"Not all those who wander are lost."*

    You know how when you tell people you like a particular thing they start getting you versions of that particular thing? Like, you mention in passing how you’re keen on Precious Moments and the next thing you know you have a whole breakfront entirely devoted to Precious Moments and you have to open that goddamn cabinet and dust the Precious Moments every week and you start to wonder why you ever mentioned it in the first place and how you became such a hoarder? It gets embarrassing and worse, every Christmas or Hanukkah or birthday you stop guessing what’s in the gift box because your almost 98% positive it’s going to be another Precious Moment. (Maybe it’ll be the First Communion Precious Moment! Or the Baby’s First Christmas Precious Moment!)

Wedding Precious Moment!

   And the next thing you know, you’re a cat-obsessed accordion teacher that’s 45 lbs overweight and can’t explain why you love re-runs of The Golden Girls.** You used to be normal! How did this happen?

   Maybe that's an extreme scenario.

   I’ve gone through several incarnations of “likes” that became collections. It started with my affinity for pigs in junior high. I think I made some sort of stink about wanting a Miss Piggy Doll. Or I admired the movie Babe. I don't know what I did, exactly. But soon I had pigs all over my bedroom—a poster, a mirror, a stuffed animal, a statue, etc. Then it was The Beatles, and I had posters and books and albums (I’m actually still okay with this one). Many people of my generation went through a Beanie Baby phase—we thought they’d be collectible! Sadly, they aren’t. And...they're stupid.

    I think a lot of it has to do with figuring out who you are and what you like. Sometimes that takes a while (it probably should: if you like the same things now that you liked as a 12-year-old, you’re probably a few tacos short of a combo platter).

Exotic (Italy-from Emily)

    I started my most recent collection in college. Postcards. Couldn’t get enough of them, and still can’t. Whenever my friends travel, I request a postcard, and my collection has grown into the hundreds. I have postcards from all kinds of different countries and cities and continents. Turkey, Australia, Poland, Japan, France, The Czech Republic, Mexico, Ireland, India, Guatemala and Canada to name just a few. I’ve got postcards from almost all of the 50 states. I’m very proud of them. This particular hobby/collection never gets old or tiresome because postcards take up very little space and remain a cherished portrait of somewhere I’d like to go but haven’t been able to afford. Sad, isn’t it?  But it’s also inspiring.

More Exotic. (India--from Gabe.)

    I have always loved to travel, and in large part I owe this instinct for exploration to my Grandpa Charlie. He spent the vast majority of his retirement learning Spanish (and never quite succeeding) and traveling the world...by himself. He had a special affinity for Central America and would go on trips to Honduras, Belize, Guatemala and Mexico. He’d later show us the pictures he’d developed: Grandpa solo in front of a burro; Grandpa with an entire Mexican family in what appears to be a slum in the middle of nowhere; Grandpa on a bus through Belize with a real-life Mayan (he was really excited about that one). My mom used to joke that he probably had a second family in the middle of Costa Rica that we knew nothing about.

Super Exotic (Istanbul--from the kiddos)

    He always had a sense of adventure and was a great traveler early on in his life. He was a WWII vet, serving in the Army Air Corps in Europe. He cheated on his eye exam (more proof I'm his grandchild) so he could pilot his plane back to America after they declared victory in Europe. He couldn’t have been more than 25-years-old.

    After the war he worked for the B&O railroad as a brakeman, a switchman and a conductor. He was later recruited by the Federal Railroad Administration as a Railroad Safety Inspector (safety and compliance investigator). Again, movement, traveling, and exploration were his day-to-day. 

Not very exotic at all (Idaho-I actually went there).

    When we’d say good-bye to each other, whether after a phone conversation or after an egg breakfast (he made the best fried eggs in the entire universe) he’d say, “See you in my dreams!”

    I’d respond, “I’ll see you in my dreams.”

    He’d say, “Just don’t have me falling off a cliff or getting chased by wild horses.”

    But I think he would’ve preferred if the dreams had ended that way. He liked to be moving. In many ways his life was like the most responsible version possible of a hero in a classic movie Western. Like John Wayne.*** Or maybe a Civil War-era drama. Like Clark Gable. He liked history in general and American history and the Civil War in particular.

    Anyways, a few years after I started collecting postcards, my Grandpa died. And when my Aunt Kris and I were going through his things, she said I should pick out anything I wanted to keep. One of the first things I found was his bridgework, but that seemed weird and somehow creepy. ("Hey, look, Grandpa, I've got your teeth!") They weren't something I (or my grandma) wanted to keep.

   Then I was lucky enough to stumble upon a railroad map of Nebraska from 1963. It was special for many reasons—it was a railroad map, it was of my home state, and it had been my Grandpa’s.

    After that I started collecting maps and my apartment started to look like the headquarters of the C.I.A. or the residence of a stalker/serial killer. But it also started to define me, just the way I’d wanted the pigs or The Beatles to do years earlier. It started to represent what I wanted out of life: exploration, travel, experience, adventure. And of course, I’d always wanted to be like my Grandpa, so that was there, too.

We look a little trashy and sweaty here, but that's okay. Louisiana, circa 1984.

    I’m writing about this because a few days ago marked the 7th anniversary of his passing and yesterday marked Father’s Day, and he really was a remarkable father and grandfather. But he was also a fearless explorer, and someone who tried to experience as much as he possibly could in the time he was given on this plane.

    I may also be writing about this in the hopes that someone reads it, feels sorry for me, and decides to send me a butt-load of money to use on travel. Eh, it never hurts to put it out there. (Also still open to the idea of marrying for money...)

*From "All that is gold does not glitter," a poem by J.R.R. Tolkien from The Fellowship of the Ring.

**It's totally reasonable to like re-runs of The Golden Girls.

***Maybe more like a character John Wayne played, as John Wayne was (sadly) an infamous draft dodger during WWII. Bummer.

****Shame(ful/less) plug: if you like what you read here, will you follow me? It will make me feel like I'm living the dream!

"Semper ubi sub ubi."*

    My dad is the reason I’m a sociopath writer. At least, he’s partially the reason.

    When I was young (I’m talking REALLY young—like 3 or 4), he started teaching me how to read and write. I later learned that this was in some part because he’d not known how to read when he started kindergarten and felt like a real ass because of it. Your average Joe (or Jon, if you’re my dad) wouldn’t have been too bent out of shape by not being literate at the age of 5, but my dad has never been average (or Joe, for that matter).

    So anyway, he got me this index-card holder and a pencil and taught me a new word or two every day. I would write the word and store it in the box. Sort of the way you earn a quarter and put it in your piggy bank (or spend it immediately, if you’re me). Some of these cards still exist and it seems clear from the evidence that I would one day grow up to be a serial killer writer.

    When we were small, my dad would read to Ouisie and me from his favorite books—The Hobbit, Wind in the Willows, Treasure Island. He pushed us to read and as a result I was sucking down C.S. Lewis by first grade and Jane Austen and Charles Dickens by sixth. I’m not bragging. We can all read now, so who cares? Also, this was probably the last time I was considered “advanced” at anything. But I started out doing it to impress my dad and ended up doing it because I couldn’t not do it. My parents are both great readers and they passed it on to us as less than a choice and more of a necessity, like eating vegetables and doing your homework. I’m eternally grateful because despite my lack of a reasonable social life, I’m rarely ever bored. I’m always reading something, even if it’s Y.A.

    When I was ten-years-old, I began my first novel (and last, as it happens). It was about a tomboy and her best friend, Sport. It was loosely based on my relationship with my imaginary friend, Skip. I brought the first five chapters (don’t get impressed—each chapter was handwritten and came in at around 3 pages) to my dad and he was supportive. But he pointed out that when you write dialogue, you have to start a new paragraph each time a different person speaks. Being who I was (and am), I decided to cry about it (it was handwritten for chrissakes! It's not like I can jump into my Word document and make corrections!) and give up. Excellent.

    My dad has always encouraged me, through word and deed, to be creative and to attempt to educate myself. He stressed the importance of words, the importance of reading, and the importance of asking questions. He played classical music all the time because he actually likes it. He said that I had to be nice to people and was nice to people himself (one time, he chased down this kid who spit on my friend, Rachel, and made him come back and apologize. I was mortified). He read books about science because he actually likes it. He made me work hard at my school assignments and my extracurricular activities (even if he wasn’t always keen on the activities I chose—ahem, soccer, and later theatre). He made me wear a helmet and pads to roller blade and a t-shirt to the pool so I wouldn't get burned (you can imagine how popular this made me). Sometimes, when I needed help with math, he would drive me bat-shit crazy. He’d insist on fresh paper, sharp pencils and a brief lesson on the history of math beginning with Pythagoras sitting in his backyard pondering the cosmos or the triangles (or whatever Pythagoras liked to do). I'd be wondering (aloud) if I'd ever get a chance to go to bed that night, but he was determined to teach me math, not just do it for me. That was a real pain in the ass.

    But I guess the point is that he always gave a crap, and he always pushed me to better myself at whatever it was I was trying to do. He read all those crappy stories I wrote, he went to all of those god-awful soccer games, he was in the audience for every play (even if I was playing the Third Dead Body from the Right or Soldier Number Four), and he was prepared to teach me Calculus if it killed us both (it nearly did).

    So I owe a lot of my intelligence (such as it is) and my interests and perseverance (such as they are) to my truly thoughtful, present dad. It’s his fault that I’m not a (complete) moron and that I insist on writing down everything that happens to me. He’s the reason that I still look up words in the dictionary and try to use proper grammar. He’s responsible for how I expect to be treated by men (well) and the fact that I can’t fall asleep at night unless I’ve read for a good half-hour or more. (He's probably also the reason that I have the pale skin of a vampire, a phobia of technology, and panic attacks on a regular basis, but that's probably the basis of a story for another time.)

    I’m lucky because I have an amazing father. And this entry is cheesy, but true.

    Happy Fathers’ Day, DB. I love you.

Ouisie, Dad and me, circa 1987.

*One of my dad's favorite sayings. Sigh. This is another reason I am the way that I am.