Thank you for suggestions on what to write about — all were great and I promise I will answer all of them! I’m tackling the first one on the list:

Jefffro says:
Tell us about that one time….when you were ten or so….when you had the “best day ever”!
(I am fishing for this to spark a memory, so you can tell us the story….)

Good one, Jeffy! It was hard to think of that age and happiness in the same thought, though; life was a little iffy in my household from the age of about 9 onward, and happiness was, um, rare. But then this memory jumped into my head: the trip to the High Sierras the summer I was 10. I mention it here, briefly, in the next to last paragraph.

My parents were already well on their way to derailment when I was 10, but I admire their pluck at not only taking me on vacation, but taking me on a highly intense vacation. This was a varsity-level Sierra Club trip. I remember hiking for a whole day up and up to an obscene elevation. When we finally got to the spot that was to be our campsite, I threw up. My mom light a cigarette and passed out.

I was a little put off by the less-than-auspicious start to the trip. I eyed the pit toilets and the weird food and the older teenagers in the group with suspicion.

However, this trip offered a rare chance to often to have my mom and my dad, together and separately, to myself, and out of context — we really felt like we were on a different planet, which led us to relax and enjoy each other more than we had in some time. Mom and I really loved exploring together; one day we went to a glacier, a trip cut short after we were attacked by little biting flies. When we return to the campsite, my mom breathlessly told dad about the bugs– “It was a blanket of flies!” Dad idly mused as to how many flies made a blanket, and my mom ventured a guess: “Seventeen?” The three of us had an honest laugh at that. I loved when mom was a little dotty.

Another day she and I went to an incredible, snow-fed lake. We watched as a snake snatched a frog, head-first, and slowly, slowly, swallowed it whole, until there were only frog feet sticking out of its mouth, like a bizarre mustache. We loved that.

My dad was heavily into rock-climbing and encouraged me to try it out. The great thing about dad is that he loved throwing his kids into adventures, and had a great knack of know what would be the biggest thrill for that kid — go-karts, gliders, skiing, river rafting. He was a great advocate of embracing — not necessarily danger, but the unknown.

Hence, during this trip I found myself at the top of a sheer, extremely high cliff. Members of the group were gearing up to rappell down the rockface. And one by one, the grownups would chicken out, once they got into position, poised to drop themselves backwards into the void. Very few actually could bring themselves to do it.

Dad gently asked me if I would like to try it. I said sure. It didn’t look all that scary to me. I geared up and, with little fanfare, threw myself backwards off the cliff, and rappelled down like I had done it all my life. So easy! Dad was so proud and the older teens were genuinely impressed. Mom’s face was a mask of pure relief. It was such a singular moment, and one of the last memories I had of both my parents together and happy.

My mom took a picture of me from the ground (I’m sure watching in a cold sweat the entire time). I’ll have to dig it up, to show proof that I had the best day ever!