep gash and a 20 ft fall into the ocean. I mentioned this fact to Lori after crossing a particularly slippery portion of the trail. Well, I had already crossed, Lori was still traversing the pass when I mentioned it. She, like the Mormon couple, was not impressed by my keen observation.

Before arriving at a pristine beach where we stopped for a quick dip (the nudists there numbered three: a toddler, the completely naked European, and the topless African), we passed by a cove where a couple - he snorkeling some distance out, she splashing in the shallow water with their son - was enjoying some weekend time at the beach. As soon as he spotted us he hopped out of the water and began yelling something at his wife. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but it felt like, "Be sure those filthy hippies don't snatch our son or the picnic." Lori, accustomed to putting people at ease with her smile and quick kindness, waved to reassure them of our wholesomeness. He waved back what appeared to be a greeting, but felt like, "Just keep on moving, human filth."

After the cove and the beach, we recommenced our journey and could see the top of the ruins in the distance. However, upon closer inspection we realized that our shoreline approach would be impeded by a bit of rock jutting out over the ocean, surpassable only with carabiners and rope...and of course the know-how to use the equipment. We had neither equipment nor know-how. I convinced Lori that we would need to climb up and into the jungle, going around the rock, then arriving at the ruins. She gave me the old, "what about snakes and spiders" look. Her aversion to jungle foe was overcome by her desire for companionship as I slipped into the brush without engaging her concern.

Several mosquito bits and a few leaf scratches later, we came to a pile of stones which were Mayan in appearance. You know the look. I lunged forward like Indiana Jones, only to find that we were being kept out by something a bit more modern than Mayan: barbed wire. While assessing the situation, a guy, no older than 20, appeared on the other side of the wire. In my best Sportuguese I explained that we wanted to "join him on his side." He laughed at my choice of words - me treating him more like a deceased ancestor than a random stranger - then asked how we had gotten ourselves into the jungle predicament. "We ascended from the beach." (You see, in Portuguese I am well-equipped enough to carry on a conversation on just about anything. With Spanish however, I retreat to the gospel talk which is the foundation of my foreign language acquisition. The words in Spanish and Portuguese are strikingly similar, and my confidence is buoyed by the topical familiarity.) He told us to climb carefully through the wire, walk 100 yards to the left, then enter the ruins. We did as we were told, and before I could hug him and rejoice in the "union of our souls," he was gone. Probably to join the other Nephite and Randall Starks (makes three) in doing good and secret deeds.

Our entry into the Mayan settlement went undetected. We slipped through a stone tunnel, cooled by the shade and breeze which constantly passes through. We were sunburned and covered in dirt. Even Lori looked a bit menacing. The inhabitants were well-dressed, mild-mannered, courteous, Native Mexicans. I began to feel guilty. The natives smiled at us and commented on the calor. Little did they know that we - the foreign devils - had gained access to their paradise fueled by a courageous sense of adventure and a religion-laced vernacular. History, rudely repeating itself. And we were playing the part of the offenders. Next time we should just use la entrada.



Day 4

butterflies and a rainbow

The only bugs here on the beach are butterflies. And let's face it, a butterfly is hardly a bug; it's more like a pleasant, beakless, non-chirping, agendaless bird. As I was wading in the ocean this morning, watching the butterflies dance on the sand, I noticed a woman setting up a massage table on the beach. I walked up to check out the rates and assess the legitimacy of the operation. It wasn't. And when I saw the hair in her armpits and the mangy dog that was her pet, I was sold. I toweled off and went over for my well-deserved rubdown (every time I get a massage I tell myself it's 'well-deserved' so I feel like less of a twit). I introduced myself and she responded in kind. "I am Arco Iris." Her name is Rainbow. Oh man, even better. It gets better.

After 20 minutes of the sandiest, most amazing massage I have ever had (honesty check: this is only the third massage I've ever had), I extended the session from 30 to 60 minutes. "Is that ok, Rainbow?" "Yes, it is better for me," she responds. Shoulder. Neck. Back. Head. Calves. Foot. "I sprained my ankle recently. It's a bit tender." " You just relax." "Ok, Rainbow." Arms. Hands. Cheeks (both sets). Lips. Nose. "You know you can fix your big crooked nose with an everyday massage." "Ok, Rainbow. Wait. What?" And then, the pot of gold - Rainbow massaged my ear. We're not talking just the casual flick of an ear lobe, but some real attention-giving squeezes. I swear I can hear better now.

Then, without warning, she stopped, pulled the sheet over my head, and left. What happened next I only know because Lori observed the whole thing from about 25 yards down the beach. I didn't know what Rainbow wanted me to do, so I remained obediently under the sheet. While thus waiting, Rainbow calmly walked away from the table and then started...wait for it...doing vigorous cartwheels and somersaults on the beach. As I lay confused, yet patient under a sheet, unknowingly I had sent the Rainbow into a circus-like fit of satisfaction and celebration. I have made people laugh. I have made them cry. I have made people happy, sad, angry, and annoyed. But I have never, ever made anyone do cartwheels. And here it wasn't just anyone - I made a Rainbow do cartwheels. It's like making Michael Jackson dance, or Pavarotti sing. It's what they do. It goes together. And I was the catalyst. Jesus saves! Rainbow cartwheels!

After a few minutes of breathing my own increasingly tepid recycled air, I emerged from my cotton-poly sepulchre to find Rainbow sitting in the sand petting her dog. I thanked her, gave her the fee plus tip, then went to my chair whereupon Lori told me about the cartwheels. "Of course she did," I pondered pretentiously. I laid back in the chair, smiling, thinking about the things I am, and what I had become today: Father. Son. Husband. Friend. Brother. Teacher. Student. Leader. Follower. Creator of Rainbows. I was disturbed from my self-indulgent exercise by the yipping of a dog and the laughter of a woman. I looked over to see Rainbow rubbing her mangy mutt mercilessly. He yelped in approval and she laughed accordingly. And then without warning, she stopped, turned towards the sea and ran, stopping only to do cartwheels and somersaults. Unfortunate. Made more unfortunate by the fact that this is probably not the last time I will pridefully take credit for someone's Tourette syndrome.

Day 5

time

Sleep. Rest. Read. Eat. Stretch. Swim. Read. Think. Write. Repeat.

Time stands still when there is no time. No increments to adhere to. No requisite rigor. On day 2 my iPod battery emptied, and we have not had a watch or clock since. * We attempt to keep pace by the reach of the tide or the position of the sun, but alas, our midwesterness gets in the way. We have learned to allow our bodies to guide us. We are moved to action only out of biological urge or necessity. Hungry. Eat. Tired. Sleep. Restless. Run. This is so foreign to both Lori and me. Our days are dictated by a clock; or rather, we manage our days through the management of the clock. Our chores are assigned a number, and that number is obeyed, like a ticket in a deli. Failure to abide by the order results in subsequent compromise - the next customer complains.

While this approach breeds efficiency, I fear the possible sacrificial consequence. I hope we are not so rigid that voices fall on deaf ears and feelings on a frigid soul. I hope that spontaneity is given space so that we might experience the joy of those who respond. That we become not creatures upon which time acts, but that we may act despite the constraints on our time.




* the absence of a clock became one of the most satisfying and enlightening aspects of our trip. I really feel it may have created something 'sticky' that brings about some small - yet significant and sustainable - change.

the great empanada chase

Tonight we got hungry. Instead of running to the restaurant for dinner, we decided to locate the girl who had sold us the most amazing empanadas last night. She was riding by on her bike, baskets full of warm breads, pastries, and empanadas. We bought a cheese and veggie empanada to be nice, but almost fell over after the first bite. It was perfect.

I went to the road where we had encountered her and waited. And waited. Less concerned with time, more with the challenge of finding our sun-soaked culinary Samaritan, I took to the beach to discover who she was and where she could be found. Rainbow was just finishing a massage, so I somersaulted over to her table. As soon as I uttered, "Girl. Bike. Empanada," she responded, "Her name is Zarah and she stays at Amoreira." We borrowed a couple of bikes, grabbed our map of the village and tore off to the south, in search of Zarah and her empanadas.

After finding Amoreira (a cluster of rustic cabanas and tree houses) completely devoid of human activity (There was a cat. Lori hates cats. Did you know that, Trina? Please don't like Lori less.) I ventured, once again, down to the beach where we found a group of hippies drinking vodka outside a Kelty tent. I called one of them over - Phillipe - and explained my need for the empanadas (again, using religous terms. But this time justified. These delights were indeed "the filled bread of God."). He laughed, agreed with my assessment, then pulled out his cell phone to dial Zarah. After a 45 second exchange he hung up , assured us she had some remaining goods then told us we could encounter her 2 km down the road on her bike. I wasn't even concerned when he referred to the empanadas as los hombres (the men), even though I should have probably asked for clarification. By that point our focus had become even more singular. We exchanged pleasantries and he invited us to stay at his hotel next time we were in town. It wasn't built yet, but it would be once he secured the right permits.

True to their word, after about 5 more minutes by bike, there was Zarah. We bought 5 empanadas, she thanked us for our efforts, and we assured her that we would have travelled five times as far. "Not since the mannah was deposited in the hands of the children of...oh, nevermind, these empanadas are amazing." On our way back to the Robinson Crusoe, riding beach cruisers on a crude road, under a canopy of tropical vegetation, I mentioned to Lori that if there was a soundtrack to this adventure, it would be Jack Johnson on every track.

We ate the empanadas on our porch, then headed to the shop for milkshakes. As we walked in, we were greeted by familiar lyrics spilling cooly from the speakers.

And there were so many fewer questions, when stars were still just the holes to heaven...

Day 6

look! another rainbow

Lori just wrapped up her time with Rainbow. While Lori did not incite cartwheels or somersaults (thank you. thank you.), she did get the following: "You are so beautiful. And my soul has revealed to me that we were sisters in a previous life. I start to cry when I first see you. It was very strong. We lived in Europe. And we were very poor. Do you feel it?" Lori of course nervously confirmed the stirrings with an uncomfortable giggle, and "Uh huh! Awesome." I wanted to know more, so I asked what country it was that they lived in. I received no specifics from Rainbow, only a vague, "Italy, maybe?"

And so we parted ways. Me, remembered as the crooked nosed canine. Lori as the beautiful Italian sister of a Rainbow. Of course.



Day 7

back home

I get a sinking, although not paralyzing, feeling every time I leave the house. I fear that I will miss something. I fear that time and distance will create some gap between my children and me. I can rationally convince myself of its foolishness, but I just as quickly validate my worry with the monotony and sway of daily experience. My fear is not that any one day I will miss out on that something; rather it is a fear that each day's distractions, pursuits, and vain ambitions are added to the previous day's, and that the sum will slowly carry me away. This lack of trust in myself is a bit embarrassing...yet, welcome. It is less a jerky nagging, but rather a taut and steady pull. Back to earth. Back to love. Back home.

oh brother

Before Cub Scouts last Friday Brennan engaged in a game of pick up basketball with some of the other boys. Once sides had been formed, one boy yelled out the name he had selected for his team, "We're the Denominators!" A kid on the opposing team perked up at this point, replying, "That is interesting. So, what you are telling us, is that all of you are the bottom half of a fraction?" Guess which team won?

Brennan walked up to me last week and announced that he wants a brother. Like a pet, he sometimes lobbies for further procreation. However, this time his specificity caught me a bit off guard. "I want a brother. Who's good at soccer. Who's my age. I'd like him to be black. And his name could be CJ." Lori and I have discussed the biological prospects of granting such a request, but we both agree it might be a long shot. As a result, I've been checking Craigslist daily for a CJ.