It's a Miracle!!!:

 Dave was not feeling well for a couple of days. He had an upset stomach, and a slight fever. It slowed him to the point that he didn't even want to finish his Mac&Cheese for lunch! We had appointments to look at houses, and I needed to get some Imodium and Tylenol into him just about as quickly as it could be done. We immediately repaired to the nearest alchemist and dosed the hell (and hopefully diarrhea) out of Dude. Watchful and careful, and sniffing the air continuously, we continued on our merry (?) way.
   I may have mentioned that one of David's obsessions is doors. If doors are standing open, they must be shut. If doors are shut they must be opened. If you have just traveled through a door into a house/building/garage/barn/outhouse it must not only be closed, but locked firmly behind you. (or just in front of you, if you're not quick enough to get through it with him.) He is the unofficial doorman to the world. I've lost count of the times that he's rudely brushed by me to politely hold a door for someone else, 'Right this way sir/ma'am, come on in!' , only to let the door close in my face so that he could get the next one. There are only 2 exceptions to this rule, and only one of them is absolute. The doors in our house are protected from Dude-molestation by dint of Dad's irritation. Translation: he (mostly) doesn't mess with the doors of the house because he knows it will get him yelled at. The absolute exception to the politeness rule is (as you may have guessed) elevator doors. Woe be on he or she (or even 5 year old girl) who tries to stain the sanctity of the Holy Elevator while Dude is in residence. He has peremptorily ordered little girls, old women, men and entire families to halt before they get into his elevator.

    He has ranged far and wide in his pursuit of doors. Literally. This is a longer story for another time, but while staying with my sister Anne, over one school year, to be her big, ugly, hippy-nanny, search teams had to be called on several occasions (and the cops twice) when he decided to go 'walkabout' to find new doors.  So, taking Dude on a house-hunting expedition is a lot like taking a fox on a hen-house tour. With similar results.
    Real estate agents have a new system that both Dude and I think is really neat. They each have what amounts to a garage-door opener that they point at a little safe looped and locked over a doorknob and a little drawer falls out of the bottom of it with the keys inside it. I merely thought it was a cool and clever way to get to see a house without having to go through another agent to get a key. Dude was fascinated. He leaned all the way over to get a close look at the process and the technology until he was actually hindering the agent's ability to see just what the hell she was doing. We had 4 houses to look at that day and Dude was certain that each one of them was our (his) new house. Hell, for all I know, perhaps he thought all of them were his new houses to be used on a rotating basis. Since they obviously (but mysteriously) weren't the doors to our current house, they didn't fall under the 'leave the doors alone' ban. 4 houses, 5-10 doors apiece and none of them were safe. He locked us diligently into every house we entered, tested every door, every jam, every cabinet, and everybody's patience.
    But if you looked you could see that halfway through each house he started to slow down, be a little quieter. Doors weren't slamming quite so loudly. He was staying a bit closer to me and by the end of each 'visit' he was just that much quieter during the trip to the next house. After the fourth there was a suspicious amount of silence from the back seat. After repeated answers of 'I'm fine' to our concerned queries began to sound more than a bit tired and forced we turned into the parking lot that leads to our most-frequented McDonald's.
    If I were still a practicing Catholic I'd call the Pope and put this down as one of the Miracles proving Ronald McDonald's sainthood, or at least Ray Kroc's.
    As soon as we turned the corner enough for him to make out the 'Golden Arches' a transformation came over my son, just as he was at Death's door. 'I'M FEELING MUCH BETTER NOW!' came rocketing out of the back seat. We all chuckled, thinking how cute it was. But we were unaware of the true extent of Dude's (now-former) plight. 'I... I think I can start feeling my fingers now.' he continued in a tremolos voice. 'Yes! And I can feel my legs again' As we made the turn to go around the building to get to the drive-thru line: 'IT'S A MIRACLE! I can walk again!!'  At which point I almost creamed the little arch sign at the entrance with the car. We were all cracking up so much I almost couldn't order the meal that would (supposedly) actually cure my son. But we got it done, and went home with our bag(s) full of miracles (cheeseburgers).
     I hate to say it, but we must have ordered our miracle off the Dollar Menu, because not only did Dude only eat one cheeseburger and some fries, leaving another burger and nuggets, but he immediately dragged himself upstairs and, along with just about everyone else, took a nap through the rest of the afternoon. But I'm sure that he'll be terrorizing doors and potential elevator passengers soon enough. And I'll just have to remember the, not quite, miraculous healing powers of the Mighty

Cheeseburger.

Not a Good Day:

Sign for my lower back... Think about it

I wasn't going to post this... ever. It's taken me almost a year to write it. I've given it up about 8 times, but I keep coming back after a few weeks and writing a little more. I've only even told the story to a couple of people. One of those people referenced this story the other day, and it brought me back to finish it. And now that it's finished (more or less) I guess it's time to let it go.



   Lest anyone think that all is sweetness and light and gummy bears  in the Dude-verse I drop this little gummy bear on the screen(no one eats gummy bears here). I wasn't ever going to post this, but, now that I have, I'd like to premise it by saying, most of what happened was all my fault. Mea Maxima Culpa, to dredge up some handy Lapsed-Catholic Latin. Whether I post it or not, it's going to be tough to write, and possibly tougher to read. But needs must drive the wagon, so to speak. And today needs must drive the keyboard.

    This year (2012) hasn't been a good one. I mean some pretty good things happened, but in the balance scales of coolness, this year sucked more often than not. Most especially, the time from April on seems to be stacking up weights on the sucky side of the scales. Dude's seizure, Raine's mom's protracted hospital-shuffle and death, her (divorced) father dying a few months later, Dude's medical excursions, and lack of a home-health aide for a crucial week drained both Raine and my vacation and work time to the point where both of us where getting the 'long-face' from our superiors at work. You know, the one they show you right before they tell you the front door is now only an exit. Raine's siblings, other than one step-sister (yay Irene!) had taken on the aspects of hapless hippies when dealing with anything to do with her mother's estate, increasing her stress and drawing out her mourning for her lost parent.

   When a plane crashes, a building falls, a ship sinks or some other disaster happens, the public wants a 'smoking gun'. One simple cause that will neatly tie everything up in a bow and explain its entirety in a 3 minute news bite. Investigators know that this very rarely, or never, happens. it's always a series of innocuous-seeming events, tied together in perfect order, that lead to perfect chaos. Someone doesn't tighten a particular nut, someone steps away from a silent radio for a smoke, someone leans down to pick something up off a floor. Taken separately none of these things would cause any problem, in fact they happen every day, hundreds of times a day and nothing bad ever happens. But strung together in the right order at the right (or wrong) time and very bad things happen.
   So into this bad-year mix, throw in a 'perfect storm' of seemingly innocuous events (some of them actually good things) coming together in exactly 'perfect' order, and the result is, near disaster. Or at least a very Sad Time in Dudeville. And possibly a YouTube video, that I'm afraid to check for.

The Set-Up:
    David turned 18 that year:  While it doesn't mean what it would in a 'typical' teen it still has some meaning in the Dude-verse. He's showing more signs that his delayed-puberty is past the 'delayed' stage. Physically, he's showing more body hair, and he's shot up in height from about 5'-2" to about 5'-8". Psychologically he's become a bit more stubborn and less amenable to control.With some shadows of 'typical' teen-age behavior. And this is to be expected. But he was small for so long it's an adjustment that had been put off for 4 years seemingly crammed into as many months. Months when we were distracted (understandably) by other things. In other words, the timing sucks.
  Dave recently went to State Special Olympics: This is not a bad thing. This is a good, good thing. The problem stems from the fact that he was with people who A: Didn't know him. B: Had other kids to watch. and C: Couldn't effectively discipline David's behaviors during the trip, because of unfamiliarity, State Laws, and the fact that the whole thing was set up to be permissive to the kids.
   Visitation with his mother: Once again, not necessarily a bad thing, but right on the heels of his SO trip (he came home from one and left for the other the same afternoon) without any time to adjust and she's way too permissive in allowing Dave to 'do just what he wants to do' and treat people how he wants to treat them.
    Unusually Permissive Dad: When Dave got home I was so stoked with the memory of how happy he was in a group of his peers, just being Dude that I allowed quite a few seemingly minor things to slip that I wouldn't normally let him get away with.
     Busted: Dave got busted breaking a series of house rules all on the same day. Taking things from 'Layne's room, insubordination to the Health-Aide, bathroom training and two or three others. They didn't all happen on that day. But through spectacular timing they all came to light within about a 45 minute period. Partially because I'd finally pulled my head out of my ass and started paying attention to what was going on.

   So after returning all the stuff he took, and losing, one after another, GameStop trip, his 3DS and the and being put in the corner for 5 minutes, Dave was pissed. I mean really pissed. But, then again, so was I, and stubborn too. (So is he, but I've been stubborn longer) Come Hell or high water I was going to go on the errand that I wanted to go on before all of this foolery started, and that was that. (stubborn? me? nah!) We all piled in the car and went to Lowe's to look for, if I remember correctly, shelves for my clothes. Didn't turn out to be such a good idea. Like any kid, Dude will try to get away with more things in public than at home. Especially if he's in an agitated or excited state.
controller to his 360, and his Game Boy,
    At Lowe's Dave snubbed Raine and then pushed past her in the aisle. She immediately did what we usually do in these situations. Took him aside and talked to him about it in a firm but low voice. Dave ignored her and showed some anger; Pulling away, hissing air, and quoting games with an angry voice. So then it was Dad's turn. I pulled him aside again, and promised to take him to where we could more privately have out our differences and that he probably wouldn't like the results. (ie: Take him out to the parking lot to swat him on the butt) This quieted him down a bit, but he was still seething on our way to Ikea (those shelves must have been awfully important) and when we got ready to cross the lot into the store, I told him if he didn't cut it out, he'd be standing in the corner again once we'd gotten home. I'm pretty sure that was the straw... you know, the one that pretty much prevents us from ever returning to Ikea. (Not that they said that, or I'd weep if it happened, but that's the feeling that I got.)
     As soon as we'd cleared the front doors, David shouted, 'I'm taking the elevator!' and took off. I rushed after him yelling for him to stop, and trying to keep him from mowing down the scattering populace. We accidentally cornered a young couple with baby and stroller in the very tiny, four foot square, Ikea elevator. I'm pretty sure they'd just come from the floor above, but had been unable to exit because of the bull-rush of my son into that small space. Dave and I glared at each other during the short ride with him repeating 'NO!' and 'I HATE parents!' every time I tried to speak to him.(which I'd never heard from him before) He also tried an entirely new tack, 'I QUIT!' By which I took to mean that he wished to cease his employment as my son. I'd like to be able to say that I tried calming him down and spoke to him in a soft, calm voice, not physically invading his personal space. But what actually happened was that I made irritated comments and tried to contain him in one corner of the elevator to prevent him from running into the baby's stroller. I do vaguely remember hearing a small trembling voice telling me that the second floor opened the opposite door than the one we'd come into, meaning the door that I had my son cornered against was about to open. Just about then the elevator reached the second floor and Dave shot out the door and into the room displays.
     I just managed to catch him at the edge of one of the displays and the IKEA portion of our WWF tour ensued. I was no longer interested in the damned shelves, I just wanted to get the hell out of the store without wearing handcuffs or having to abandon my son to the mercies of the Dutch furniture elves that inhabit IKEA every night. I kept trying to coerce and/or drag David to the steps, but he wasn't having any of it, and for a short, skinny kid: Man, is he strong! I'm also strong, but I was trying no to hurt him. He had no such compunctions in the opposite direction, he just wanted to get the hell away from me. What followed was a blur of wresting Dudes until I finally had to grab him by one ankle and drag him over to the stairs, where I put him next to the railing at the top step and sat down between him and the rest of the floor, breathing heavily.
  If all this weren't bad enough, 2 older men walked up behind us and started berating me about my actions.  And under 'normal' circumstances they wouldn't have been wrong, one of us did, indeed need help, it just wasn't the one they thought. I was sore, tired, pissed, embarrassed and my feelings were hurt AND I was sitting at the top of Ikea's steps, after having a very public wrestling match with my son, trying to catch my breath. Not a good combination when you're being a belligerent, self-righteous idiot around me.
  The 2 guys were voicing their concern, and despite my overdose of adrenalin I quite calmly (I thought) told them, ' You don't understand what's going on. He's autistic, we're having a problem. Just back off a little bit.' That pretty much used up my entire supply of patience and understanding for the day. When the older guy actually stepped up closer and called up some righteous anger, telling me that he 'knows what he saw' and 'understood what he needed to' and that I was some sort of inhuman monster-ish thing who'd just tried to throw his child down the steps (wtf?), I'd had enough. I didn't move an inch, or turn my head, but my voice dropped an octave and there was (I heard later) a definite growl to it. 'Mr., I don't give a fuck who you are, or what the fuck you think you're doing. You don't know what the hell you're talking about, so back the fuck off!' Then, when I turned my head and glared at the offending moron, (who was oblivious) his buddy saw something in my face that didn't bode well for the retired whatever-he-was, and grabbed his shoulder to pull him back away from me. 'I've called the police!' #2 guy said nervously, probably as some sort of protective talisman for his buddy, 'They're already on their way!' As soon as they'd backed up 4 or 5 feet away from me, I could have cared less what they'd done, would do, or even who they did it to. 'Good', I said, calming down, 'Just stay the hell away from me.'
    When I looked back the other way there was a knot of yellow shirts on the landing below us. 'Oh good,' I muttered to myself, 'The Moron Patrol just arrived.' By the offended faces of several people in the group, and they were 10 feet away and 6 feet below me, perhaps 'muttered' isn't the right word to use. The manager, who was still trying hard to finish puberty, walked up several steps and was at least smart enough to try to keep things calm, but still too young to actually pull it off. We had invaded his Sacred Halls and Caused a Ruckus, but I give him credit. He was trying to suppress his inner Barney Fife for all he was worth. You could see him almost trembling with the effort. Well, he was trembling with something anyway. I never so much as threatened him with a dirty look but, after things had calmed down a bit, when I stood up he took 2 quick steps down the stairway. I honestly do forget most of the time how intimidating I can appear physically.
   At any rate, the Hitler Youth actually did help a bit. Mostly by getting Thing1 and Thing2 off my back. He scurried them off with a couple of yellow shirts to the office to take their 'statements' and wait for the cops. Then (still from several feet away) he asked me what was needed to get things 'settled down'. He never actually kicked us out of the store, but it was pretty obvious that was exactly what he wanted. Since that was precisely what I wanted too, we had no further problems.
   I finally got Dave back into the elevator (about 8 feet away from the steps) and down to the first floor. Raine, who had been at the bottom of the steps, caught up with us and I asked her to get the car and bring it around to the door, but as soon as we were within the entry way Dude took off, like a shot, out the doors and into the parking lot. And now we get to add abject terror to my emotional stew of that afternoon. I ran after him, screaming for him to stop and praying (no atheists in foxholes) that no one would hit him. Myself, I wasn't worried about at all, cars tend to bounce off of me. (I've been hit 3 times, so far the cars are losing) After chasing him around for a bit I finally got him cornered by one arm on either side of him, against the wall of the building. FINALLY, I started trying to calm him down and disrupt his emotional spiral. I then felt a light touch on my arm. I looked to see a small, entirely un-freaked woman in an IKEA shirt who told me, I'm a special needs para, is there anything I can do to help. Drowning men grasping ropes could have learned a couple of things from me at that point. I immediately and enthusiastically agreed, and we both started trying to calm Dude down.
   As I was the primary focus of his anger, I slowly backed myself out of the situation, leaving her (unfortunately I never got her name) to continue unhindered. Just about the time we'd finally got him back in the car, the cop showed up. Hoping that I was on an upward trend in helpful people (but afraid I wasn't) I walked up to the cop. Who, when everyone pointed in my direction, turned to get my story, and I laid it out for him, making no excuses for the whole thing leading from a series of wrong decisions on my part. I didn't leave out the fact that I'd treated the moron twins badly (well meaning? I don't know. Idiots? Oh yeah), or the reasons that I did it. I then waited for the inevitable lecture. I was fully prepared to take a bunch of crap from some officious jerk who had the position to remonstrate me, but who actually didn't know crap about what he was talking about.
   Let me explain a bit. For most of my life I've been around 5' 10", 250-ish pounds, 50" chest, long blond hair (shoulder length or longer) I have certain gaps in my dentition and I own and wear a 3/4 length trenchcoat, or anything else I damned well please. I seem to startle people that don't know me (and some that do) by being polite. I've been 'queried' by 7 or 9 different jurisdictions of law enforcement personnel on more than two dozen different occasions for the dumbest of reasons.  I've been questioned because I was: taking pictures around (flying) planes, wearing a trenchcoat (on a rainy day), white guy in the wrong neighborhood, for looking out from under an umbrella (once again, raining), stopping to help a guy that collapsed on the side of the road, helping a guy who'd flipped his car, (c'mon, I'm not the Hulk), once for saying 'Hi' to a bike rider passing by my (stopped) car at an intersection, twice for being a long-haired white guy in the 'wrong' neighborhood, and three times for giving a black guy a ride. (I was the only one questioned). Then there was my all time favorite: A Mississippi State Trooper once offered to shoot my earring out. I declined the sharpshooting demo, thank you very much. So I've had some run-ins with some officious jerks hiding behind badges. Don't get me wrong, I've met some really good cops, but mostly it's the other kind that want to 'talk' to me.
   But somebody's got to eventually win the Lotto, right? Well, that day I won the Robinson Township PA Good Cop Lotto. And I didn't even have to buy a ticket. Officer Bryant was calm and encouraging as he listened to my story, and I started to get the feeling that thing were, if not looking up, at least not about to get any worse. He listened to my entire story, and then assured me, after informing me that he too had an autistic son, that he completely understood that sometimes the things we have to do for our children can look very bad to the uninitiated. He would view the security tape, and take statements, but that it was unlikely things would go any further than that. To say I was relieved is an understatement in line with Paul Tibbets saying, 'I dropped the bomb, and it went off.' Even knowing that I still had Dude issues to deal with when I got home didn't soften the relief I felt.
   I knew we'd have trouble when we got there. David was calmer, but still pissed. He still wanted to 'quit' me, and I was almost ready to let him. Since he didn't have any electronics left, and giving them back to him would have been about the third worst idea I'd had that day, even though it'd be easier on the two big kids. Knowing that he needed some kind of outlet, I took him for a walk. He didn't really want to go with me, but I took him anyway. We walked the 2 blocks to a big, open, but completely fenced-in park, and I just let him go wherever he wanted. Once he figured out that every time he headed for one of the gates I'd be there to cut him off, he sat on the grass, in the shade of a small WWII memorial at the front of the park. So I sat on the memorial steps and waited.  Two hard-headed Dutchmen, each trying to wait the other out. He was waiting for me to get tired of this and just go home I think. I was waiting for him to calm down enough to talk to. The nearly irresistible force and the nearly immovable object. But this time, the immovable brought a book.
   I kept reading while I waited and we both sulked for a good 45 minutes or so, then, when I saw Dude's head poke out from behind the memorial and stay there, I started talking to him. Telling him about what was wrong with what happened that day. Both in what he and I had done. He had his lip stuck out the whole time, and there were a couple of 'NOOOO's thrown in there, but I just kept talking calmly and then I started telling him what he had to do to start getting his 'prisoner privileges' back. Once I said the phrase 'Getting
stuff back' his ears pricked up, and his whole attitude began to change. I had to, gently but firmly, step on a couple of demands for 'stuff right now!' and honestly told him that it would be a good, long while before we saw the inside of a GameStop again. He would have to work hard, and get all his stuff back first and then I would tell him when we started earning GS points again. I could tell he thought it sucked, and quite frankly, I agreed, but by the time we walked back to the house we were once again metaphorically stumbling forward instead of looking back, and by the time we'd gotten to the house he had started getting enthused about working for his electronics as he went to his room to read his books.
   I sat down on the couch and Raine watched me silently. I was on the verge of tears. I should have felt something different. I should have had a sense of accomplishment for turning a bad situation around. I could
have been angry with myself for letting it happen in the first place. Embarrassment, chagrin, shame.... something other than what I felt. Sad. Not for myself. I was sad that David can't just be David all the time. I mean, I do feel sorry for myself sometimes because I'm the one that's got to step in with the heavy hand, but that's no big deal. The only way I ever have any negative reaction about my son's 'condition' is when I regret that he'll never just be able to be himself all the time.
  I had to be pretty tough the next couple of weeks until he understood that I actually meant what I said.  We've had some good days, and some bad ones. Nothing to the tune of what happened that day, though. We even put on disguises and went back to IKEA... 6 months later. Well, no disguises, but we did go back. I did eventually go on Youtube and type in 'Long haired man wrestles boy at IKEA'... nothing came up.

Race Strategy:

 

It's a great day for battle!

     It's that time of year again when our intrepid adventurers embark onto the field of honor to do... uh... honorable battle, to win....uh... honor! Or, to break with tradition and make an actual coherent statement; it's Special Olympics time again!
    Because the weather cooperated (for once) and Raine needed the car to do last minute baby shower things (not that everything we do has to be last minute, it just seems to work out that way most of the time) Dave and I geared up and rode the motorcycle to WBHS (Western Beaver High School) for the festivities. If you've read any of these things you might remember that we've had the occasional problem with showing up on time (like every time) or had problems with the weather, (also every time) but this trip both time and the environment were seemingly cooperating. We even had time for a burrito break (we needed energy, I was told) When that much is going right, something's got to give, so I guess I should have foreseen a problem with the parking people. What the lady wanted me to do was drive my 482.8 pound 7 1/4 foot long (I looked it up) bike into the field with the 4 wheeled conveyances and rest it, on the soft earth with its 2 square inch kickstand pad. That's a recipe for a hernia. As anyone who's tried to sit on a 4 legged chair in the backyard knows, as soon as the weight hits the legs it's gonna sink. Not wanting to come back after the competition to find my motorcycle laying on its side like an old dog, I objected. After a brief discussion on weight displacement
theory we were allowed to park on the asphalt.

Olympic Biker-Dude!

    Dude and I were packing our gear into the saddlebags when one of the guys from his class named Mitch showed up. Mitch is more severely autistic than Dave is and has a harder time making himself understood, but he and I get along pretty well, and he remembers me every year. This year it wasn't difficult to understand what he was trying to convey. He liked the bike. He kept tapping the seat, grunting, and then making the ASL (American Sign Language) sign for 'mother' (who was right behind him) and smiling at me. Dude was having none of it. The Virago is his bike (never mind who holds the paper and pays the insurance) most especially the passenger pad was his seat, and it would not be sullied by the touch of another. Even a classmate. Raine doesn't like riding the bike so we haven't had that particular battle yet.  Anyway, I was trying to keep Dude from confronting Mitch over ownership of the pillion seat when Mamma Mitch showed up (I really, really suck at remembering names) and explained that Mitch absolutely loved motorcycles... from the ground. It seems that his uncle has a Harley and Mitch absolutely will not ride it, but loves checking it out when it's not running. Dude seemed to take this into account and we were able to go our separate ways without any further hints of mayhem.

We're never letting Ashley out.

 We made our way up to the grandstands looking for Ms. Yarosz. Okay, that's a lie. I never actually expect to find Ms Y, I just wander around looking like I'm searching until she finds Dude. I'm pretty sure he's got a GPS tracking dot implanted somewhere that allows her to track him anywhere in the world. And I'm ok with that. 'Cause there's no way that I can find one teacher-needle in a whole teeming stack of teacher-needles mixed up in a stadium full of students, buddies and parents. Although this year, in a stunning feat of planning and forethought, Ms Y had actually sent his event card and lunch ticket in an envelope the night before.  Dave's former aide, Ashley, found us (see? it always works) and in a blur asked me to help her out with her camera, which was the same as mine, but didn't have the cool lens like mine did, and she was jealous. I took a quick second to search through the barrage, and told her I'd find her later. We continued on looking for Ms Y, mostly to rub her nose in the fact that we (after 12 years of trying) had actually made it to the stands before she did. We found out (from the aide who, once again, found us) we'd made it a whole year before she did, because she was sick and didn't even go this year. Oh well... at least the aide found us, which is a good thing, because I'd never even met her before. (Hint: When walking around large groups of people, don't look for anyone, just walk with a Rockstar and everyone will find you.)
   There was some confusion about Dave's first event. He's normally in the Soft Ball Toss, the 50 meter run, and the Standing Long Jump. Has been for the last decade. Having no idea of the true destructive power of my son, someone decided he should throw an 18 pound steel weight around, probably because a softball just doesn't have enough potential for excessive damage. We were already over at the SBT when I finallylooked at his competition tag and saw 'shotput' instead of 'soft(ie:safer)ball'. I immediately dragged my son back to the grandstand area and tried to get this 'typo' corrected, only to find out that it was no typo. So I took David to the exact opposite side of the event so that he could hurl cannonballs around and scatter the (hopefully) fleeing populace.

HEAVE!

Dave had a high heat number and while we were waiting one of the event helpers, after seeing David's card, insisted on telling us how he'd won every 100 meter run he'd ever entered when he was participating in Special Olympics. Then he asked me if I wanted to know his strategy, I politely replied that I did. He said that at first he would lag behind, letting his competition become a bit overconfident, and then he would blaze right past all of them in the last 10 meters or so. I told him that was a very good strategy, but at the time Dude didn't seem all that impressed. After quite a bit of wait, it was finally time for his heat. They were giving each kid 2 warm-up throws and 2 tries for the medal.
    There are two things you need to know about Dude. 1: Because of his underdeveloped right thumb he ends up doing many things with his left hand, but David is actually right-handed. 2: Because of his genetic make-up David is an incorrigible ham-bone. (stop laughing Raine!)  So when it came time to hurl the 'Sphere of Death' (shotput) he naturally cradled it in his right hand and let it go. I was slightly ahead of him (but well out of the line of fire) and on his left side. When he made his throw, it turned his body and he saw me

Is this going to make the cover?

with my camera taking his picture. Naturally the next throw was with his left hand... I guess so I could get his good side. That throw wasn't quite as good as the one before and with the coordinator guy encouraging him to throw further and better he once again cradled the shotput in his right hand and let fly. After the throw he once again spies his photobug dad shooting him in profile, and for the last throw he just couldn't stand it, and once again tried a left-handed (but facing the camera) shot. He ended up with a Silver Medal... with one of the right-handed shots, and I ended up with a series of pictures so I guess it worked out for both of us (mostly for him).
    Next up was the 50 meter run. But along the way I had to try to look for Ashley to, I thought, teach her about her camera. Once again travelling with a rockstar worked out for me, and she found us. 'Cause she wasn't where she said she was going to be, and there was no way I was going to be able to find her. Turns out she just wanted one setting explained and once I did that (with Dude tugging me toward the track, 'Got to run the race and get the medal!) I let him drag me over to the 'Almost ready to start waiting to get into the line to start the race' line. There was a nice young girl there left alone to the tender mercies of quite a few more parents than I usually see 'buddying' an event. Oh... and they had no mercy. They badgered her about starting times, heats, kids and who knows what-all else until the poor girl was completely frazzled.

Notice him eyeing the Starting Lady, and her, eyeing him.

  When it was Dave's turn to wait to start I walked about 40 meters down the track to set up my shots. David has had some... interesting notions about the starting and running of races in the past, so when the starter-lady saw who was in the last lane she changed sides to be better able to keep an eye on the little cheater. She got him back behind the starting line (twice) and finally she could start the race. Now, normally, when the races start Dude is off like a shot, but this time he was behind almost everyone after 10 meters. After that it was like he pushed the nitro button and he flew by just about everyone in the next 30. I began to smell a rat (or a ringer) when he looked down the line at the 40 meter mark, saw that he was in the lead, and started grinning. He (as usual) ran right through the finish line and

Turbo Boost activated!

started running around looking for his medal, yelling, 'Yay!! I'm the winner!! That's right! We're number one! All others are number two or lower'  Darting this way and that, making it almost impossible to get a hold of him. He knows that he's got to wait for the timer to get his name and take him over to the table, but he's also torn by his desire to get that gold colored beauty around his neck, so he ends up running in large circles until I, or the timer, grab him.

I got this!

     We finally got him corralled and over toward the line of chairs they have for the runners. The theory is that one woman sits the contestants down in the order in which they finished and then the other lady hands out the medals in that order. It's a wonderful system... until Dude gets involved. He was in no way prepared to wait for his heat's turn to sit in the 'Thrones of Victory' and immediately tried to roust the winner of the last heat out of 'his' chair. I grabbed him by the shoulder and distracted him for the time it took the 'medal lady' to hand out the awards. The 'sitting lady' immediately called his name, and like the conquering hero that he was, he strutted over to his chair and sat down.
    He waited (fairly) patiently for the 'medal lady' to place his accolade around his neck, but once she had and while she was placing the, no doubt lesser, awards on the others he leaned back in his chair like an old campaigner, kicked one leg over the other and said loudly enough to be heard in that chaos, 'Want to know MY strategy? Come on up and I'll tell you all about it!' I almost dropped my camera I was laughing so hard

Want to hear my winning strategy?

. He had heard every word the guy over at the shot-put had said, and decided to try it out for himself. And it worked, the little shit!
  We made our way over to the Standing Long Jump, Mrs Jacobs, at least I still think that's her name, (I hope so, anyway, that's what I called her)  is Ashley's aunt, so we had another visit from her while we were there, and yet another blatant attempt to get me to post her picture here.(what can I say? I'm a soft touch) Due to Dude's Superstar status, as soon as it was recognized that he was in their midst they immediately started asking around for the other members of his heat, and once they were all rounded up they started the show.
   At the SLJ this year they had this older gentleman helping out, and it wasn't fair. He was totally having more fun than the kids. And they were having a blast. This guy coached each kid, counting them down and coaching them to help them with their jumps, and he was just having too much fun, swinging his arms on the count and encouraging each one to do their best. Dude wasn't sure what to make of this guy, but he was enjoying the 'show'. He was so mesmerizing that Dude completely forgot his usual ham-bone warm ups before his first two jumps. But he couldn't deny himself totally, for the last jump he squatted very low, his arms jet-planed behind him and then he shot up and out into the air and almost out-jumped his ability to land. But unfortunately (sort of) he went way up but not way

Ready for take-off!

out, and ended up taking the Silver medal. But he did manage to hold the landing in a goofy sort of way. Kind of making up for the lack of theatrics in the first two jumps.
   So another Special Olympics was in the books. David and I returned to the Virago, we geared up, and headed home, making kind of an Olympic record, as the round-trip was the furthest we'd ever ridden the bike together. He had been so good at the Games, and also had obtained the requisite smileys during the week, so we stopped at GameStop on the way home and got him a game worthy of his Medal winning status.
    While we were at the Games, I'd offered a couple of times to hold his medals while he competed. Dude would not be parted with his hardware for love nor money. Once we got home, however, he immediately shucked his medals off and headed for the shelf. I tried to slow him down, 'Hang on, man. What are you doing?' He looked at me like I'd just arrived from another planet. 'You take the medals home and they go on the shelf.' Knowing how proud he'd been of them all day, I tried again,  'Uh, don't you want to show them to Raine?' 'No.' he calmly replied, 'Medals go on the shelf when you get home, remember?' As if I'd forgotten in the last 12 seconds. Evidently if Raine wanted to see his medals she'd either have to look on the shelf, or be at home to fete him in the oldest 'Conquering Hero' fashion. I shook my head. 'Dude, put the medals on the table and go play your game.' He placed the hardware on the coffee table with a doubtful expression on his face. But the lure of a new game was too much for him, and he went. When Raine got home later, he came down to show them and seemed all proud again. And then he put them on the shelf with all the other ones. I think he just wanted to make sure that the two 'old folks' didn't forget where medals go when you get home.

Time Was:

   On a recent return to the Homeland, I saw this old clock on the wall at my Aunt Barb's house. A CocaCola promotional item from the office of my maternal Grandmother. It has a lot of memories for the both of us, and we talked about it quite extensively during my visit. I was thinking about that conversation after I returned home and it brought to mind this story, and reminded me of the effect it had on my life.
My grandmother owned and ran a small CocaCola bottling plant in my hometown. I used to love to go there. As I was growing up  myself and my only two sisters at the time ( I got two more later) lived about 4 blocks away and during the summer we would visit quite often. And, as long as we didn't get in the way of the workers, (I'm sure we never did) we pretty much had the run of the place. In her office there was an old (but not antique) commemorative pendulum clock hanging from the wall facing her desk. We were all forbidden to touch the clock. Mostly because we all loved it, and we were a bit rambunctious. For some reason the fact that the front face of it was actually a glass door that opened, and a pendulum that actually moved fascinated us. In a world of electronic clocks this one had style.  We begged and begged but were never allowed to do more than stare at it from over the back of the chair that faced grandma's desk. Until that fateful day when we were finally old enough (or had driven her crazy enough) that she would finally allow one of us, and only once every visit, to wind the clock one turn and gently push the brass weight at the bottom of the shaft. My mother was horrified. Probably because she knew she would be held responsible for any damage done. And, frankly, we were capable of quite a bit of damage. I heard Grandma tell her that the clock was broken anyway, and there wasn't much more we could do to it. And truly, it would only run for about 3 or 5 minutes before it stopped completely again. But since our attention span was measured in microseconds this was an eternity of time to us and we were well satisfied. Mom still fussed a bit every time, certain that her mother had no real idea of the damage we were capable of, and that the only suitable playground for us lay in the more industrial areas of the warehouse portions of the plant. Where we had, it is true, once disabled the industrial elevator 3 different times in the same day. But, despite the odds against it, the clock took no further damage.
   I still (these many years later) remember how proud I was to be able to finally open the door, take out the heavy key and wind that clock, and how incredibly jealous I was when it wasn't my turn and I had to stand to the side and let one of my sisters do it. I  remember the feel of the bob as I, ever so gently, pushed it to get the motion started and I can also still hear the stately, hushed tick-tock that would vibrate out of it for the few minutes it would run until it stopped.
   I don't remember the reason (I was only about 8 or 10 at the time) but one day I was at the Coke Plant without my sisters or my mother. So, actually, I was on my own, as my grandmother had a great many admirable traits, but maternal instinct wasn't one of them (and she had 10 kids). I'd like to think that as a very independent woman herself, she liked to encourage that trait in others. But I'm almost forced to admit that, to her, children just weren't that interesting as people, conversation-wise anyway. So I was basically on my

The Coke Plant. Many MANY moons later

own and, having once again explored the dim, dark secrets of the Bottling Plant, I was quietly (for the most part) sitting across from her in her office just looking around the place. My mother's family had been bottling soda in that building for over 100 years and quite a bit of that history was just gathering dust around that office. I really was trying to be good but then, as now, when there's a question in my head it's like an itch. If I don't ask it, it just keeps growing more and more itchy until I let it out. So, even though I was potentially submitting myself for one of my grandmother's famous sarcastic tongue-lashings, I just had to ask the question, it was getting too 'itchy' to be ignored.
'Grandma.' I said cautiously.
'Yes?' she answered, sounding mildly irritated at being interrupted.
I took a quick breath, 'I thought I heard you tell Mom the clock didn't work?'
She looked up from whatever she was doing and raised her eyebrow. 'It doesn't. Hasn't worked for more than a few minutes at a time in years.You kids just love winding it, so I let you do it.' She looked at me with a bit of curiosity for a moment, and then back down to her paperwork. Even then, I knew that time to a child is more than a little fluid, and entirely subjective, but I knew it had been longer than a few minutes since I had wound the clock. I ran it through my head: I started out in the office, and wound the clock, then I had wandered all over the Plant, grubbed around in the storerooms upstairs, and generally been nosy as hell in the back office/storage room and then had been (mostly) quiet in the office for a while. But I still had no idea whether it had been more than 15 minutes. I twitched and fidgeted for a few seconds paranoid that the noise would stop before I could ask the question.
'Grandma?' I asked timidly.
'Yes?' Her voice had a bit of an edge to it now.
'If it doesn't work, why is it still ticking?' Thinking about it now, it would have been at least an hour, or at least 20 times longer than it normally ran.
She looked up. Furled her brow and cocked an ear at the clock. She could see the pendulum gently moving and we could just hear it ticking over the ambient sounds of the building. 'Huh,' She said, then looked at me and gave me a wry smile.'Guess that'll teach me.' She then (much more quickly and accurately than I) estimated the amount of time, and then said, 'What did you do to make it work?' I shrugged. 'Well, if it's going to work, it might as well show the right time!'  She said, managing to sound enthusiastic and matter-of-fact at the same time.
She then instructed me in what to do, and supervised my gentle adjustment of the hands while I was standing backwards on an armchair. Amazingly, after I'd sat back down we had a bit of a conversation, mostly centered on the clock. I tried to explain, in my limited fashion, why I liked it so much, and she may even have told me that it was a promotional item, and not quite as antique as it appeared. About the time that our conversation was starting to peter out (perhaps 15 or so minutes)  the pendulum stopped moving. We both stared at it for a few seconds, but not even a hasty push of the bob or a turn of the winding key would get it moving again. I'm not even sure if it ever worked after that until almost 40 years later when my Aunt Barb had it repaired.
   I was disappointed. But not entirely, or even mostly, because 'The Special Coke Clock' quit working. Ours is a large family, and even as the oldest grandchild, it's pretty easy to get lost in the mix. So the time I had spent talking one-on-one with my grandmother was, in my fanciful mind, kind of a small magical moment, seemingly engendered by the movement of the pendulum of that special timepiece. Its silence seemed to signal the end of that special time. My grandmother misinterpreting my despondency, said, 'It's okay. It kept time for that little while, we should just be glad that it worked for that long.' I'm certain she didn't mean to say anything profound. It was just one of those off hand comments that aren't meant to be

important, but for some reason strike a cord in someone. For some reason, probably because it had nothing to do with the reason I was sad, I actually thought about it and completely unintentionally it had a profound effect on my life. Especially 30 or so years later after I'd all but forgotten the phrase, but still tried to maintain the attitude.
    For most of my life, with varying degrees of success, I've tried to be happy that things worked or went well, and not get too wrapped up with disappointment when they didn't, just deal with it and move on. That became especially helpful when Dude came along. I definitely needed that attitude to get through raising him up. (or him raising me up. Jury's still out on that one) We are excited when things work out or work well. And when they don't, we don't focus on the fact that good things aren't happening, we just deal with the problem and move on. We try to be happy that the clock keeps time for the time it keeps it. We're very Cheeseburger-Zen about life around here.

The Land of Ahhs? :

For some strange reason, or another, (it's surprising how many of my stories begin that way) I was overcome with the urge to visit my Homeland two whole months earlier than normal. Now this urge does happen occasionally. The unusual part is that normally there's no opportunity to actually indulge in the notion. But this year, due to uncooperative weather (not enough snow) Dude actually had extra days tacked onto his Easter Vacation (f-u, PC!) and I was going to have to take an extra day off work to cover one of them. I turned to my Partner in Dude-Crime (Raine), and said, in a facetious tone, 'I'm thinking about running back home over the weekend. What do you think?' She looked up from the ads she was perusing and replied in a flat voice, 'Take Dude.' and went back to her commercial flyer. The entire problem, and both of the men in her life, dismissed as casually as a passing breeze. Be that as it may, in less than 72 hours the 2 Dudes were wending their way into the Sunset
     Well... That's how they'd say it in the Novelized version of the movie. (I want Hugh Jackman to play me, complete with Wolverine claws and... ... ... Forget I said anything) But the reality was just a bit more complicated. Because, unfortunately for those breezes, Dudes can't actually just cross-fade to the next scene. Cars had to be rented, bags had to be packed, vacation time had to be begged for. And worst of all... ex-wives had to be called. (damn my courtesy, anyway!). And also, I had to prepare David for a break in schedule and to be good in school without actually telling him why he had to be a good boy. You see, according to the Book of Dude, all trips should be made through airports, giving all and sundry the chance of taking elevator and/or tram rides before getting into large aluminum tubes and flying through the air to do it again in another state. That's just the only way for people to get around. I couldn't tell him we were going to Kansas without raising his expectations of an airplane ride, and I didn't want to disappoint him. So I just told him that if he was a good boy, we would do something 'cool'. Without ever identifying what the 'cool' thing actually was. Somehow this brilliant (desperate/thrown together) scheme actually worked. Dave got good notes, talked about the 'cool' thing we were going to be doing, and absolutely didn't have a clue as to what that was. He just kept coming home every day saying, 'I've got the good notes so we can do something COOL!' And that was good enough for me.
    At long last, the car was rented and packed and the Dudes rode off into the sunset. Literally. In the late evening we drove west toward the heart of the Midwest. (I don't care what Ohio says, they are not in the Midwest) Dave was mildly disappointed that we went to the airport but didn't use the elevators. That was mitigated by getting to ride in our 'new car'. 'Nice new red car, Dad!' For those that don't know; I like to drive. I have nothing against flying, I've flown hither and yon any number of times, but I just enjoy being (in control) able to pull over whenever I like, eat whatever happens to be close to the highway, and able to see out the front of whatever vehicle I'm in. I also have very wide shoulders and don't like to elbow my neighbors, so I tend to spend the entire flight hunched over and pinched in. Not the most comfortable way to spend 2 hours. I also have the ability to drive from 12-20 hours at a time, so there aren't too many places that I want to go that are much outside of my range. Normally the trip from Pgh to KC takes about 14 hours or so driving time. I generally leave after work so I take a 2 hour nap somewhere in the latter stages and make it by the next morning. To me, this is no big deal, but it's evidently some sort of Iron Man Triathlon of driving, because people are always telling me that I'm crazy for doing it. I tell them I just get on the Interstate that goes right past my house, make one right turn and keep driving until I pass the big racetrack, then make another right turn...easy. Of course there are 950 miles between those two turns, but still.
 So our 2 intrepid explorers drive on into the night. Despite Dude's incessant talking, he's actually a fairly decent travelling companion. Other than a distressing tendency to call out loudly 'Oh No! We're out of gas!' Every time we have to stop for fuel or drinks (3 times each way) and then; 'We've got to get going to KC/Pittsburgh to get the GAMES!' Every time we got back on the highway, and kind of a siren call to read out either highway markers or billboards at random intervals he's actually pretty good in the car.
   Now David has inherited my stubbornness, but not the stamina evidently. Because about 1 am I noticed that he is starting that jello-necked head bobbing thing in the passenger seat. I tried to tell him where the lever to lay the seat back was, but he couldn't find it. So, being ever aware of highway safety and the fact that I'm driving a Focus in the midst of a pack of semis, I reached across his body, pulled the lever and shoved him with my elbow until he was lying back in the seat. Mission aclomplished, with a minimum of horn-honking and death threats. Except for one thing. He wouldn't stay down. He would lay there quietly for just long enough for me to think he was asleep and then startle the hell out of me when he'd pop up like some autistic jack-in-the-box, looking around blearily for a while, then nodding off until I told him to lay down again. I tried to tell him to go to sleep any number of times but all I got back was something I couldn't understand about 'something....blah, blah something... understand?' He wasn't very coherent, and I wasn't really paying attention, but I got the distinct idea there was some element missing, but had no clue as to what it was. Dude has slept in a car any number of times, but not this time. I was tired of playing Whack-a-Mole in the pitch-black at highway speeds, but I was also 400 miles into a 1000 mile drive and had no attention to spare to figure out what the problem was. After 20 minutes of Dave's yo-yo imitation I grabbed his coat out of the backseat for him to use as a pillow when I  caught the word 'blanket'. I awkwardly spread his coat over him with one hand at 75 mph, and 30 seconds later he was out like a light.
    Which meant that I had some peace and quiet (and complete control over the radio) for the next several hours. But it also meant that 4 hours later, when I wanted to take my nap Dude was ready to go, (Time for Breakfast?) even though he'd briefly been up a couple of times. I laid my seat back, covered up with my hoodie and said, 'Quiet you! And lay down and go to sleep!' I must have looked especially cranky, because that's exactly what he did.
    A couple of hours later we were up and off again, and several hours after that we were in the heart of Kansas City. But instead of immediately heading for the hometown, we pulled a detour in almost exactly the wrong direction to visit my Aunt Barb. Barb's only 5 years older than me and I have the distinction of being the only one of her many nephews to have whacked her in the head with a big stick. As far as I know. I was 3 and her brother, Rick gave me the stick and the instructions, and I'm pretty sure she's over it by now, because she requested a picture of mine blown up to put in her shop. The town that she lives in is set up with the classic Midwestern town square with a large brick courthouse in the middle. Her shop is on one side of that square, facing the courthouse.
    Our first day in the Homeland was Surprise Visit Day. Sometimes my surprise visits don't work out so well,(it's hard to surprise somebody when they're not there) but that day, I was in the groove. We pulled up to her shop just as she got out of her car and started walking in. I rolled down my window and said, 'Hey, do you know who owns this shop?' Strangely enough, she didn't immediately run the other way screaming for the National Guard. And even stranger, she actually invited us in. Where Dude and I spent several minutes bothering her in her salon, and puzzling the hell out of the lady whose hair she was coloring. (I also checked out my/her picture, but despite what you might think, that wasn't the primary reason for the visit)
   Dude was pretty good in her shop, for Dude. He was sticking his nose in everywhere, babbling incessantly and mostly remembering to ask for a soda... after he'd already pulled it out of the cooler and started to open it. A sharp clearing of his father's throat might have had something to do with his return to manners, who's to say? After the politely confused lady's hair was colored and Barb's husband was surprised by PA Dudes as he was walking to the building next door, (He works in the courthouse in the center of the square) David and

Dad: No that is NOT a GameStop!

I 'walked the square'. I was photographically stoked by the Victorian architecture while Dude was somehow under the impression that we'd traveled 1000+ miles to buy a copy of 'Wreck it Ralph' only to head back home so he could put it with the rest of his movies. He kept repeating, 'Got to get the Wreck it Ralph, with the Blu-Ray and DVD copy!' And when that had no effect, 'I got the good notes, so we need to get the Mario Bros., and take it home with the Games!'  I'm pretty sure the only thing that saved me was that there was no GameStop or video store on the square.
    After our tour of the center of town we went to Barb's house for a 'chat'. Now, in my mom's family that doesn't mean what it means to everyone else. In our family the word 'chat' indicates that we spent the next 4 hours hitting the highlights of just about everything that had happened over the last 40 years to just about everyone we know. Not because we hadn't talked to each other in 40 years, but because that's just what we do. Dude is the extreme that proves the family rule in the talking department. Early on, during the obligatory tour, David, with his amazing Dude-like powers, found Barb's Wii in a closed cabinet underneath her TV. Once again, only Dad's intervention prevented him from just doing his thing. (I mean, c'mon Dad! sodas are for drinking, Games are for playing. What's the problem?) But at least he had something to do while we were talking. As a matter of fact, after a couple hours he was already better at the two games they had, than they were after a couple of years. Because it was a weekday and some people still had that annoying 'work' thing going, we cut our talk short (for our family) and David and I were on our way once again.
  Every time we got into the car Dave was certain that we were headed back to the land of the GameStop. But this time we were off to my Goddaughter Jenny's house. To yet another small town in the middle of Somewhere Kansas, with not a GS in sight. Jenn had recently given birth to my Great-Goddaughter (okay, I just made that word up) Squeaker. (Brynn, actually, but she did squeak a lot) Small towns are quiet and you kind of get used to a routine of action (or lack of it), so having a large man unexpectedly pound on your door, saying that he was looking for a baby and heard you had one, is something of a startling event. But we were invited in anyway. Dave is a divining rod for gaming systems, spin him around blindfolded in the middle of the Gobi Desert and he will point like a compass to the nearest electronic device. While I was making strange baby-noises and showing off my Super-Power. The one where any baby almost instantly falls asleep while laying on me, (Ask any new mom if that isn't a super-power) David found yet another Wii system. Unfortunately for him, the controller didn't work, so he was out of luck. Jenn and I were having a nice time, catching up and talking about babies and such, but with nothing to do the lack of sleep started to catch up with Dude. After I caught him face-down on the couch for the second (or third) time, I decided it was time to go into town to my sister's house. Because, since we're family, she has to let us stay there whenever we're in town. Yes, there are many down-sides to being related to me.
   When we finally got to my sister Beth's house in my hometown (she would probably get upset if we didn't stay there. Or, at least that's what I tell myself) Dave found his third gaming system of the day. My nephew's old PlayStation II 'abandoned' in the front room while he was at college. Beth said that he was free to use it, but she wasn't sure it was hooked up. I assured her that wouldn't be a problem, and in less than 5 minutes, without either of us moving from our chairs, we heard the sounds of gaming from the other room. I cut his action short after a couple of hours, because even with the Playstation recharge he still needed to get some
sleep.

   The next morning my Sister and nephew were out of the house and Dude was unusually quiet at the PS2, so I took my e-reader and sat out in the backyard, soaking up that special kind of quiet you can only get on a weekday in a Kansas small town. (trust me. I've been around) Those two hours turned out to be the only time of peace for the entire weekend. Soon my sis and nephew were back and then we were all in a flurry to go our separate ways. Dude and I were off to visit my #2 mom, Mata, who unofficially 'adopted' me once I was past the age of traditional adoption, and the home-team was off to find a new truck for my nephew. After a bit of a snag where I went the way I wanted to go instead of the way she told me to go we made it to 'Lonesome Dove', Mata's hideaway. (I still ended up in the right place, it just took longer) She tries to tell me that she doesn't live in the middle of nowhere. Maybe not, but she's got a hell of a view of it from her back porch. She also has 2 dogs, about 8 alpacas, 3 horses, a donkey, 2 goats and a revolving population of wild geese. But all of that didn't mean anything to Dude. Because one thing she had was an older iPad that she had gotten out especially for him to play with. Is that cool, or what? Dude thought so. As a matter of fact she is now David's favorite Kansan, yours truly included.
   David did like the dogs, they were friendly, but once he got that iPad in his hand all of the animals (us included) could have walked off into the fields and he wouldn't have noticed a thing. I know this for a fact because that's exactly what she and I did, and I'm pretty sure Dave never knew we were gone. Also, wonder of wonders, there was a 10 minute video of an elevator ride on the pad. He played that over and over. I'm not even sure he noticed that everyone in it was speaking German. And if he did, he didn't care. #2 mom didn't get the full Dude experience because every time either of us asked him a question about all we got out of him was 'We have to go to (about 4 different places) to get to the elevators!' or some other elevator driven comment.
     After meeting her husband and talking a bit more, it was time for us to be on the move again. I drove David to KC so that he could have a day with his mother, and I turned around so that I could visit my eldest son in Lawrence and to watch the KU Jayhawks lose to Michigan in the NCAA Tournament. Which he and everyone else in the house totally blamed on me. The whole house was darkly muttering something about me bringing my PA jinx to Kansas. The next morning I retrieved the Dude from his mother and we went back to my hometown (Thank Vishnu for unlimited miles) to have lunch at the only Mexican Restaurant in town with my sisters and a couple of nieces and my nephew. We were the last ones there ('cept for Alex) and everyone tried to chat David up for a bit, but all he cared about was his tortilla chips and cheese enchiladas. After an extended family-type goodbye, Dude and I gathered up our things and loaded up the car. 'Let's go home Dude.' I said when we were finally ready to roll. 'Yes!' he said quickly (and loudly) and I was inordinately pleased that he was so enthusiastic about returning home. Until he continued, 'We have to go home to get to the GAMESTOP to get the GAMES!!' Returned to earth, by the reminder of reality of where the rest of us stood in in Dudeworld, I shook my head ruefully, put the car in gear and headed East toward the land that William Penn founded.

 Dave figured he didn't have anything to prove on the ride back, so about 11:00 or so, he kicked the seat back, covered himself with his coat and crashed out, only waking up for the interesting stuff; Gas stations, Steak and Shake, large cities, and really sudden turns of the steering wheel. We almost stopped for a nap in Ohio, except for three things. 1: It was Ohio. 2: It had gotten much colder and that woke me back up when we got out of the car, and I couldn't have slept anyway. And 3: I looked at the 'You are Here' map in the rest area and realized that I was only about an hour away from home. So back on the Highway we went. (Got to get to Pittsburgh, to get to the GameStop to get the GAMES!)
  When we pulled up in front of the house I briefly contemplated sneaking in the house to surprise Raine, cause I'm the kind of guy who thinks that kind of thing is funny. Only one thing held me back. No, not discretion, or even self-preservation. I was travelling with the least stealthy being in the known universe: Dude. That boy couldn't sneak up on a rock during a fireworks show in a stadium full of deaf people. 
At any rate, our two Drained Dudes were finally ensconced in our Island Paradise. We were so excited to get home that we immediately... went directly to bed. (do not pass Go, do NOT collect 200 games)
  David started bugging me for his 'Good Points' Game just about 30 seconds after I woke up though. I get the feeling that for him the whole trip was just a huge, long way around to get to GameStop. I mean, I know I know I take the scenic route some times, but c'mon!
   

Falling Niagara:

   The other day Rain declared a Family Outing Day, and gave me carte blanche to drag everybody (including her) somewhere, anywhere away from the Home Cave... Providing it wasn't more than 3 hours away from the house. Seems that she thought that she had to set a distance limit, mostly because she doesn't have a passport. (Honey, I don't know how we got to Ireland by car...) But where I really wanted to go was Niagara Falls, but that was 3 1/2 hours away. A mere 1/2 hour past the deadline (you know, that line that you cross and then you're dead?). Proving Dude isn't the only charmer in the family I alternately charmed and made sad, puppy eyes at Raine, wearing down her resistance (and good sense) until she agreed to a trip to the largest falls (by volume) in the world. Dude was stoked. Not because he had any clue where we were going, but because he knows that when Raine comes along on an outing, there will be a minimum amount of walking in the woods. Or mostly none.

  So I crammed them (quickly) into the car and immediately headed north. Dude had his 3DS to keep him amused, and Raine had.... well... me, I guess. I can be entertaining enough, I suppose, but I was glad we had a working radio in the car as back up. (I'm sure she was too) Also, to prove I'm not exactly a novice in these situations, I also had an MP3 player to whip out, like a magician when Dave started complaining that his batteries were getting low. Which he did just after we crossed the NY state line. I also had one more Dude-trick up my sleeve. I am a self-admitted compulsive photographer. Not the really annoying kind that drags out tons of pictures of blurry traffic scenes through car windows, strange half focused objects in the foreground of family picnics, or  endless boring pictures of even more boring family events. I mean, I still take those kind of pictures... I just don't show them to everybody. Just the people unable to move fast enough to get away.
  Anyway, I brought along enough cameras for everybody. I think I may have even had one left over. I started passing them out, I handed Dude my very first digital camera, a Kodak Easyshare, as we were going through Buffalo . Dave, now in electronic heaven (3DS, MP3, and camera) started randomly saying 'gotcha!' from the backseat, accompanied by the subtle click of the camera. Then followed by, 'Yep, that's the shot. Gotta get this one to the Bugle before noon!' I told him they would hold the presses until we got home.
     After a no doubt fascinating rendition of how I'd lost Pat Travers and his entire band in a snowstorm at the I-90/190 interchange in Buffalo during my roadie days, we rolled through Buffalo and into the town of Niagara NY. Naturally, since I normally count on my built-in homing instinct, we hadn't done any research at all about the falls, the town, the park, or even Canada for that matter. I mean, we had some vague notion that our Neighbors to the North had some pesky 'rules' about entering their hockey-driven domain, but we had no real notion of what they were. Like true old folks we knew perfectly the rules of 2 decades before, but were pretty fuzzy on the current version. So we cleverly avoided needing this knowledge by planning on staying on the Apple-pie side of the border. As for the rest, we decided (it was sort of a decision anyway) to 'wing-it'.
      For those of you who don't know, the Interior Department has a slightly psychotic attitude about our National Treasures. I'm not talking about clear-cut logging or strip mining in National Forests (both of which are allowed with permit). I mean their treatment of the cattle... uh tourists that visit our national places by the millions every year. When you first near any National Park you're bombarded at random intervals by brown signs telling you how to get to everywhere. Which is cool, but they're placed so randomly and so far apart that you never know whether or not you're lost, it also presupposes that you know where you're going in the first place. So the first thing is, you need to know where to go (ie: which signs to follow) to get to the place that has the maps... you know, the things that tell you were everything is... including the place where the maps are (catch-22 anyone?).  State Parks Departments all over the country make wonderful, concise and legible maps.  Our federal government had theirs done by the same company that does Disney's. They make it look like you've stumbled into a hitherto unknown Theme Park called Waterfall Pirate Park instead of an area including an awesome work of nature. Oh, and good luck getting any information out of the 'Information' booth people. If they have any information short of where you can spend your money, they're doing a good job of hiding it.

    But even without 'Information' an open spigot like the Falls is kinda hard to miss, even with a Disney-map for guidance. We made our way to the American Falls, following the dull roar of the humongous thing. We stepped out onto a walkway, and there it was; a 6 foot thick, 1000 foot wide, 180 feet plus high, several tens of thousands of gallons a second, largest amount of falling water I'd ever seen in my life. And I was seeing less than half of it. I was awestruck. I was mesmerized. I didn't even start taking pictures for almost 5 minutes, and for me, that's a record. For several long moments I merely stood, open-mouthed and stared at this incredible remainder of the last ice age. I was absolutely entranced by the power and majesty of this Natural Wonder. Dude? Not so much.
   Initially, he nearly refused to get anywhere near the railing. Not because he was scared, necessarily, but mostly because he wanted to go back to the car/home/games, and thought that once we were through with this 'walk' he could do that very thing, and these 'waterfall' interruptions were just getting in the way. After I finally got him over to the railing he almost looked impressed for about 2 whole seconds, then he started hamming it up, leaning over the railing above the 180 foot drop, saying, 'I could fall.'

 Even though he has a propensity for trying to scare the crap out of me by leaning over large, semi-to-completely dangerous bodies of water just to see me turn into a larger, even more spastic Don Knotts to keep him from falling into it, two things ruined his performance. Firstly his completely deadpan delivery marred the effect a bit, but the fact that he was almost 4 feet away from the railing he was 'leaning over' completely destroyed the effect. I gave my usual response to his theatrics. I rolled my eyes to the heavens. I then waved him over to the rail so he could see the sights... Or to get him in a better position to pitch over the rail. He's a lot bigger and heavier now than he used to be, so I needed him closer. After staring uselessly (to Dude) at the water for a while, and several failed attempts at interesting David with the Maid of the Mist(s) as they plied their damp trade on either bank of the violent river far below, we decided to get closer to the Falls for a better view. Well, Raine and I wanted a better view anyway. David wanted something entirely different. Dave wanted elevators.
    Elevators are Dave's thing, even more than ketchup, mac and cheese and ranch dressing combined.(Which just sounds... disgusting) And since Niagara is the template from which Branson , Pigeon Forge, Gatlinburg, et.al. were poured there were plenty of nice, shiny, nearly brand new, but tatty places to spend your children's inheritance on by buying useless crap that'll end up in the trash within hours of your getting home. But, occasionally, there is something fairly cool, but incredibly eyesore-ish and Niagara is no exception. They call it the 'Observation Tower', although it's really a big deck with a tower stuck through the end of it. But Dude could have cared less. Because what it had, was an elevator. Right outside, behind wrought iron fences about 8 feet high, but there it was, the handicapped access elevator for the Observation Tower. Right out there were he could see it. Suddenly the Falls meant nothing more than water spilling over a table edge. All he wanted in the world was to go to that elevator. By

crawling over my recently horizontilized body if need be. Somehow I had to distract the intractable, to out hard-head the proverbial Dutchman to beguile the un-beguile-able (yeah, I know that's not actually a word) in a Titanic struggle of Wills. And, as I've said before, he's getting a little heavy to be tossing around.
   Somehow I persuaded Dude to, if not ignore the elevator, at least entertain the possibility that there were other things to look at in Niagara and the bare chance that there might be other elevators somewhere out in the vastness of the universe. Yeah... I don't know how I did it either. But I eventually managed to get him back to the railing and take some pictures. He was so distracted by the elevator-interruptus (I'm just making up words right and left) that he didn't even ham it up for the camera. After a couple of solo-shots and one or two with Raine I started to put my camera away when I heard a brisk voice saying, 'All right, parents, we're done here. Nothing more to do. Time to be moving on.' Raine and I came to a full stop. Looked at each other, and then at my son who was briskly trying to herd us on our way. 'Let's go, let's go. Nothing to see here.' he said briskly, trying to lead us off, he knew not where. Nor did he care, as long as we were moving. I mean, here we were at one of the Wonders of Nature, a moving Glory of the Natural World, and something I've been wanting to see most of my natural life. And we were being hurried along by an autistic version of a Monty Python bobby. I was seriously waiting for him to say, 'All right, all right. What's all 'is then?'. But if he called me 'Squire' I was going to dunk him in the river. 186 feet below.
    So a strange sort of tug-of-war ensued. Raine (who hadn't been to the Falls in years) and I (who'd never been) wanted a more leisurely tourist-ish experience; Wandering through the grounds, checking a couple of souvenir shops and semi-authentic Native American (Canadian) jewelry stands that dotted the park. I mean, we weren't going to buy any of that crap. Our grandchildren already aren't getting any inheritance. We just wanted to see, you know... stuff. Dave, who's the least 'stuff' oriented guy I know, just wanted to get the whole damn thing over with. He would be striding purposely along ahead of the ambling adults, 'encouraging' us to 'move along' and no matter how vigorously I yanked the (metaphorical) leash, he was soon off again. Oh he'd stick around us old fogies for a bit... To say things like, 'We need to get to the Mall/Airport/Pittsburgh to the elevators!' or 'Yep! It's certainly time we were going.' Or even 'I'm sorry, I have to work in the morning, so I must be going.' (I hadn't heard that he'd actually become employed, but if true, I was going to start charging him rent.) Every time I'd pause to take a picture he'd say, 'Yep! that's the shot. We have to get it back to the Bugle!'  He even once, in a fit of hurry-it-up desperation said, 'Oh my! It's 8 o'clock, time for bed!' It was 2:00 on a weekend afternoon, about 9 hours before he actually went to bed. The whole time he's dragging us along the path, both metaphorically and physically. Trying, I imagined, to get us out as quickly as possible to increase his chances of being near elevators he can actually use.
 After 3 years (in Dude's mind, 20 minutes to the rest of us) we made it to the Canadian Falls. Dave was not only completely unimpressed, he was already calculating our rout back to the car, In the midst of all of that crowd, as happy as people  watching a 6 foot thick 1000+ foot wide column of wintry green water fall over a 180 foot wall bashing the hell out of the rocks below can be. Well, except the guy with 7 kids (I hope it was a tour group) and a really really bitchy woman who demanded that he do everything, while continually insisting that he did everything wrong, Dude was the unhappiest one there. I mean, the Korean newlyweds were paying more attention to the Falls than he was! And they were almost totally involved with the camera guy, the mother(s)-in-law and each other.(Raine was happy, she was waiting on top the hill for us to do the sight seeing thing and walk back up to her).

 
   On the way back up the hill to where Raine was waiting he was bounding ahead like some sort of bizarre gazelle/mountain goat genetic mutation, saying, 'We have to get to Pittsburgh, to get the elevators!' Wishing I'd actually purchased the tow harness from that horse-drawn logging guy, I followed my son (at ever increasing distances) back over the bridge, Goat Island, another bridge, and across the park in something close to record time. Then I got to feel like Stretch Armstrong (showing my age) with Dave in front straining to get back to the car and Raine behind trying to look at 'one more thing' at the Native American jewelry tables. Somehow I got everyone to the car without being stretched completely out of shape, or chucking anyone into the river. The drive back home was punctuated by a few renditions of  'The restaurant's open, remember? I wonder if it's time for dinner?' Then Dude reached waaaay back into the archives with 'Would you like butter...? Or honey with your bread, Pooh?' I also received a couple of pokes in the right shoulder from the female passenger. But after a stop at Steak and Shake the ride from then on was pretty quiet, and pain free. (soooo worth the money) Luckily for me, we didn't have to actually drive through Pittsburgh, so I didn't have to explain to any security people what we were doing in their buildings on a Saturday evening. (Really, sir, there's no need to call the police, we're just here to ride the elevators.) We eventually arrived back home with varying degrees of satisfaction. I, because I'd finally seen something I'd wanted to see for years, was completely satisfied with the trip. Raine and Dude seemed to be most satisfied with the conclusion, and retired to varying degrees of couch-potato-ness (another new word!) and shook their heads over my wandering weirdness.