into the woods

The morning that our hike began started in a blur and flurry. It seemed like we just closed our eyes and now we were up and at ‘em. We showered for the last time, thinking that our next bath may be in a stream or river. I slathered on my glycolic face moisturizer to compensate for not reaping its exfoliating and moisturizing benefits for a week. We flossed and brushed our teeth and we dressed in our hiking pants, shirts, moisture wicking socks, and boots.

We were excited, but the air was thick with a sense of "Oh my God, we're really doing this." We woke up a bit late and we felt a bit rushed. We were to be at the Sugarland Visitor's Center at 10:00 AM to meet Jeff. He would drive us to our southern starting point, the Fontana Dam. We were nervous … we were tired from getting in late the night before … and we hoped we could sleep in the car during the two-hour ride.

We ate a lackluster, but satisfying, breakfast at The Pancake Pantry. There were three other customers and four busy workers in the restaurant. The workers were stuffing menus, talking about upcoming graduations for their homeschooled kids, and complaining that Gus, the cement pourer, hadn't arrived yet and that damned demolished sidewalk was hurting their business.
We ordered coffee, orange juice, and pancakes with hash browns and bacon. I was undecided if I should order eggs with my breakfast, but the waitress -- a hybrid of Flo, Alice, and Vera -- said I should definitely get the eggs.

"Lease ya know th' aiggs er real ..." she said, her voice tapering off into a laugh.

As unsettling as it sounded, I got the eggs. We were almost too anxious to eat, but we managed. Besides, we had things to do. We had to repack our backpacks because we knew that we had too much stuff, mainly food, and we needed to reduce the weight. At the airport check in the day before, my pack weighed in at 35 pounds and Kirk's weighed in at 37 pounds. To make matters worse, or heavier in this case, Kirk still had items to move from his suitcase into his pack. We had to reprioritize what we needed, remove unnecessary items, and completely repack them to balance the weight and ensure that neither backpacks breeched 40 pounds.

This effort was frantic and stressful and done in the hotel's parking lot because we did not want to carry the packs back up the room. We felt the pressure of needing to meet Jeff. We pulled out large bags of freeze-dried food that we had planned to eat at lunch. We could not find the zip lock bags that would hold our bio-break wipes.

“Did we pack them? They were on the sofa when we were packing,” I said.

“I don’t remember seeing them,” Kirk responded.

“They were rolled up with two rubber bands,” I said, clearly irritated.

Kirk knew that this was going to be a problem. I was trying to keep emotions in check, but when I am tired, nervous, or feeling that I caused a mistake, I get defensive, otherwise known as bitchy. I have come to understand that it’s me projecting my insecurity on others.

“I’ll go buy more,” Kirk said and he went to a local grocery store, noticing my frustration and wanting to avoid any confrontation.

When Kirk returned we found the original baggies sitting on the ashphalt. The new ones went in his suitcase. The pressure was on, my patience was thinning, my anxiety was rising. Each minute that passed was a minute closer to us actually being on the trail. In the woods. We were both tired and starting to shut down. The job was rushed; but our packs were physically ready for the trek, even if we mentally weren't.

We drove to the Sugarland Visitor's Center to meet Jeff. We apologized for being late, and he did the same. He told us that traffic was bad due to road resurfacing. He hoped that our trip wouldn’t be more than two hours and that he would have us at the Dam by noon. Our lack of restful sleep was catching up to us. Kirk and I mentioned to each other how nice it would be to catch a few winks in the car during that long drive.

*      *     *     *     *

We opened our car's back hatch and grabbed our packs. I looked for my sunglasses in the front of the car, but I could not find them. We combed the car’s nooks and crevices, but they were nowhere to be found.

“Damn it! I think I left my sunglasses in the hotel,” I said. “I have no idea why they left the car in the first place.”

I glared at Kirk. I wanted to blame someone other than myself for my stupidity in leaving them behind. Everything -- and I mean everything -- was removed from the car the night before, even though some things I would have left for the night. I immediately felt bad about my reaction and apologized.

“I can wear my regular glasses. It’ll be fine. We’ll call the hotel when our hike is over.” I said, hoping that I could start relaxing. This was supposed to fun after all, wasn’t it?

If I didn’t wear my eyeglasses, I would not be able to see the distant views. Thankfully, the transitions lenses would provide some sun protection, but they were not as comfortable as my sunglasses.

We loaded our packs into Jeff’s truck and got into the backseat.

"I'm not a cab. One of you has to get in front, so ...." he drawled, the ‘so’ tapering off.

Kirk and I looked at each other. He was in the passenger side backseat, so he moved to the front. Jeff pulled away and immediately started talking. It was clear that we would not catch up on sleep. This could have been a frustrating "Oh-my-god-he's-going-to-talk-all-the-way-there" moment, but it turned out to be an invaluable, and very appreciated, experience. He provided us advice and education.

When he saw us packing the bear spray he told us to leave it behind.

"You don't need the extra weight and you don't need the spray. If you see a bear, bark like a dog. It's how they are hunted and they have learned to be afraid of dogs."

He further explained that bears are not hunted in the Smokies, but that they are hunted elsewhere. Since there are no boarders, like fences or walls, the bears migrate into the Smoky Mountain National Forest from other areas.

“Hang everything on the bear hangs,” he professed. “And I mean everything -- your pack, your food, your boots – everything. No matter what you see other people doing, do exactly what I say. Hang everything on the bear hangs.”

He explained other basics that we didn't know, like staying safe in a thunder storm, the importance of meeting people on the trail and what to expect from them, including being be aware of shady business. (There had been an increase of jobless and homeless living on the trail due to the economy.)

*      *     *     *     *

As we rode along, we passed through varying terrain. There were vast and gassy fields in the valleys of the mountains. In the distance, we could see elk. Jeff told us about the effort to repopulate the natural elk herds that used to exist in the area until they were hunted to eradication. Some of the new elk were relocated from Canada and others from Minnesota.

We passed through the Cherokee Reservation. Jeff talked at length about the casinos, whether or not they benefitted the tribe, how crime and drugs were rampant, and other perspectives on the Cherokee. All I could think about was how horrible it must have been to be herded into a confined area, left in poverty, and then practically forced to watch those who took the land parade in and out to enjoy the forest that meant so much to ones ancestors. The raping just continues.

A band of motorcyclists (mostly aging men with ponytails and wannabe trophy wives clutching their backs) roared by. I mentioned how annoying the sound was and how using proper mufflers should be enforced. Jeff had a very strong point of view on these “two wheeled turds,” as he called them. They were rude, they didn’t pay attention to the rules of the road, they were aging men who felt entitled to what they want when they want it because they could afford it. He caught them pissing on his lawn. He also mentioned how we’d know we were close to Clingmans Dome because we’d hear the rumble of their engines.

Most importantly, he reminded us that this hike should be fun.

The road climbed into the mountains and we talked about his wife Nancy and how they started their business. I looked out the window and watched the trees moving passed us. The trees continued up into the hills, the rhododendron bushes on the side of the road blossomed, and I couldn’t help but think that up there … in those trees … in those bushes … we’d be for the next week. My stomach flip-flopped with excitement and apprehension, a combination of being excited and scared.

We waited in the traffic convoy. Jeff got out of the car and smoked. Kirk and I locked eyes. We knew we were both thinking the same things, “How much longer? We’re so close, but so far away. We are tired. At least the weather is decent.” The convoy moved and we moved forward. Jeff kept us entertained while he educated us.

We arrived at TheHike Inn that he and his wife, Nancy, run. She was going to drive us to the dam. We filled our water bottles and had time with all of their pets. Jeff and Kirk filled out the permit, which is required in the Smoky Mountain National Forest, especially the Appalachian Trail.

"Keep this in a safe place and keep it dry, so…." Jeff directed. I placed it in a zip lock bag and put it in the little side pocket on my shorts.

"Where's the map?" I asked Kirk.

After a pause, he sheepishly replied, "I think I left it in my suitcase."

We both looked at each other blankly, our eyes twinkling with the humor and horror of it all. Thoughts flashed through our minds, like what we would do without it, how we would know where we were, how we would find water sources, and whether or not we could do this hike without a map.

It just keeps getting better. Fuck.

"I have one you can borrow," Jeff said. "Just mail it back to me when you’re done. That’s all I ask, so…. And be sure to send us a picture for our picture wall."

They had a mural of photos sent to them by hikers that they helped, or who had stayed in their inn. Most sent photos from Mount Katahdin in Maine after completing the entire AT. The expressions on their faces were weary and elated. You could sense their feeling of accomplishment. A gold medal Olympian was on their wall. A man in his eighties. Couples. Single men. Single women. Varying ages and races. Maybe we’d be the first gay couple to grace their wall, even if we were just section hikers.

Jeff opened the map, reviewed the trails we were taking and the shelters we'd be staying in. I put the map in my shorts pocket. We looked around at the arrowhead museum in what used to be the living room. Jeff collected them on hikes. There were thousands of them in different sizes and shapes. Kirk hoped to find one on our hike.

*     *     *     *     *

We put our packs in Nancy's car and off we went. She was very excited for us and was very pleasant to be with for the twenty-minute drive. My nerves were near boiling over and my stomach was growling. I had to pee. I was starting to get very nervous. She talked about how fun it would be, how nice to be in nature, and how much we were going to love this challenge. She was very calming, as if sensing that we were both on edge.

We got out of the car at the dam's welcome center. The air was cool and the sky was cloudy. Nancy pointed us towards the bathroom in the welcome center and reminded us to have fun. As she was getting into the car to pull away, I asked one last question.

"Which way do we go?"

She pointed and gestured over our backs.

"That way … over the dam. You'll see a sign for the Smoky Mountain National Forest. Just follow that. That's the trail."

She drove away. The sound of tires rolling over gravel faded into the distance and we found ourselves alone. We looked at each other, shook our heads, and laughed.

"Fuck! Here we are!" Kirk said.

“This is insane.” I said, “Oh my god. We’re totally here."

We took turns using the bathroom -- our last toilet and sink for a week. I was too nervous to pee, but stood in front of the urinal trying to focus on the fact that this was really happening. This was no time to be afraid. This was no time to second-guess myself. This was a time to push myself and to live my life, to be adventurous and not worry about failure.

I walked back to where Kirk was standing. We heaved our packs onto our backs and adjusted them by tighten the belts. We gave each other a hug and a kiss and started walking.

Click Here for a Glimpse Into These First Moments

As we crossed the dam, we took a picture to capture the awesome view from the top. We looked at the hills to our right. They looked huge. We thought that we were hiking to one of the fire towers seen in the distance, which we assumed was near our first campsite. Those first minutes seemed like an eternity. Getting used to the weight of the packs was a strange difficulty.

It took twenty minutes to get to the trail head at the edge of the Smoky Mountain National Forest.

"Here we go ... into the woods!"

We started crunching our way into the woods. Trees lined the trailside, which was a wide dirt path with no noticeable incline. The sound of our footsteps, breath, and packs echoed in our ears. It was now perfectly clear what would fill each minute of our journey … walking. For the most part, we were silent; except for the occasional "Oh my God" or "This is crazy" we were pretty much in our own heads.

Those phrases, coupled with "This pack is so fucking heavy!" swam through my head. It was unsettling to realize that in moments after starting, we were already feeling out of breath. It was clear that this would to be harder than we thought. We were not prepared.

“I should have gone to the gym more!” I screamed out as if wanting to banish the thought from my mind.

We laughed about our New York City “practice hikes,” and how we thought they were a challenge. Not yet an hour into our first day, and we were both feeling the effects of the packs on our backs, the sweat on our foreheads, and the mental impact of what we were setting out to do.

Were we prepared -- in the slightest -- for this hike? Are we really going to be able to do this for seven days? Was my mom right; should we have started with a three-day hike? Should I have fucking read “A (fucking) Walk in the Woods”?

But, we walked on. The road narrowed and the incline gradually increased. The gravel path eventually turned into a dirt trail. The tree canopy enveloped us. Thunder rumbled in the distance. We walked on. We walked on.

We walked into the woods.

*     *     *     *     *

excited and scared ...

Reflecting back on the backpacking excursion in the Smoky Mountains, I can easily say that it was an amazing experience. It was a huge challenge from all aspects: physical, mental, and spiritual. It pushed me in ways that I had hoped ... and in others that I could not anticipate.

how'd he get the part so clean?

We flew from LaGuardia Airport in New York City to Raleigh, North Carolina. We saw an interesting site on the plane: a guy with a major "up do" that was part beehive / part doo-wop. The looks he got when we deplaned in North Carolina were priceless.

We drove to Greensboro with Kirk's sister-in-law, Carla. She was bubbly, funny, and filled with energy. She was my first "family" welcome and it couldn't have been more pleasant.

The weather was warm with scattered showers. It was slightly sticky, but not too humid. We chatted about the upcoming days and what we needed to accomplish before we left. We also worried that the trails would be packed with people or day campers because it was Memorial Day Weekend. Carla dropped us off at Kirk's parent's house; we were borrowing one of their cars to drive to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Before leaving us, she hopped in a joyful circle on one foot in a pair of three-inch leopard print heels that Kirk brought for her. Her laugh was infectious.

Kirk and I were happy and excited to begin the first tactical part of our journey: loading the car with our packs and suitcases and starting the drive to what would be our ending point of the hike, the Sugarland Vistor's Center. I got a tour of their house, we went to the bathroom, we had a soda, and then ... we were off.

We began the 255 mile, 5 hour drive. Kirk drove and I navigated. Well, TomTom navigated. We stopped to buy three things that could not fly with us: propane gas for cooking, the ever-important Bear Spray, and a Taco Bell lunch.

We were comfortable and chatty, we were on our way to the unknown, or mostly unknown; especially for me. Kirk grew up in that area, first in Knoxville, TN and then in Greensboro, NC. His family had a timeshare in Gatlinburg and used to spend Thanksgivings there in his youth. He was excited to be back in the town that was an important backdrop of his childhood. I was excited to see the place he so fondly talked about.

*     *     *     *     *

We reviewed our plan for each day of our hike. We had planned to cover about 8 miles each day, which would definitely give us time to stop and look at views, take pictures, soak in nature, and get to camp early enough to relax, journal, and enjoy the stars before going to bed. We also anticipated that we would have time during lunch to read or nap. This was going to be a great journey. Our daily itinerary included the following:

Tuesday: Arrive in Gatlinburg, check into hotel, take long showers, get lots of sleep.

Wednesday: Breakfast at Pancake Pantry, put on hiking clothes, repack backpacks, park at Visitor's Center, meet Jeff (the shuttle driver), drive to Fontana Dam, hike the Lakeshore Trail to the start of the Eagle Creek Trail and on to our first campsite (Site #89), set up camp, enjoy our first evening in the woods. We'd cover about 8.5 miles on this day and felt it would be easy.

Thursday: Hike the Eagle Creek Trail to the Appalachian Trail and our first AT shelter, Spence Field. This would be approximately 8 miles, but with high elevation gains (roughly 2,200 feet) and we'd have to cross a river fourteen times. We knew this was going to be a challenging day, but were excited to get to the ridge and be on the Appalachian Trail.
 

Friday: Hike the Appalachian Trail to the Derrick Knob shelter. By our map reading, we would be on the ridge and would have declines and inclines of between 100 to 400 feet. Nothing major. For the most part, we felt this was going to be an easy day. We would cover a little over 6 miles on this day.

Saturday: Hike 7.2 miles to the Double Springs Gap Shelter. We'd gain elevation as we progressed closer to the highest point in the Smokies, Clingmans Dome. On the map, the elevation gains seemed gradual. We'd hit Rocky Top on this day. We anticipated being at our camp site early, resting, reading, journaling, and preparing a longer day on Sunday.

Sunday: Hike to Clingmans Dome, double back on the AT to the Goshen Prong Trail and hike to our campsite, Site #23. This day was going to be super fun. We'd hike to the highest point in the Smoky Mountains (elevation of 6,643), soak up the views at the observation area (also a tourist area, too), and then return to the woods and continue with three days of tent camping. This was our three day decent from the ridge that would lead us back to Gatlinburg. We'd cover 9.5 miles on this day and drop 2,400 feet. 

I looked forward to the next three days of our hike most of all. I wanted to tent camp. Pitching the tent, having campfires, the sound of the tent's zipper ... all of it reminded me of being a little boy camping with my family at Pinecrest Lake or on Mount Shasta in California.

Monday: Continue on the Goshen Prong Trail to Little River Trail and then to our second campsite, Site #24. Again, another easy day of descending into the woods. We were very close to rivers during this day and planned to swim or wash each other's hair. We would be at our campsite early since they were relatively close together; we'd only hike 4 miles.  

Tuesday: Continue on the Little River Trail to the Husky Gap Trail and to Site #21. We'd trek just about 2 miles to our last campsite. We'd set up camp early and take a "packless walk" to Huskey Branch Falls. We weren't sure exactly how we would feel, but we knew we would be ready for a shower and some real food.

Wednesday: Hike Husky Gap Trail to New Found Gap Road and then walk to the Sugarland Visitor's Center and our waiting car, about 6 miles. Our packs would be lighter since all of our food would be eaten. We'd drive to our hotel, order room service, take baths and showers, change clothes, and lounge in the bed. This evening would be quiet and restful and we would need the recouperation. 

Thursday: SPA DAY! Having room service and the options for massages and mani / pedis at our hotel were nice things to look forward to. This day would be filled with rest. We'd sleep in, loung at the pool, order room service, do nothing, take it easy.

Friday: Go to Dollywood, ride the rides, see shows, and enjoy the Bluegrass and BBQ Festival. We both love theme parks and roller coasters. I couldn't wait to see how kitchy Dollywood would be. And the people watching! Oh joy! This would be our day to play tourist. We'd walk around downtown Gatlinburg, too.

Saturday: Wake early, drive to Greensboro to Kirk's parent's house, shower, do last minute laundry, go to Kirk's brother's house for a BBQ to celebrate his father's birthday (early), meet Kirk's entire family. We'd sleep at Kirk's parent's house.

This sounded intimidating and a little frightening. Meeting the entire family in one visit? Yikes. I was up for the challenge and, besides, we'd have lots to talk about considering we just did this long hike.

Sunday: Have his parents drive us to the Raleigh airport, board our plane and arrive back in NYC that afternoon, hug and squeeze my pooch, and settle back into our lives.

*     *     *     *     *

The sun had set and our stomachs were growling. We stopped at a steakhouse and had a feast. This would be our last real dinner, all dinners after this would be freeze-dried entrees prepared in the pouches they came in. We had mozzarella sticks, salad, prime rib (medium rare with lots of au jus), veggies, rice, biscuits and butter, and sweet tea. We stuffed ourselves silly and drove off to our hotel.

Part of the drive was through the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. It rained and it was dark. The road was twisty and turny and it was sometimes scary how fast Kirk was driving (at least from vantage point as the passenger). I am not a fan of driving at night or driving in the rain. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I spent a good portion of my adulthood driving with less-then-decent vision.

We arrived at our hotel around 11:30pm, much later than we had thought. We were completely wiped out and had wanted to be there earlier. We left our packs in the car, took up our suitcases, and prepared for sleep. We showered and settled into bed.

*     *     *     *     *

"Tomorrow we start our adventure," Kirk said as we lay there in the dark like kids on Christmas Eve.

"I know! It's crazy!" I said, my voice filled with glee.

"Are you excited?" he asked. The sound of the hotel air conditioner hummed in the background.

"I'm excited. And scared," I replied, thinking of Little Red's song in "Into The Woods."

"Well, excited and scared," Kirk sang, as if reading my mind. This wouldn't be the first or last time that we'd know exactly what each other was thinking.

"Me too," he said.

*     *     *     *     *

Our conversation may or may not have continued. The melatonin kicked in and we drifted off to sleep with visions of freeze-dried rice pudding in our heads and the occasional dreamy thought of a bear sighting. The anticipation of not knowing what to expect was at bay for the night.

Living each day in the moment means that anything could be possible, and tomorrow ensured that all possibilities could be possible. There was no turning back. We were going to do this, come what may. It was exciting and it was scary. We had no idea what we were going to encounter, how we would react, how we would get along, or even if we could do what we were setting out to do. We were gloriously naive.

And, it was probably better that way ....

*     *     *     *     *

waste not , want not : hike preparation

In preparation for our backpacking excursion, many tasks had to be completed. We had to shop for necessities, like backpacks and boots, pick out delicious freeze-dried entrees, determine the exact route to wander, book flights to and from Raleigh, and figure out how to get to our starting point. We bought all the equipment and tools, and we found a couple who own an inn in Fontana, North Carolina. They give advice to hikers hitting the Appalachian Trail, fondly known as "The AT," and they give rides to starting points (or from ending points).

We read several books about the AT, the art of backpacking, and how to prepare for emergencies. One book, "Ultralight Backpackin' Tips" by Mike Clelland, was a fun read. His tips were easy to follow and he does his own illustrations. He also has a blog.

His book focused on how to backpack with as little weight as possible, namely 10 pounds or less. In our case, was not the case. We didn't go light at all. Our packs weighed roughly 35 pounds each (much less than the anticipated 50 pounds -- ugh!). We were preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best. Our philosophy was to "take it" and know by the end of the hike exactly what we need and what we don't. We didn't feel we could be as "extreme" as Mr. Clelland on our first hike, but we did profit from his advice.

The "Hang Your Food at Night" chapter was insightful. It outlined how to create a bear hang so that your food is inaccessible to bears at night. Mmmm hmmm ... bears at night. Yay. Now that's something I definitely paid attention to, considering my fear of bears.

Another book, "The Appalachian Trail Hiker" by Victoria and Frank Logue, also provided great information. This was the first book we read and it provided invaluable information like the history of the AT, shelters and tents, necessary equipment, and tips on preparing for your first hike.

*     *     *     *     *

Both books reviewed a "necessary-to-know" detail: how to deal with going potty -- specifically, going poop. It isn't all that complex; dig what is called a "cat hole," squat over it and do your business, and then bury it. We also learned that we couldn't bury toilet paper on the AT -- even if it's biodegradable. We'd have to pack it out.

Mmmmm hmmmm ... pack it out. Take it with us. Not leave it behind. Take it with us. Not bury it. Take it with us. Not burn it. Take it with us. Take it with us. Take it with us. Take. It. With. Us.

There are no garbage cans on the trails. Our first opportunity to off-load this crap (literally) would be Clingman's Dome, a popular destination for tourists to view the Smokey Mountains. We'd arrive there five days into our hike. That's five days of packed out poo wipes we'd be carrying. Mmmmm hmmmm ... five days.

*     *     *     *     *

I researched a few ways to carry out this packed out -- let's call it "stuff." I found a thick, opaque sealable bag with a chemical gel inside that eats waste and the material used to collect it from one's bum. I was about to order them, but learned that they are made for port-a-potties. They were huge in size and heavy in weight. I could not imagine trying to carry those. I also could not imagine carrying used wipes in a regular plastic baggie. Gross.

So ... I decided to make my own "pack-it-out poo concealer." For shits and giggles, I thought I would show you how I did it.

*     *     *     *     *

How to Make a Pack-It-Out Poo Concealer
Mentally prepare for what you are creating. Take a deep breath and enjoy the creative process as it unfolds. You are making something useful! Like Martha Stewart....

1. Materials: a one-gallon-sized zipper storage bag with a reliable zipper (we used freezer storage bags), one roll of duct tape, one pair of scissors.

2. Cut several strips of duct tape at least two inches longer than the bag width. This project requires at least 25 strips.

3. Carefully place the first strip just below the zipper area. Press firmly. Place the second strip halfway over the first strip.

4. Continue to layer strips until the the bag is covered. The last strip's edge should be flush with the baggie's bottom.

5. Turn the baggie over and fold the duct tape flaps over both edges.

6. Repeat the taping process on the back of the baggie and then repeat the folding of the edges.

7. Place a tape strip along the baggie's bottom with the seam in the middle of the strip. Cut the strip as shown to create "sealing flaps."

8. Fold the top flap over and press firmly; fold the tape strip up and cover the bag's bottom edge . Press firmly, turn the baggie over, and firmly press the remaining sealing flaps.

9. Repeat for the bag's sides and your Pack It Out Poo Concealer is ready for use!

10. Use small zip top baggies to contain used wipes. Place them in the Pack It Out Poo Concealer for a better-insulated, and worry-free, environment.

*     *     *     *     *

As gross as this may seem, it wasn't all that bad. And let me tell you, these baggies worked! No see, no smell, no touch. Well ... that's not entirely true. There was a moment of see, smell, and touch ... but that's a story for later.

*     *     *     *     *

return from the wild ...

As many of you know, I went on an extended backpacking excursion with Kirk. I spoke of this in a few different posts, "writer's block ... or maybe not" and "lions, tigers, and bears ... oh my!"

We have returned and I am ready to regale you with stories of our challenge: the fun, the overcome fears, the laughs, the tears, the pitfalls, the aches and pains, the teamwork, the effort, the mileage, the scenery, and the intricacies of taking an extended "walk in the woods."

It was an amazing journey and an awesome vacation, unlike any I have had. Not only did I get to experience some of the most beautiful aspects of nature, but I was also able to meet the three objectives that I set out to accomplish: push my physically, mentally, and spiritually.

And we actually did it. We set a goal -- a lofty one at that -- and we accomplished it. We also had several different mini-vacation moments within the vacation.

One of the most interesting aspects of this trip was seeing how our planning played out in action. Did we pack enough? Did we pack too much? Could we actually achieve the daily mileage objectives? Could we carry those backpacks for an extended period? Would we use up all of our fuel before we were done? Would we keep our wits about us if we encountered bears or snakes? Would we end up hating each other by the end of the trip?

It was great to come home yesterday to New York City, hug and squeeze my pooch Victor, sleep in my own bed, and wake up in my own apartment. But ... the hiking bug has bitten and I am already thinking about the next trip. I miss the sounds of rushing water, the free and gentle bird songs filling the air, the wind that whispers through the leaves, and the smell of the earth in all its glory.

Details will be revealed in upcoming posts this week and next week, with lots of great photos of the journey.

facebook and friendship ...

The recent IPO of Facebook has me thinking about friendships. Facebook has revolutionized how people stay connected, get connected, communicate with others.

I absolutely, one hundred percent, LOVE Facebook. It's awesome. I spend a lot of time on it and I enjoy it. When Timeline came out, I did not hesitate. I was an early adopter, watched the provided tutorials, learned the new security and privacy features, and learned how to best navigate the new set up.

I love Facebook's "connection factor." I have reconnected with lost friends, those missing in action, their whereabouts unknown. I am able to stay in immediate contact with close friends, those who I speak to on the phone, email often, text frequently, and even see in person.

WHAT?! See people in person?! That is strange.

*     *     *     *     *

Facebook gave me several friendship surprises and brought new and interesting people into my life.

For example, there's a group called The Upstart Crow (a coffee shop / cafe / bookstore in Campbell where the "alternative" kids hung out during my high school heyday in the 1980s). I loved "The Crow." You could buy one cup of tea or coffee and sit with friends for five ... six ... eight ... or ten hours ... and talk, play cards, gossip, fall in love, find out where the night's party was. The best part was that I could be a freaky, hyper, nerdy, new wave, gay kid without question. They also had awesome apricot pie.

Anyhow, I joined this group and began reconnecting with kids -- now adults with their own kids -- from my past. Names that existed only in my journals, until Facebook came around.

Fast forward to a few years ago: Darcy, who I met back in those days and reconnected with via this group, Facebook-messaged me that someone she worked with was moving to New York. She asked if I could friend him so he could ask me questions about living here.

Of course, I said yes.

Brian and I connected on Facebook on a Wednesday. The email conversation went like this:

SCOTT: Hi Brian! Darcy told me that you are planning to move to NYC. How exciting! She mentioned that you have some questions. I would be pleased to answer them for you.

BRIAN: Hi Scott! That's awesome! I can't wait to move there!

SCOTT: When do you plan on moving here?
(This was asked since I assumed he wanted to know about neighborhoods to move to, rent prices, transportation, weather patterns for the time he was planning to move, etc.)

BRIAN: FRIDAY!!!!!

Two days later, we met, bar hopped, and became fast friends. He comes to Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, house sits my dog Victor while I travel, and has integrated into my existing group of friends perfectly. His friend Jeff, who lives here, is now a good friend. Chances of meeting either of them without Facebook are slim to none.

*     *     *     *     *

Another surprise is that I have met "friends of friends" who I now consider my friends ... people that I look forward to reading up on, who laugh at my status updates and enjoy my comments, and who I appreciate. I tried to retrace the degrees of separation to determine how I came to know them. Most times, I can't tell or remember. I review friends we have in common and still can't tell. We now have too many friends in common!

There's Anne, Dan, Kal, Randy, Jeff, Robert, Steve, Cal, Eric, Greg, Levi -- just to name a few. People I have "met" virtually, but never seen in person. They are funny, talented, smart, witty, deep, pensive, kind, supportive, and plain ol' good people. They are also all a definite source of entertainment. I wonder about their days or their week. I like seeing their life through their photos (like Anne's awesome red kitchen!). I am genuinely glad I have met them. I have met a few of them in person, gone to dinners and movies, and such. Maybe someday I'll meet all of them in person.

*     *     *     *     *

Once, I saw an old high school friend posting on another friend's page. He was now living in Canada. How great! What took him from California to Toronto? How long has he been there? Is he happy?

I was excited to reconnect and I sent a Facebook message with a lengthy update of the last twenty-something years of my life. I asked him to do the same. He responded, "I think you have me confused with someone else," or something similar. (He'll most likely correct me on the exact exchange.)

This guy was someone I didn't know, but he did have the exact same name as someone I went to high school with. This guy was someone I didn't know, but we started chatting on Facebook. This guy was someone I didn't know, but we have become friends. We even were able to meet in person during one of trips to NYC. We comment on each other's updates and posts and make each other laugh. He is an integral part of the award show commentary that goes on and we have a weekly battle for "R E V E N G E ! ! ! ! !" every Wednesday. We both like Turner Classic Movies and update each other on films that are programmed. And ... most kindly ... he has become my biggest blog fan. At least that's what I call him.

This past Sunday he posted to my wall "Sunday is almost over. Just saying' ..." This was a nudge to get me to do what I set out to do: post something brilliant and life changing each Sunday. He likes to start his Monday at the office with my blog. Isn't that nice? I love it.

I love his interest in what I have to say. I love that Facebook has brought us together as friends. I love that we live in an age where friendship can happen on this magical messaging machine known as the Internet. It's totally awesome. It reminds me of having a pen pal.

So ... Mark Zuckerburg ... If you are reading this, you're probably reading it from your magical mobile messaging machine, but I trust that you are not reading this. However, I want to thank you for making Facebook a place to connect. You deserve the money. If you want to throw a few shares my way ....

So ... Mike Elliot ... whether you are reading this at home or at the office, I trust that you are reading.

And ... "You're so vain. I bet you think this post is about you. Don't you? Don't you? Don't you?"

*     *     *     *     *

lions and tigers and bears … oh my !

Next week at this time, I will start on a backpacking excursion through the Smokey Mountain range of the Appalachian Trail. I have never been backpacking, but I am to do this! I am going with my friend, Kirk, who also has never done this. It will be – and we know this – a major challenge.

We will backpack for seven days, from Fontana, North Carolina to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. We will travel roughly seventy miles and from an elevation of 1800 feet to a peak of 6600 feet.

The preparation has taken us under 60 days from the point of conversation to the point of us leaving next week. That’s pretty quick when you consider we knew nothing of what we were getting ourselves into at the time we said, “Let’s do it."

We now know a little more. It’s going to be hard. It’s going to be work. It’s going to be sweaty. It’s going to be stinky. It’s going to be heavy. It’s going to be beautiful. It’s going to be mind-expanding. It’s going to be an experience, adventure, challenge, and reward all rolled into one.

This last week of “real life” before becoming a mountain man, will be stressful. Not stressful because of the “Oh shit! I need to buy this or that” factor, but stressful from “Oh shit! This is really happening!” factor.

I had a moment tonight, that was like the latter of the two factors. I put my packed-up backpack. DAMN! That thing was heavy. Granted, I had more stuff in it than I will actually carry, since we are splitting the load, but still … it was insanely heavy. If I were going alone I would be changing my mind right about now.

We have purchased everything needed to sustain us during this trip. We have our food, shelter, clothes, and essentials. Here’s a little view into the big items that had to be purchased. There are smaller things that have been bought, but I won’t bore you with the entire list.

Essentials

• Backpack
• Tent, Sleeping Bag, Sleeping Pad
• Tarp, Rope, Compass
• Knife, First Aid Kit, Trowel
• Bear Bell, Bear Spray
• Solar Powered / Crank Radio (this also charges cell phones)
• Shower (butt) Wipes, Sunscreen Wipes, Bug Repellent Wipes

Clothing

• Boots, Boot Socks
• Base Layer (tee shirt and leggings)
• Convertible Pants (you know, the ones that unzip at the knee)
• Lightweight Rain Jacket
• Lightweight “sweater” (it’s like the lightest down jacket you have ever seen … and so warm!)
• Lightweight End of Day Shoes
• Bear Spray Holster

Food / Cooking

• Freeze Dried Meals in Pouches (like pasta salad, macaroni and cheese, scrambled eggs, chicken and rice, green beans, chocolate moose, etc.)
• MREs (poppy seed cake, cheese squeeze tubes, peanut butter squeeze tubes, etc.)
• Trail Mix, Dried Fruit, Drink Mixes
• Backpacking Stove and Cook Set (includes two pots, two plates, two mugs, and a burner)
• Propane canisters
• Waterproof /Windproof Matches
• Bear Bag

We have to be very careful to not leave anything behind. We will of course, “Give a Hoot and Don’t Pollute.” We will pack out all garbage and our TP. No, we cannot leave it behind. Yes, we have to take it out with us. We will put it in bags and keep it with us until we can throw it out. The earliest opportunity to do this is when we reach Clingman’s Dome at 6600 feet. It’s a tourist area with roads that lead to the observation tower, so there will be garbage cans. We will offload 5 days of eaten food and snack pouches; used up sunscreen, repellent, shower wipes; and (ugh) dirty TP. We will be sight to behold, neither easy on the eyes or the nose.

We have one outfit to wear for the entire week. Proper hikers do not change in clothes. Extra clothes take valuable pack weight. Instead, they wear the same thing over again each day. We are going to be gross. Today, I got a manni and pedi since I won’t be able to get one at campsite 113, and since the extra weight of nail clippers is unnecessary.

You may notice that the word “bear” appears in all three of the above lists. Ummm, yes, there are bears in the Smokey Mountains. Black bears. Lots of them. They say that this year the population has increased. When we secured our hiking permit we were told that one of the campsites we wanted to be at was closed because of “aggressive bear activity.” Great.

I am not a fan of bears, unless it’s a Bear Claw from Dunkin’ Donuts. I am deathly afraid of bears. But, we have a plan.

When Kirk and I started talking about this hike, we read up on how to manage a bear attack. OK, maybe it just said “bear sighting,” but in my mind the damn thing is attacking. The steps as outlined were very clear, but did not include “scream like a girl and shit your pants.” Because of this omission, I know I won’t handle the situation properly. So … our plan is that Kirk will keep his wits about him in the event we encounter a bear. That, I feel, is a very good thing. With my luck, I’ll spray the bear spray in my face instead of the bear’s.

We even have to hang our food up in the trees each night when we make camp. This keeps it away from the bear’s reach. That’s why we have rope in the essential list. It’s not to hang someone when we get on each other’s nerves, or to create a snare to catch squirrels. It’s there to hang food from bear’s. There’s this whole technique and process that needs to be done to hang it. It’s rather crafty.

Kirk found some lovely photographs of these great beasts of murder and mayhem. He occasionally posts them on my facebook page to taunt and haunt me. They are quiet funny. I included my original comments with the photos.


" holy shit ! they can fly ? ! ? ! "

"ewwwwwwww ..."

" not only can they fly , but they can climb trees ? ! "

" at least this one looks polite ... "

I will keep a thorough journal and take many photographs in an attempt to document this excursion. I am not sure if I will have the time or capability to post while I am backpacking. If I can’t post while on the trek, there will be updates and details once I return to New York City in early June.

Wish me luck! And wish the bears luck … Kirk has one mean high kick.

beauty day ...

I especially like Sundays when they are considered "Beauty Day." It's the day that I like to be restful, calm, relaxed, and take care of myself.

Beauty Day started when I was a young twenty-something who moved into a house with four gay men. Beauty Day was the day after hell broke loose and it was a definite need after the weekend of fun we all had.

I lived in a three-bedroom house with three other guys: Tim, Marshall, and Mike. Tim and I shared a bedroom and my rent was $125 a month. My roommate, Tim, and I looked very much alike, so I used to use his ID to get into Club St. John in downtown San Jose.

260 Richfield was a "known address" in the San Jose bar scene, by the gays and the cops. We were the hosts of many after hour’s parties. I was only 20, but that didn't stop me from the fun of being young, cute, and gay!

We'd go to the bar, dance and drink, and soon you'd hear other people say, "260 Richfield After Hours!" Tim had started spreading the word. There were times when I would be home in bed when the phone would ring. I would sleepily answer it knowing it would be Tim calling from the bar's payphone to tell me that we were having an afterhour’s party. I'd get up, clean up the kitchen and bathroom, vacuum the living room, and hide things that could easily be stolen.

Guys would pour into the house as easily as vodka poured into glasses. There was music, there was laughter, there was lots of drinking, and there was always a hook up opportunity. If I had to work my retail store job the next morning, I wouldn't join the fun. I would go back to bed. Many times, I'd be beckoned awake by Tim, who would sit beside my twin bed and tell me about how fun the bar was, how many cute guys were at the house, and hand me a drink. Naturally, I would sit up, hear the stories, and sip the drink until I was feeling warm, buzzed, and ready to hit the living room.

Eventually, I would end up back in my bed. Either alone, or with someone else (I mean, c'mon, I was 20 after all). Sometimes, Tim and I would spoon and talk afterward and tell stories and laugh about the evening's antics. A few times, we'd have sex. It was a "roommate with benefits" relationship.

One time, I got so stoned and paranoid that I thought I was going to die. I imagined that people were at my bedroom window telling me how much they would miss me, what a good friend I was, how they would always remember me. I called my boyfriend, John, and he understandably freaked out. He drove his scooter all the way from San Francisco to San Jose in the middle of the night to "rescue" me. By the time he got there, my paranoia had faded into giggles. What a mess!

Most times, these afterhours’ parties would go until the wee hours of the morning. Bars in California close at 2:00am, and we go until 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning. If I weren’t working, I would sleep until 11:00 or noon the next day, at which point we'd all get up and clean the house. Gather bottles, deep clean the bathroom, mop the stick off the kitchen floor, take out the trash, change sheets, etc. And all this with some of the worst hangovers ever!

That's when Beauty Day started. Head pounding, house clean and KKSF on the radio. A long, hot shower and many different kinds of hair and skin products to use. A house of gay men in the early nineties was like living in the Clinique and Halston counters at Macy's. There were always new soaps, shampoos, creams, toners, or elixirs to try. And when I say "try" I mean try to cover the bags, the hangover skin, the smell of booze emanating from pores, the bloodshot and weary eyes, the beard burn (if it was a lucky night).

Fast forward to today, and most parts of Beauty Day remain intact. Many elements are long gone, kind of like my virginity. First, the hangovers no longer exist since I don't drink or drug anymore. I am typically awake no later than 8:30am on a weekend day, and I can barely stay awake to watch Saturday Night Live, let alone be out dancing or fucking until 6:00am.

Now Beauty Day is time to regroup and take care of myself. I always have clean sheets on the bed on Beauty Day, and I prefer that my dog be clean and bathed either on or before Beauty Day. I like the house to be clean and the rugs to be vacuumed.

I take a long, hot bath. Bubbles, Epsom salts, sometimes dried lavender crushed in. I soak for at least an hour and keep filling the tub with hot water once it starts draining on its own. I pumice my feet within an inch of their life. I dunk my head under the sudsy water. I shampoo my hair and dip into the water to rinse it. I loofah my entire body. I wash my face with my glycolic face scrub at least twice to exfoliate and open my pores. I manscape when needed, which entails shaving off the five or six hairs that grow on my chest. Sometimes, I get a little more "industrious," if you know what I mean....

Then, I drain the tub and take a shower. I rinse any residue off and re-wash my entire body. I dry off and Beauty Day continues. I towel dry my hair and leave it clean and natural, no product. I clip my fingernails and toenails. I trim my nose hair, pluck errant hairs growing from my ears, trim my eyebrows and facial hair. I slather lotion on my feet, my legs, my torso, my ass, my arms, and my hands. I layer on glycolic face cream in a vain attempt to rid myself of the fine lines that appear around my eyes. I floss hard and deep and enjoy brushing my teeth for a longer-than-normal time. I brush them twice in row on Beauty Day, "once for clean and once for polish." I apply a generous amount of lip balm, because without it, I feel completely naked.

I put on boxers and a t-shirt, crawl into the clean sheets of my bed and heave a sigh of relief.

It's my treat for me. It's my time for me. I am clean. I am refreshed. I am relaxed. I am beautiful. And, while the errant hairs on my ears increase, the fine lines deepen, and Madonna's hands sometimes appear at the end of my wrists, Beauty Day always makes me feel better inside and out, even if it can't make me 20 again.

pink lemonade for one dollar !

Recently, my mind has been filled with odd stories from when I was young, most likely because a friend had asked me to tell him about favorite childhood memories. My niece and nephew often ask me to tell stories of my past. It makes me happy to see their eyes light up and hear their laughter and to share a little bit of “me” with them.

Never one to shy away from telling a good story, I willingly share them. Most are random thoughts that arrive while eating dinner, watching TV, or walking down the street. Sometimes they are triggered by a smell or sound or a bit of conversation, which creates a spark. Many of them center around food, which I think is interesting on its own, but each story – each memory – has its own warmth that spreads on my soul.

*     *     *     *     *

My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Perry, was kind, warm, and appropriately stern. Kindergarten memories include how much I liked to play house, take naptime on a towel that I brought from home, and eat graham crackers and milk for snack. I remember that Mrs. Perry played the piano. She was also missing a portion of one of her thumbs. It was a little creepy, and you rarely got a glimpse of it, but when you did, it was like seeing something you should not. It was electric.

The kindergarten playground was fenced in and separate from the “big kids” playground. It had its own grass, tarmac, and sand box. On the last day of school, we ran through the sprinklers and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

As a first grader, we had more freedom to roam the campus. Outside the teacher’s lounge, and adjacent to the first grade classrooms and cafeteria, was a large planter with several fragrant gardenia bushes. I was near this bush once when Mrs. Perry exited the teacher’s lounge holding something very interesting, a fruit that I had never seen.

She removed a section and explained how to eat it. I was mesmerized.

“You carefully peel this away,” she said as she removed the white, velum-like pith and exposed the jewel-toned fruit.

“You eat these little seeds, but must be very careful to keep the juice from staining your clothes,” she continued in her kind voice, and popped a few seeds into her mouth.

She handed me a section and a napkin and watched as I showed her what I learned. I put some seeds in my mouth and was surprised at how juicy, sweet and tart they were.

“What is this called?” I asked.

“A pomegranate,” she said and started my lifelong adoration for Persephone’s fruit.

She once joined my mom and me for lunch at Whataburger. I remember sitting across from her in the booth’s hard bench, watching her open the silver and orange wrapper from the burger, raise it to her mouth, and take a bite.

I remember thinking to myself, in amazement, “Wow. Mrs. Perry eats hamburgers.”

*     *     *     *     *

The garage in my house on Antonio Lane had a ping-pong table, a washer and dryer, my dad’s workbench and tools, and a second refrigerator/freezer. It also had shelves of mason jars filled with jams, jellies, and pickles that my mom canned; “the rafters” where all sorts of things were stored, like camping equipment and Christmas decorations; and other clutter that one expects in a garage.

Once, my friend Jerry and I were in the garage having a burping contest. We would take turns gulping 7-Up straight out of a two-liter bottle, burping as loud and long as we could, and laughing at each other’s accomplishment. We would try to burp the alphabet, our friend’s names, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” and anything else we could say to make each other hysterical. At the time, this was great fun.

Jerry was sitting on the washing machine when he gulped an excessive amount of soda and began what would have been an Olympic medal-winning belch. As the burp came, so did the soda and he threw up into his cupped hands. Frightened by what just happened, he screamed, “Help me!” opened his hands and dropped it all over him, the floor, and the washing machine.

My mom ran from the kitchen to assess the commotion. I remember her exclaiming, “Jesus Christ! What on earth?” and I think she included her patented “Lord love a duck!” She helped clean up Jerry, but we had to clean the washing machine and the floor.

*     *     *     *     *

My family camped often, either just us or with other families, like the Sharps and the McCarthy’s. Camping memories have been top of mind while planning my upcoming backpacking excursion. The smell of bacon and coffee in the morning, wandering in the trees until late afternoon, fishing in lakes and playing in streams, and roasting marshmallows after dinner. Listening to the adults talk and laugh while drifting off to sleep in my mom’s lap, smelling of burnt wood when crawling into my sleeping bag, unzipping the tent in the middle of the night and walking in the cold with a flashlight to find a place to pee, and gazing up at the many stars in the sky.

One time, we stumbled upon a field of Brussels sprouts. Our campsite may have been adjacent to a farm or they may have been growing wild. Regardless, we all picked some and had Brussels sprouts with butter and salt and pepper for dinner. They were delicious! Brussels sprouts are one of my favorite vegetables to this day.

*     *     *     *     *

As long as I could remember, my parents had a garden. They grew lettuce, tomatoes, strawberries, carrots, radishes, zucchini, bell peppers – you name it, they grew it. One year, we even had corn! We had two artichoke plants, too. Each year we would rotate which one we ate from; the other one would flower. Artichoke flowers are stunning, gorgeous, deep purple thistles.

We had a screened backyard patio and ate dinner outside most summer nights, many of which included eating artichokes. Dipping the steamed leaves into melted butter or a mustard/mayo dip, scraping the nutty-flavored meat off with my teeth, cutting out the choke and savoring the heart until the last bite was gone. When I eat artichokes, I think of those summer nights.

In our front yard, we had an apricot tree that sprouted from nowhere. Once mature, it bore ample fruit. It was great to eat them right off the tree, nice a warm from the sun. My mom made jams and preserves. Apricot jam is my favorite jam flavors to this day.

I remember there was a woman who did not live on our street, or even near our street, who used to come and pick our apricots. A poacher! I remember my mom being at the kitchen sink, which faced the front year, and cranking open the kitchen window to tell her to stop picking our apricots. “Lord love a duck!”

The window crank is what really captures my attention in this memory. It was a late 1960s and early 1970s tract home window with a metal crank that swung the window open. It took ten or fifteen cranks to open the window. You had to have a fast wrist to open them quickly, especially when trying to curtail poached apricots.

This ethical lesson did not stop me from poaching my favorite fruit, cherries. My friend, Tiffany, lived directly behind a cherry orchard and in the summertime, we hopped her fence, Safeway or Brentwood paper bags in tow, and spent hours picking cherries. We would fill bag upon bag with cherries, like five or six bags each (it seems). I remember when our task was complete we would sit in her backyard, eat cherries and spit out the pits.

I am sure those cherry orchards no longer exist. It is likely they are now homes or a strip mall. But man, those were good days! And, yes, I was very regular then.

*     *     *     *     *

I remember a dessert that my sister Christy invented called “Delights”. Delights were the “everything but the kitchen sink” kind of ice cream sundae.

They included different ice cream flavors, peanut butter, jam, raisins, cereal, bananas, chocolate sauce, and any other topping in the refrigerator. They were … well … delightful. Rich, sweet, sticky, and chewy. Looking back, I do not know why my parents let us have this sugar feast before bedtime, but we didn’t complain. When Christy whipped up the Delights, everyone was happy.

I recently made Delights for dessert. Mine were no match for what she could concoct. I was missing key ingredients and had to improvise with some left over chocolate chip cookies and other things. They were rich, sweet, sticky, and chewy. The essence was there, but it wasn’t like the real thing. It was like craving McDonald’s French fries but settling for Burger King’s. It just wasn’t the same.

Maybe in June, when I am home for my nephew’s high school graduation, she’ll make some Delights.

there is ice cream in there , i promise ...

*     *     *     *     *

I do not recall ever setting up a lemonade stand when I was little. In New York, occasionally kids will set up a table outside their apartment building and hock their wares. One such entrepreneur, just a few buildings down from mine, was selling lemonade quite enthusiastically. He and his little brother were dancing around, happy little kids, while his nanny looked wearily on. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, “Pink lemonade for one dollar!” over and over and over again.

“Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar!”

The lemonade was pink and it did cost one dollar, but it was also watery and not very flavorful. He was so excited about what he was doing it was hard to not buy a cup.

I cannot help but wonder if he will remember this day when he is older. What will he look back on recall? That his mom thought up the idea? That he screamed his throat hoarse? That he bought something special with the money he made?

Will he remember this moment when he tries to convince his children to set up a lemonade stand? Will he tell them about one warm day, when he lived in New York City, he set up a lemonade stand and screamed out to get people to notice?

And will his children laugh as he recalls and reenacts his high-pitched, carnival barker-like sales call “Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar!”? Will his children follow suit and set up their own stand, and create their own memory to tell their kids, or their friends, or to others who happen to read about their childhood memories on their blogs?

*     *      *     *     *