When Remy met Chance

Here's a little video of our Chihuahua, Remy, playing with Chance, my brother's Jack Russell Terrier, shortly after they met for the first time.

Finding the rock

On a trip north this spring, my older son and I were able to find the location where a photo had been taken 43 years ago of my dad and me at Copper Falls State Park in Wisconsin.

The park has changed a lot over the years, but the rock is still there.

We couldn't recreate the 1968 photo exactly because the level of the Bad River was high, just high enough to submerge the rock.

So we clambered out to the nearest rock to it, sat down and had my wife's nephew take the photo from roughly the same angle as the original.

Rocky Mountain National Park Slide Show

Took these photos during our trip to Colorado in 2009.

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

Bad River, Copper Falls State Park, 1968

While going through some boxes in the basement recently I came across this photo taken in August of 1968 when I was 6 years old. It's a picture of me and my dad sitting on a rock at the edge of the Bad River, which runs through Copper Falls State Park in north central Wisconsin.

Copper Falls was one of Dad's favorite places and was not too far from his hometown of Glenwood City. So we would often take a day trip to the park on our annual summer family vacations north.

In the picture I am holding a fishing pole (though this definitely was not a fishing trip) and am looking back at the photographer, who was either my mom or one of my six siblings -- at least two or three of whom, in addition to me, were probably along on the trip. Dad is looking the other direction, and I imagine his thoughts were distant. He loved being back in Wisconsin. "The air smells better already," he was apt to say each year upon crossing the state line from Illinois.

So I know he was happy when this photo was taken. From the grin on my face (which I can discern on the original print), I know I was happy, too, even though I am sure I did not end up catching a thing. Just being with my dad was enough.

We lost Dad just eight years after this photo was taken. I had no idea at the time, of course, how fleeting this moment we shared would be, nor how powerful it would become when I rediscovered it in a box in my basement 43 years later.

I love this photo.

Thank you to whoever in my family took it.

Happiness and harmony

Watch the attached video for a peek into the beginning of our summer vacation.
WARNING: May not be suitable for younger viewers.

Shooting hoops with the help of a Chihuahua

It's T-ball season!

Spring is sprung; the grass is ris.'

I wonder where second base is.

-- T-ball player's lament

T-ball (for the education of those unfortunate ones who have yet to experience the game) is perhaps the purest form of baseball you can find. Pure ... or raw -- I'm not sure which; there is a fine line between the two. Actually, T-ball is both at once.

The game is pure, and it is simple -- far more simple, even, than what passes for the real thing these days. The players -- who are all of 5 and 6 years old -- hit off of the top of a sturdy "T'' upon which the ball has been placed by a coach, who then dives for cover. Once the ball is hit, the batter runs -- and doesn't stop running -- until the fielding team has successfully returned the ball to the "pitcher,'' who is confined to a circular area lined with chalk so he or she does not wander out of position, say, to the parking lot.

Roses are red;

violets are blue.

When you're out in the field,

don't be looking at your shoe.

In T-ball, bunts can become home runs. Home runs can become bunts. It all depends on the T-ball Gods, who decide quite arbitrarily which players will be paying attention to the game and which ones will be paying attention to the dirt.

And then, sometimes, all the fielders will be paying attention, and no matter where the ball goes, no matter how many furlongs it is from their position, if they have to catch a bus to get to it they will, and all nine of them (sometimes more) will pounce upon the ball at once, clawing at it like a flock of turkey vultures fighting for carrion.

By the time the season is over, they may be able to play the game well, but right now the players are raw, like ground beef. Ninety-five percent lean. Some of them are more like 80 percent lean. No matter what they look like on the outside, each one of them is tender on the inside, and must be handled with kid gloves.

Speaking of gloves, one of a T-ball coach's main duties is to remind his players what the gloves are for, which is not -- as is widely believed -- for placement upon the tops of heads as protection from the sun or falling UFOs, which could in fact be a flying baseball, in which case the player will ditch the glove and run for cover anyway.

Jack be nimble.

Jack be quick.

Jack run over ...

Jack? Where're ya goin'?

Matters of direction and sequence are of prime importance in T-ball, and giving direction to a T-ball player can be like questioning a just-awakened coma patient:

"Do you know where you are?''

"What's that white thing over there?''

"And what's your name again, by the way?''

Levels of consciousness notwithstanding, I never met a T-ball player I didn't like, and though I was never a real big fan of baseball, how I love T-ball. It is baseball the way it -- or any sport -- should be played: for the sheer fun and enjoyment of all involved.

Beyond T-ball, the innocence of it all begins to wear off, and there's nothing you can do about it. Like Thomas Wolfe said, you can't go home again.

Well, in T-ball you can if you want to.