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Larger Than Life in Las Vegas

When he said goodbye to his daughter, he didn’t think it would be the last time. Memories of her are fleeting and then all at once. As you learn to live with pain, you learn to navigate through what memory wormhole you want to journey down.

Option A – the painful side. The one that takes you to the big ugly cry. It’s so easy to start down that slip and slide. The phone call that happened only minutes after saying goodbye to his daughter. Going back and seeing blood on her face, unconscious, the journey to ICU, the doctors agreeing that it’s a “good idea” to let her go, knowing there will be no more speaking with her. Ever. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Option B – the positive side. That’s the side she’s living on now. And that’s what we come back to. Her jokes, silliness, love of music, talking to people. That’s what we brought to Vegas. Evoking memories, paying homage to none other than the Backstreet Boys. If only it could be more poetic. Some indie band, some hipster group, some musical ensemble that requires a snifter glass full of premium liquor and a pair of slippers.

Yes, our story is of one of the Backstreet Boys and of a dad who’s 58, who I often tease has a thirteen-year-old girl trapped in his body. Now as time passes I understand it may just be her living in him. I like that. I give him hell for it, but silently I admire him. The unabashed joy of listening to the Backstreet Boys and remembering her.

Our journey consisted of a series of baits and switches. We shouldn’t mess with people that way. But then again, she would. “Why are you in Vegas?” prompts the response “Backstreet Boys! But not for me, for him!” finger pointing. Responses vary from shocked faces, to confused “uh, ok…,” to “you’ve got to turn in your man card!” And then the kicker. He says, “I lost my daughter to cancer. Backstreet Boys was one of her bands. I used to take her and her friends when she was growing up. I go to remember her.” Cue the head slap, the “aw-man,” the “I’m so sorry.” I think there is some unconscious therapy for him in that exchange. An excuse to speak her name. To remember. To keep her with us.

In the moments leading up to show start, the curtain swooping up, the lights flashing, the smoke, the unyielding scream of thirty to forty-year-old ladies, I hear his voice. “Here they come!” He’s as giddy as the rest of them. Maybe remembering back to previous shows with her screaming at his side. A joy. A comfort. She’s with us.

As the night progresses, we hear dance songs, ballads, classic hits of the 90s. And the memories come rushing in. It feels Shakespearean in nature, a daughter, taken too soon, living forevermore with a hole in your heart. All this reverie, angst, choking back tears while Show Me The Meaning of Being Lonely is caressing us.

I never thought I’d be a Backstreet Boys fan. I am because I am her fan. I see them dance, I see her dance. I see her dad, smiling, despite such a loss. There was a 30 year old girl physically missing in the audience that night, but she was there with us.

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Tail Swing

It’s not unusual that we have a countdown the week before camping. Yes, the kids and I are excited. It’s my husband’s giddiness that gets us amped up for the trip. When Friday rolls around I can feel his bridled excitement as soon as we wake up. It’s as if he were Buddy in the movie Elf. If I said “Camping is coming to town!” his response would be “CAMPING! OH MY GOD! CAMPING!” One little nudge and I think I could get that reaction (stay tuned for a future YouTube posting of me indulging in that social experiment).

This particular Friday we were replacing our fifth wheel’s tires from stock to better quality Good Years. Let’s just say we’ve been scared straight. We’ve heard one too many horror stories of rigs being shredded from tire blowouts and decided early this year that preventative maintenance is the way to go given the number of trips we have planned.

With sights set on a fun-filled camping weekend, my husband began to make his way out of the parking lot showing off our fifth wheel’s new kicks. Like a quarterback in a football game he knew his play, but as soon as the ball was hiked the landscape began to shift. The open lane shut down. A car pulled in front of him and parked. What to do? My husband chose to push through on his own, and while he nearly made it, the back end of the fifth wheel nudged the side of another parked truck. Damage report: broken tail light lens and corner trim on the rig, dented side panel on the opposing truck.

You know those Caution: Wide Turn! images you see on the back of semi-trucks? Friendly reminder that when pulling a fifth wheel or other travel trailer you are (or nearly are) the length of a semi! That image applies to YOU recreational camper driver! The extra few beats in turning wide, even in a parking lot, will save you a dent and call to your insurance agent. If you can, stopping to reevaluate, asserting some patience, and observing your surroundings may help prevent dragging your backend across some undesired object like a parked car.

Luckily for us the truck owner was a worker from the tire shop who was very understanding and good to work with under the circumstances.  We all make mistakes. All of us. In that “I’m an idiot!” moment, we are thankful for the understanding guys.

So how did Buddy fair the rest of the camping weekend? I’ll keep it family friendly and say there were some “I’m a cotton headed ninny muggins” references. The remaining trek to the campground was in unrelenting rain – the kind that shows up as yellow or orange on the radar. Our spotless rig with beautiful armor-all tires went axel deep through mud before calling state park camping site #150 home for the weekend. Soaked and dirty my husband still had an ember of camping magic in him. “I just love camping!” he said exhausted but content.

Merry camping to all, and to all a good night!

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