When you're down and low...

 I woke up Monday to learn that my friend Jim McLean died of COVID-19. Jim was a friend from the early 80s when I used to camp at lone Oak campgrounds in East Canaan Connecticut. I was close friends with his sister and he was close friends with my cousin Gary. His poor family is now having to carry on without him. Damn these people who have politicized a vaccine!  It’s been a hard week. 

On Wednesday, we had to put our Bogey down. I just can’t believe he is gone. I hate this. He was so much more than a pet to our family. I need downtime now. Before the frenzied race to winter begins in the fall. 

Tuesday. I really did not sleep last night. Tormented by the thoughts of Jim’s beautiful family having to move on without him.

There appears to be an obstruction in my ability to write on this trip. It came so easily when we were at Killington. I dare say that some of the paragraphs written were some of the best stuff I have done. I will be patient though as I think it will happen. Until then I just sittin'
waiting for the bus all day. So many sounds, mowing way off in the distance, wind rustling, tarps blowing, crows crawling, chickadees, water sounds, eggs boiling, noises from the camper.

It is now Wednesday, September 1st. Good morning. Sour Girl by Stone Temple pilots from 2000 is in my head. It was a song written about someone name Jeanette Jania. Another long night with hardly any sleep. Soon we will be out and everything down for the winter beyond the sound of the river there is the subtle undercurrent that the diabolical forces of winter await. 

September 1, they now begin stepping this way.  Don't you dare say that it cannot happen even now?  I have had seen snow very early in the season in my life. The earliest I have ever seen it was on September 11, 1979. 4 inches fell in Bristol Connecticut that day.

The coffee now officially begins to perk. The sound and the smells of coffee perking in a true percolator, on an open flame, are some of the finest interactions with our senses there can ever be. Decades ago everyone knew how to make coffee correctly (passive-aggressive dig intended I guess).  Around 75ish, a few people had automatic drip coffee makers or Mr. Coffees as they were referred to back then. But they were a joke. Lukewarm, weak, and plasticky. A disgusting assault compared to that stovetop bliss they left behind.   

So I started reading Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain. I must say that I am severely impressed with Mr. BourdAin’s stark honesty to admit the things that everyone else is too internally shocked. The honesty makes the rooms take on an almost holographic materialization. 

At times I wish I could go back to 1982 and kick myself right in the rear end. I’d like to believe that all of this literary regurgitation somehow is blog-worthy at some point. Isn’t that right Mr. Terry Ward? When I think of the hours that I spent reading Terry’s bleeding heart hemorrhaging off of computer dot matrix tractor paper by the light of a kerosene lamp in the cabin in East Alstead!  Wow!  My dad too was finding an interest in this person that was doing the same job as him and making a little bread on the side by sharing his hippie generation manifesto. As the pages rolled out of the printer, Terry found and then lost love much to our own discomfort as readers. But we stuck with you, Terry. Something about you was so maverick, that eventually, you graduated to a blog. The Internet bringing forward so many others just like you. There in Langdon New Hampshire, a tragic star was born or perhaps fell off the back of a truck. 

Nevertheless, we loved you, Terry, in all your whiny self lamentations. Why? Because somewhere in you, each of us saw ourselves. You, who did not worry about how embarrassing it was to bear your naked soul to strangers. We were thinking it, but we were too scared to say it. LinkedIn says that Terry Ward has published Notes from the Dump for 34 years and 11 months now. Yes, that is November 1986 through the present day. Terry is listed as going to the high school of Hard Knocks High 1957 through 1962. Terry is a reminder that we can all bring something new to the world yes anyone can, even you.

The Rain and it’s companions

Somewhere beyond the rain, somewhere beyond the mud, the mosquitoes, and the uncertainty, I believe there is peace. If I had to sum up this vacation week in July 2021 I would have to do it like this: Kenny Rogers gambler style. “Somewhere in the darkness, the gambler he broke even because in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.“ 

Yes, this vacation may have been about teaching me some valuable lessons. Everyone else relaxes, but not me. I needed something much deeper. Rain rain and more rain came down. I had the misguided idea that it was taking something away from me but in actuality, it was giving me something. 

51 years ago my family took a vacation in the old camp in the bus and Goshen Vermont. Dad, Mom, my uncle Brian, me, Brooke, and my infant sister Amy. While there it rained for four solid days. While individual memories are pretty static about those days one thing that really came through was the emotional whereabouts of my parents and all the adults and older kids in my family. I saw things this week I never knew, yet they came from inside me. How does that happen? As the latter part of the week progressed I felt sabotaged but on Saturday I finally decided to get out and hike. I went up the Brownsville Trail and down the Weathersfield trail and it was so fantastic! Even though I know why I hike, I forget why I hike. That cannot be allowed to happen!

So during this vacation in the rain, being close to the dirt, I figured out that everything that was happening in the adult's lives during my childhood was after a catastrophic event. And everything that was our childhood was in the wake of that. Basically, the planets shifted, a star exploded and the enterprise crashed and then all of the adults in the family had to carry on because the world does not stop no matter what. It only felt like it did. I sort of feel ashamed of what my five and six-year-old self used to feel like. Back then I used to describe it like the world felt new. But for the adults in my family must’ve felt very dark. Vietnam is droning on, families were breaking up in records, all the things that the youth of the 1960s felt that they had accomplished realized that they got onto the conveyor belt their parents did and hopefully could do so well too. But our family was struck with tragedy. So we had to get together, we did family trips and vacations. 

Somehow I learned more than ever, that the adults in my life were amazing.  They carried us through and did a great job at it.  Even the teens in my life.  I recently had the opportunity to tell an uncle who is 8 years my senior, so he is more annoying big brother-ish something.  I got to sincerely tell him that his guidance really was a value in my life and in my wisdom, REALLY appreciate all of it, despite at the time feeling that he just wanted to cause me trouble.  That is as far from the truth as it gets.  All those who guided me growing up, are the finest people you could know.  I find it absolutely amazing that all of these realizations could come to me 50 something years later while I’m sitting in the rain close to the dirt. 

As I sit here at Larch Leanto, water streaming and bubbling behind me, birds singing all around. I know in my heart that in the woods the keys to the rest of my existence lies. I want and need more. Yeah, it is coming out in convulsions of history and information, but it has to happen somehow. Otherwise, it is a life left unfed and unquenched. The desire to explore forward but because of the lack of being in the moment, all of yesterday almost did not happen. It is funny how much Morning Pages has mutated into something I needed. We are all not the same, are we, Amy Landino?

I love the Leonard Cohen song In My Secret Life. Sometimes I worry that I had put too much into that life. As a child, I could journey deep into the depths of adventure. What was I running from to create such an incredible network? That network stayed strong too.  I wrote the novel "Lost in a Strange Life". What was I doing putting all of me into that and by day I was a mere passenger. I have to wonder what happens when these worlds collide? It is one of the reasons that I want to thru-hike but the biggest reason is that thru-hiking is also my greatest fear. I think it will break down the great wall between these worlds. Part of me welcomes that, the other part fears it so much. I worry about losing that barrier in old age and not knowing what life is which. Does that happen to others? My senior English teacher criticized my Recital (an abstract artistic composition I wrote in my senior year)  for the contradictions in it. But what if it was showing those contrast between life and other life. Now there is the masterpiece! maybe I will write another. That would be awesome. After all, Leonard Cohen did it kind of.

 OK, so the 1970 camping trip was 51 years ago. The challenges my parents had,  Amy wasn’t even six months old. Brooke was in a playpen in the van,  Brian was 11 years old and I was five. We went to Danberry to pick Brian up at Diane’s. This was back while they were still building the interstate highway system. The multi-mixer in Waterberry was crazy the top deck was not finished yet it was pouring rain and every time we hit a spot where the highway was missing the practically vertical windshield on my grandfather's 1968 GMC van could be hit hard by waterfall blast. 

This was one of the periods of time in which my dad‘s license was not valid in Connecticut. I suspect one of the many drunk driving instances was responsible for this. So, my mom who did not drive standard well was trying to drive the van in Connecticut. Once we go to Massachusetts my dad could take over because they didn’t check across state lines like that back then.

 Once we got set up in the bus solid rain fell for four days I remember that my parents had to be fit to be tied. I do not know if this was the plan but after the four days, we removed the plastic bamboo white blue and green curtains from the bus and installed them into the GMC van windows. Then we went to the Franconia New Hampshire area and camped in a campground that had a heated pool. I never like swimming but Brian sure did.  Brian swims like a fish and we couldn’t get him out of the pool. There was a ninety-year-old woman who had a crush on my dad.

 The rain now is stopped I do not recall a year of this much rain. I am totally discouraged. I don’t know what to do. All it even all it ever does is rain. It never stops, it just rains on and on. I hate it. The rage I feel is real with rain. I always attribute it to the many hours in the military standing in 40 degree mud and rain for seemingly days.  Enough is enough.  My head hurts my neck hurts, I need warmth and dryness. I hate this rain.

The Finest Hour

Monday, July 19, 2021

Woke up with no more Mr. nice guy by Alice Cooper playing in my head. "What’s the significance? I don’t know!"  (Peewee Herman voice). Despite the rain those incredible surreal never to happen again moments materialize in the strangest of places without warning! 

We went to bed last night in the tent. I was feeling like I might actually drift off to sleep fairly quick when my stomach had other plans. I reluctantly trekked across the road to the state park bathrooms. There was no one in there when I first arrived but after a while what sounded like three or four boys of various ages, pre voice changing age came in on a mission to pee and brush their teeth before turning in. Rolling conversations ensued amongst them. What sounded like the older boy of the group, possibly 11 or 12 years old said that he was going to the bathroom and to let mom and dad know. Two more boys remained at the sinks brushing their teeth. The little one kept drinking water from the faucet, over and over again. I could not see him, but I could just picture him hanging on the front rim of the sink on his stomach, feet flailing behind him, slurping water, gasping for breath in between drinks. 

The middle kid finally had enough and tells him “hey! Stop drinking so much! We’re headed to bed!“ The little guy replied, “it’s just water, so it doesn’t really count.“ The middle kid disagreed, “oh yes it does! Every sip of water equals a minute of peeing!“ Out the door, they went.

I was still grinning from the science of that water equation while there were various grunts from the end stall until the 11 or 12-year-old very quietly began to sing a song. I wondered if he knew someone else was in there. As the moments passed he sang louder and louder. The words came clearer as time went by, “how great, how great, how great is your love?“ Louder and very melodic, he could definitely sing. My guess is it was some sort of Sunday school song.  

An adult came into the men’s room and went into the center stall. The boy just kept singing away. I washed my hands and left. Back at the tent as I tried to fall asleep, I thought about the boy who is not afraid to sing in the State Park men’s room. Will he always have this innocent confidence? If so what will he do in life, will it be important in a family sense or important in the eyes of the world? One thing I knew, he has a good start with his parents bringing him camping during childhood.

My first time making LA Galbi

 It was a dark and cloudy Monday night in June in Vermont. The air cool but heavy with the threat of an evening thunderstorm. Birds singing all around me and yet in my head Ronnie Van Zandt singing over and over again in my head, play me a song Curtis Lowe.

It was on this night that I decided to finally cook one of my favorite Korean dishes, LA Galbi. I understand that it is best cooked over a wood or wood charcoal fire. For this reason I decided to set up at the Weber Grill that’s been stored out in the backyard. This is not the best option For my usually very fluent cooking style. Many days and nights I can balance the outside deck grill and burner running inside to the kitchen to tend to food prep and other side dishes sautéing on the stove. There will be none of that tonight. 

If it involves my grill out on my deck or my wok and pans on my stove my cutting boards my chef knives, I can move through that space like Jackie Chan almost with a rhythm. But tonight, here I am out in the backyard what feels like miles away from my kitchen and from my deck just trying to make this wood fire work. The whole scene screaming to me that perhaps I need an outside kitchen.

My inexperience with this shines through here, but not for long.  These delicious sections of meat are usually snipped up with kitchen scissors and enjoyed.

I did do pan seared Asian cucumbers, rice and carrots, but it was nothing compared to the left overs the next day.  There are more beef short ribs in my freezer downstairs.  Yall hold on, I got this.

This is the last day of our aquaintance as tears go by

 This is the last day of our acquaintance, I will meet you later in somebody's office

I'll talk but you won't listen to me, I know what your answer will be

It is the evening of the day, I sit and watch the children play. Smiling faces I can see, But not for me

I sit and watch as tears go by

My riches can't buy everything. I want to hear the children sing. All I hear is the sound Of rain falling on the ground.

I sit and watch as tears go by

It is the evening of the day. I sit and watch the children play. Doing things I used to do They think are new.

I sit and watch as tears go by

We had to let go today.  I have had many cats and some of them I felt were pretty important to me, to my family.  But I was surprised to find that when one of these guys is interwoven into your small children growing up, it takes on a depth I did not expect.  Anyone that knows this boy would know from these photos that there is a terrible pain seen in his eyes.  It brings on a sadness I cannot bear.  Bogie was over 20 pounds the better part of his life, but today he was just over 14.  He was basically a cat that really thought he was a dog.  He was funny, ate furiously, a troublemaker and got his face scratched up dozens of times by his smaller, but alpha sister, Lava.

I always thought Bogie would be the last to go, but things can change so fast.  The hardest part for me is how his story is woven into that of my sons.  When Liam was 5 and Noah was 2 and a half, we had a cat, but he was mostly an outdoor cat.  One day, this very exotic long-haired stray showed up in the yard.  We started feeding her and the boys fell in love with her.  She was not used to staying in so she was out one night.  One night, we heard the unmistakable sound of a predator killing an animal.  We were certain that it was this new little girl cat.  Liam and Noah were devastated.  Donna had learned that there were free kittens over by Wendell Vet Clinic, so she left with the 2 boys on a Saturday afternoon in August of 2008 to find a replacement kitty.  Of course, I knew, that they would come home with 2.  Liam had picked the girl and named her Lava and Noah had picked the boy and named him Bogie.

These kittens grew up with my boys, 2 of our dogs, and each other.  Bogie became HUGE!  I nicknamed him Richard Parker after the Bengal tiger in Life of Pi. He acted far more like a dog than a cat.  He loved Noah so much.  When Noah would get out of the shower, Bogie would lick his hair dry for an eternity.  He was a trouble maker and got his nose torn up more times than I could count by his sister Lava for messing with her.  Once in a while, he would find his way outside, and for the next 2 days, we had to separate the two of them because Lava would try to kill him because he smelled different.  I mean relentlessly pursue him like she was a Terminator!

Today, as we were about to take him for his final ride, I set him in the grass, just so he could see that one more time.  It was the least I could do for such a noble friend and family member.  Donna, Noah, Liam, Haylie, and I were all with him as it should be. Noah is now 15 and Liam is 18.  Time continues its pursuit.  I am so sad about this day and also thankful that he was ours.

I chose Sinead O'Connor's Last Day of Our Acquaintance, even though it is a break-up song, it was what was in my head on the sad drive to Claremont.  On the way home, in the wake of Charlie Watts passing yesterday, As Tears Go By because that sums up my insides today.

The next day: Lava is walking around the house crying a very sad cry.  These two were together every single day of their lives, until today.

The Coffee Chronicles

 

 I like to hike. I also love my coffee. While I can get away with choking down instant coffee on the trail, there is nothing like freshly brewed coffee to make that experience so much more robust. In 2018 when the Crawford family was hiking the Appalachian Trail, Ben Crawford the dad, mentioned people that he saw using an Aeropress coffee maker and made the statement I feel like I’m missing out on something.

Ben's words intrigued me and I had no choice but to buy one on Amazon. If you don’t know what an AeroPress is,  the best way to describe it is like a wide syringe that holds coffee grounds and water and after a rest time allows you to push the water out into your cup using the syringe plunger. I then took the aero press with me on a family canoe trip and impressed myself and others with this amazing coffee. 

Three years have passed. Many pieces of hiking gear that I bought three years ago have not been used in quite some time. When it comes to cooking, this can be very detrimental. When I don’t practice all the time with my food preparation for the trail, it usually ends with me taking a homemade backpacking meal with me, only to take two bites out of it and declare it inedible. So now for two days, I have been making my morning coffee in the aero press as opposed to my normal French press. And I am currently struggling to make that perfect cup of coffee. In the first 20 minutes of my day, believe me, so many times I want to turn back and run to the safety of my French press.

But I am determined. I will scrape and claw my way into fantastic coffee making in this aero press device. In doing so I will become a mentor in the art of making coffee in this way. My motives are selfish but how many others will be thankful that I was?

A Walk Down Memory Lane

It is more than selfish, however. When you think of all the different ways that you have had coffee. In my generation, people perked coffee in electric percolators on tabletops, glass Pyrex percolators on the stove, and aluminum percolators on the stove that were sold for a dollar and a half in the grocery store. Then the mid-1970s saw the introduction of the Mr. coffee automatic drip coffee maker. To my recollection, this made a slightly higher than a lukewarm cup of coffee that tasted somewhat like coffee and a lot like plastic. In the first half a decade it was out it was a novelty and no one really took it seriously. It was a copycat of the Bun-style coffee makers that you saw at diners.

I remember at 13 years old I could make coffee in the morning on the old gas and gas stove while my mom got ready for work. She trained me well and I knew exactly when to turn the burner down so as not to boil over the coffee. To this day perking coffee on a stovetop is still a fine way to brew a cup.

During the 1980s the coffee maker became more prevalent and taken seriously. Advances in technology helped with the plastic taste and the temperature. Perhaps a sacrificing of standards coupled with the world getting busier helped.  

The War

By the time we got to 1990, I found myself shipped out to the Middle East during the Gulf War. I procured a large bottle of instant Nescafé instant and a four-dollar Chinese cookstove that burned anything except gasoline and used the equivalent of mop strings to wick flames through a vented double-wall heat tube to create a blue flame. This type of stove is better known today as the butterfly stove and I still have one in the garage for sentimental reasons.

In the desert, I’ve seen people make coffee in many ways including on dried camel poop. Believe me when someone says "sorry about the coffee" I can honestly say, “I’ve had worse“.

Diabolical Atrocities

Although tolerance in different stages of quality of the coffee will change with your situation at the time, there is one thing that is completely unacceptable when it comes to coffee. I am serious as a heart attack here. It is never acceptable not to have it. When all of the grand plans are made whether you are an individual going for a backpacking trip or going out on a family camping trip in your car or a business executive traveling from hotel to hotel or a national guard unit away at Fort Devens for the weekend in 1993, you will have coffee. No excuses. No apologies. No tolerance. Even if you were a Lieutenant in charge of a platoon in the United States Army, it is your responsibility to make sure that the people in your command have this one thing before you ask them to do anything else.

The lieutenant in this story in my opinion completely failed in his life mission. That Sunday morning when we were awakened from sleep made to sit in Army trucks on a cold gray Sunday morning in the Springtime, and sit there and wait for whatever it is we were waiting for. They pathetically handed us a stupid MRE (Meal Ready to Eat)  through the window. Again, absolutely not acceptable. If you have ever drunk the disgusting package of instant coffee that comes with an MRE with cold or lukewarm water, you would know that this is not coffee.

I don’t know if anybody remembers who was with me that day but I took a vow that I have held to for the rest of my life since that day. I promised that as long as I was around, the people around me would never go without coffee in the morning, never in the rest of my life. Thus far I have not broken that vow.

Y2K

In the aforementioned Gulf War, during the push into western Iraq, we basically lived the Gilligan's Island "3 Hour Tour" scenario.  A 36-hour mission that really took days taught me better than anything ever before about the personal responsibility to be prepared.  At the tail end of the '90s the new millennium was coming and maybe, so was Y2K.  In the summer of 1999, a supercell thunderstorm assaulted Claremont New Hampshire where I lived at the time.  A storm strong enough to take down the power for 4 days in West Claremont and level the gazebo on the town common.  I worked in White River Junction Vermont at the time.  On the day of the storm, I already know that my house at the top of East Green Mountain had no power (and unfortunately had an electric stove).  I decided as I drove down Washington St which is the local business district in Claremont, I would stop at one of the local fast-food restaurants because they did have power.

When I walked into each restaurant, it appeared that riots had ensued and people were screaming and having tantrums!  McDonalds looked like someone purposely emptied the napkin and straw dispensers and maybe even a trash can onto the open floor.  They were out of food and could not take many orders for popular items.  The patrons did not understand in a peaceful manner.  I moved onto KFC.  They actually killed their equipment trying to keep up, from what they said, but I wondered if maybe the storm might have been related.  Restaurant after another I tried to get food, to no avail. The thing I noticed the most though, was how fragile and explosive people were acting.  So post-apocalyptic!  For just a power outage!  Then, my real fear rose.  What if the embedded switches DO fail on January 1st, 2000.  What if the grid does go down.  In 1999 the internet was basically in its "toddler" stage and information was bad.  More so, the programs coming in from the shortwave radio underworld in which I had been a part of since the 1970s, was warning everyone, "Get out of the cities, get out of the cities, get out of the cities."

I am not going to be unprepared so I started sale buying just a little extra here and there.  One of the sales that kept reoccurring in 1999 at the local Market Basket was Beechnut Coffee for a mere 99 cents a pound.  I thought this would make a great doomsday coffee!  Besides, say it with me..."I've had worse." Or so I thought.

My friend Nick and I had shared many days in years past trying different coffee, all of it was finer and absolutely not Beechnut.  He was amused by this collection of doomsday coffee and wrote a wonderful list of alternate things you can do with Beechnut Coffee.  The most memorable suggestion was: "Your kitty likes it too!"

Of course, we all survived Y2K and lots of people got rich, me not being one of them.  I did try the "coffee" if you could call it that.  I can certainly say that Jack's Camel Dung Nescafe Instant in Saudi Arabia was much better than this.  So, it sat around for a while.  In mid-2001, my not-yet wife Donna was house-sitting for some friends of ours.  We were talking on the phone and she suddenly sort of choked and said, "Oh, this Beechnut Coffee is terrible!"  I was elated, "Beechnut Coffee?" I asked.  "I will be over in a half-hour."

I gathered every last can of it and brought it to our friend's house and proceeded to build a pyramid of doomsday coffee on their kitchen table.  They were happy, I was happy and the most important thing, we did not waste anything, although I think the "kitty" idea could have fallen into the recycling category.

I digress...

So, it's day 3.  I have stepped up my efforts to make an excellent Aeropress cup of coffee.  I even read 2 articles that differed from each other to gain a better understanding. (Is your head singing John Mellencamp's "Check It Out"?  Mine is).  I am far from arriving at the Master Brewer status that I long for.  But I am going to get it.  I promise.  It is too important because I know:

Pad Thai you can make at home!

 

A Mountain is Missing

In 1984, like any 18-19 year old might do, I used to write out dreams that I had because I loved how they could reveal what my most prominent concerns were at the time.  Like the one in which I was working back at Toys R Us (my high school gig), working a register and every time someone gave me money, I had to hand it to a gunman standing next to me.  Obviously, what money I was making at the time, had immediate places to go. Simple, yet direct.  

Yesterday morning, I had a very powerful dream but its abstract construction was very impressive.  We  no longer lived in our home.  I could not tell if the world/pandemic had changed things up to become even more severe than they previously have been, or what.  We moved into what seemed to be a yurt-ish tent, in a part of town where there were many of these.  The neighborhood was rough with other people living in similar dwellings.

I could tell that I was not so welcome in this area.  Feeling the intimidation of those around me bearing down, I did what I learned to do growing up from changing schools as often as I did.  I walked right up to the biggest most threatening one there and started talking.  The reception was cold.  One was a tall young man with buzzed hair and camo clothing that was clearly a military outfit at one time.  The other one was much shorter and seemed to be no threat, but I could tell he had the backing of the other unconditionally.  Although I did not think of it at the time, this probably meant something positive overall.

"Were you in?" I asked the tall one, gesturing at his clothing.  "No." I sensed a change in pace of everything in him immediately.  "But I hope to be someday."  "I was" I told him.  "Ten years, was deployed during Desert Storm one year to the day of taking oath."  He immediately warmed to me, he told me about his family and his hopes.  I made a couple of friends.

A day passed.  The grayness of living in what seemed like Great Depression accommodations seemed like nothing that any of us would think to complain about.  Looking back, it makes me wonder what the flip side was all about.

Today, we had to make a trip to our old house in Weathersfield.  When we arrived, it was empty, like when you move out and there is nothing to do but sweep up with a broom.  I noticed suddenly something seemed very wrong.  I looked out the window and just knew that I had to be wrong.  So I quickly went outside, to the garage as we had not moved anything from it yet.  But the garage was GONE!  Like they came the day before with excavators and demolished it and hauled it away in dumpsters.  There was no concrete, there were no contents. Wiped from existence as though it never was there!  I was devastated!  There were so many things of mine in there:  the floor jack, the impact wrench, tools, and more tools.  I had to find them.  

I was sure that my former landlord had something to do with it. Not because he could have anything to do with it, because he has been out of my life for 28 years now.  The missing garage brought back a memory of that landlord being in hiding back in 1992.  So he came to his trusted tenants and asked if he could keep his vehicles in various garages, my property that I was renting to own was one of many. I will never know if he was hiding from the IRS, a hitman, the mob, an angry ex, an angry husband, the police, or what, but I did not care.  It was a simple request so I stored a vehicle. Another tenant across town, despite the landlords' pleas, did not give permission for his garage due to work that he was doing in it at the time.

As the story goes, the following spring, that other tenant was behind on rent and was begging the landlord for some work to allow him to trade some of the back rent for work.  The landlord told him, "well there is this one job, but I am not sure you would want it."  The tenant eagerly assured the landlord, "anything, just name it and I will do it."  "I need a building taken down," he told the tenant.  "Actually, it is a garage. It's your garage."  Yes, he made him take his own garage down as retaliation for not allowing its use the year before.  It was terrible.  A lone concrete slab sitting behind the house with a car parked on it with roll-away toolboxes on the perimeter of the slab.

For reasons none other than association, THIS popped up into my mind when I discovered the missing garage.  But soon, I realized that this landlord had been from a completely different point in my life.  That was the first clue.  The ground was raked to make it seem like it never existed.  But it was the items inside that I was truly devastated over.  Then I noticed cardboard boxes on the edge of the woods and the camper was inside the treeline.  But none of the contents were what I needed.  I was in a tailspin! It was all gone, but it was too perfectly removed.  I was pacing back and forth in a panic when I realized what was happening.  I stopped, planted my feet into the ground, and boldly stated, "this is a DREAM!"  Then I woke up.

The lingering effects of this dream agitated me.  Why did it make me feel the way it did?  These were just "things" and yet, it felt like so much more.  I knew suddenly what it was.  For weeks, Liam and I have been getting his 1999 VW Beetle up and running.  Saturday after Saturday we have worked side by side each week.  I have wonderful memories with him while he was growing up, but this is one of our most bonding experiences ever.  It is so precious to me and I can clearly see it means the same to him.  This has been something that we both have loved so much and the thought of losing it is like a mountain being ripped from our midst.

I am so thankful for the relationship I have with my sons and I hope that we can find more things to get closer over.  I now know what Ben Crawford was talking about when he told the story of how Dove, his oldest daughter talked endlessly about what her house would be like someday as they hiked through Pennsylvania on their family's Appalachian Trail thru-hike.  I get it.

I am so moved by our ability to bond, his ability to learn what he is doing.  I am impressed with how he has put all of this together and is applying his strengths in every area of his life.  Our relationship is so precious to me for sure.