The Lavender Rush

We jogged out of Sabino Canyon, dusty and tired. We switched leads because of the beans we ate for lunch. Blackett's Ridge is wonderful. You can summit the high desert ridge under one hour and jog back down for the completion. It elevates you above the city into deer and bobcat country. You see hikers serious about the hike, not your typical flashy, flesh-showing, lower- elevation hikers who are mad their friends decided on a hike instead of LA Fitness. And you see no trash, which settles your urbanely agitated mind. So within this setting I had another teaching moment from the great head-master, Nature.

On the way out of the canyon Anna noticed the sunset and its colors. I said I love the sage color of the sky. I meant lavender. But that is okay, I justified; lavender is not one of the primary colors. Still, I had a box of many colors in elementary school. I needed to review my colors. Mixing sage for lavender is not elementary for me, my dear Watson.

The sunset's purpose was understood, for me. I was taught humility again. I don't know it all. I won't know it all. And unless I review and practice, I'll forget it all. The problem is, when I learn something I quickly think I know it all. And I stop asking questions. It's easy to know what I see, but what about that I cannot see? Maybe that's why we have seasons; we forget what so recently passed, we need reminders. So here's to a lavender sunset. I'll miss this desert...

Ron Paul

Politics...not my best subject to discuss if I want to pretend I know anything. But I do know one thing, after the republican debate Monday night, which I watched on a comfortable Jet Blue, I would vote for Ron Paul. He is smart. He is efficient. He gives concrete detail. And he is the only one who would conform with the following statement given by the First Presidency of the LDS church during WWII:

“‘. . . the Church is and must be against war. The Church itself cannot wage war, unless and until the Lord shall issue new commands. It cannot regard war as a righteous means of settling international disputes; these should and could be settled—the nations agreeing—by peaceful negotiation and adjustment. "

So while Romney and Gingrich want to make our stick we carry bigger ( I'm not sure where Santorum stands) Ron Paul wants to make our hearts bigger. Sounds cheesy, but I believe him when he says it. And it is that stirring of belief, generated by a politician, that makes me want to vote for him. Looking back, I can't remember ever feeling a "stirring" for any politician I've seen speak. And I guess that's my litmus test of whom to vote for: an inner stirring.

A few thoughts, not out loud

- I enjoyed a particular talk at church yesterday. When I walked up to the stand to thank the speaker I extended my hand and said, "Thanks so much for your talk, I needed to hear that and it meant a lot to me." I saw the two other speakers in the meeting right behind the one I had thanked. Did I need to thank them as well? And if I did not, would I seem ungrateful for their words?

- Sometimes I feel there is a specific mood at church that lingers in every meeting. Yesterday it was a general gloom. Maybe it was the rain outside. Maybe it was the late afternoon and we were all adjusting to new meeting times. I just wanted to stand up and say, "it's not that bad of a life." And maybe it was just me that needed to hear it.

- When I'm turning left from the median of a busy road, I think it should be against the law for opposing traffic in the lane next to the median to yield. The far lane of opposing traffic never seems to catch on quickly enough. But you hate to wave to the good Samaritan who stopped in the near lane and mouth to him: "THANKS, DON'T WORRY, JUST GO AHEAD," while you wave him on. That just seems rude. So under forced gratitude, I always turn left. It's the "white-knuckle" turn of possible death.

- Tucson was re-baptized today. It rained all morning and in the afternoon the clouds cleared. Anna and I drove up to the sweetwater trail head and watched the unfolding of the sunset. The air was clear and crisp. The clouds were huge, with dark undersides and cottony-white tops. The mountains were lavender, sage, purple, red, rust, and blue all at once. And the desert smelled like desert, with the saguaros standing proud over their domain. To top it off, the desert doves were singing the tune of nightfall. Sometimes I hate scenery like this because all I can think about is how it will all be gone in a few minutes.

- The other day at a tumor board meeting in the hospital, a physician was introducing a patient case.
"The patient was a woman. Fairly...rotund."
The pause he gave between "fairly" and "rotund" was more insulting than if he had just said "fat." I committed at that point to use the word "fat" when I present patients who are well-nourished, no stranger to the knife and fork, obese, large, or rotund. "Fat" is the most concise, understandable, and efficient adjective and is also, in my opinion, the least condescending. Plus, I need more of it...

A Short Story

I lie thinking, my right leg propped against the back of the couch. I think about sleep. I whisper the word “rest,” out loud as if he were a friend; a friend arriving with solutions. And before I know it he has arrived. I welcome him inside and fall asleep...

I am awakened by a low rumble. I quickly recognize the sound is my neighbor James opening his front door. Morning. I count the seconds before I hear his door close. James requires seven seconds every morning to close his door. Why does it always take him so long to close his front door? It annoys me. I lift my left arm and weakly twist my wrist to read the time on my watch. 6:32 a.m.

I then hear a window slide open. This would be Alex. She is a quiet, Venezuelan lady, recently divorced. She lives below me. Her domestic noises never annoy me. Alex often leaves a hot plate of arepas on my doorstep. Sometimes I catch her in the act:

“Arepas!” she says, in a commanding tone. “Eat soon while they are warm and put some...um...frijoles on top with, how do you say it...asour cream?”

“Yes Alex! Sour cream. Thank you so much.”

I see few arepas these days. That is okay, Alex is an observant neighbor. She knows something has happened to me and I should be left alone.

After my wedding, I told an old friend from high school my wife and I found “a nice little garret” to rent in a safe neighborhood. He then promptly sent me a copy of A Tale of Two Cities. On the front page he wrote, “To the best of friends, in the best of times, in his little garret with his wife.” I can see that book on the bookshelf right now. Seeing it elicits a painful feeling and I look away. 6:34 a.m.

I stretch out my legs with that wonderful feeling of increased blood flow, and I smile. Like the smile of a tired runner leaning on a friend after a marathon. The smile of survival, curved with pain. 6:35 a.m. I begin to wish it were last night again so I could sleep. Better yet, I wish it were tonight so I could sleep and be one day closer to something, anything.

The morning is bright. The light shines through the shutters and lands in a neat arrangement of parallel lines on the floor. I stare at them for some time. I look at my watch again. 6:44 a.m.
In the past this was my favorite time to go for a run or ride my bike. My shoes have not moved from the closet and my bike has not shifted a gear for many days.

I manage to sit up on the couch. I stare blankly across the front room, bare except for a card table decorated with a half-finished puzzle. I force my arms to push me up off the couch. After the light-headedness of standing clears I walk to the kitchen. I pick the glass Pyrex up off the counter and measure out two cups of water. I place the Pyrex in the microwave for two minutes.

Okay, two minutes to wash my face, brush my teeth, throw off my pajamas, and make sure my backpack has my...wait...no, who am I kidding? I have no where to go today. Or tomorrow.

Today I have no plans. In fact, I have no plans for the next three months when, theoretically, I re-enlist for my last year of medical school.

I let the microwave hum away as I walk back to the couch and sit. I sit and watch again the planks of light on the floor and listen to the soothing hum in the kitchen. But my thoughts are harrassed with memories.

I remember the money wasted in recent days. I think of the time wasted. Addiction is a slave-driver of the worst kind. And I am learning why some men give up family and health in the name of addiction. These men are not selfish. They are imprisoned. I am the latest convict.

The money does not bother me as much as the time. I can always make more money. But I am troubled with time. I heard once after fifty you start counting. I am twenty-eight, and I am counting. Tears well up in my eyes as I look down the hallway of my apartment, forcing myself to remember my wife as she used to look in the morning, fresh after sleep.

“Hey honey. How are you? Did you sleep okay?” she asked every morning.

She was always courteous and positive. Early in our marriage it gave me wonder. How could someone be so nice all the time? And then I learned more about her. Courtesy and optimism were her weapons, forged during a difficult upbringing. She often repeated her favorite motto: “Your future is as bright as your faith.”

I smile as I remember.

Every night I could count on her warm greeting when I arrived home: “Hey honey, did you have a good day? How was it today?” She would then skip up to me and give me a hug. There was little variability is this nightly ritual.

I cannot remember the sound of her voice.

I do remember my hot water in the microwave. I get up off the couch and walk to the kitchen. I open the microwave door, grab the Pyrex and pour my water into a mug. I then get two packets of hot chocolate from the cupboard. I tear them open and empty the powder into the mug, followed by four packets of sweetener and a caramel candy. The caramel was my wife’s idea. And a good one. I take my cup back to the couch and sit down.

I had forgotten to turn the heater on last night and I realize I’m cold. I rest the mug on my lower belly and let the coursing blood warm as it flows near the cup - An old boy scout trick I learned on a camp-out. It feels good.

I sip my chocolate and think over the past few months. Little measurable progress. I attend my counseling sessions and complete the proffered exercises. But addiction remains. I have not touched the guitar. My diary is dusty. The New England Journal accrues, unread, in my mailbox. I no longer enjoy my daily run. And I have stopped attending church. When I look in the mirror these days I force myself to look past my reflection. My eyes sear me with shame.

I sip more chocolate. I prefer it hotter but I have no desire to reheat. The parallel planks of sun on the floor begin to widen. The day is moving on. And I am going nowhere with it.

I feel time pass; literally feel it pass through my chest. In its wake is guilt. I begin to think of my last binge.

Not long ago addiction belonged to my patients. It belonged to those faces on street billboards. It was always compartmentalized safely outside my life. Now it is mine.

As the morning light continues to slide across the carpet, I feel the need to knock myself out. I am tired of the guilt. I gulp down my chocolate. I wipe the corners of my mouth and lay the cup on the floor. I stand up and walk to the kitchen drawer to grab my keys, wallet, and glasses. I can’t see the prices without my glasses.

As I pocket my stuff I make a quick calculation: A few thousand dollars left from student loans and five hundred dollars credit on my charge card - six hundred after last night. I have sufficient. I leave the kitchen, but not before turning on the radio. My wife used to make fun of me for having a radio on that I ignore. “What did that commentator just say?” she would quiz. I never knew. I just like background noise. I walk past the dining table and notice its contents: my phone, a copy of Hunger Games, a Gatorade bottle, some scattered pens, a dirty bowl and a napkin scrunched up in a ball. I think about grabbing my phone, but why bother?

I walk to the front door and my phone rings! What irony in my meaningless life. It vibrates off the table and falls to the floor. That is enough for me to ignore it. I turn back to the front door but as I reach out for the knob, I hesitate. I cannot remember the last time I answered my phone. This morning I will. I quickly rush back to the table and inadvertenly kick my empty cup on the floor. It flies up and crashes into the wall, waist high. The handle breaks into pieces. Agitated at my clumsiness, I look at my phone. Gracie is calling.

“This is Ruben,” I say. I use this introduction to pretend I am too busy to note who is calling.

“Hey Ruben.” she says. “What are you doing now?”

“Just getting stuff ready for the hospital,” I fib.

“Do you work today, Ruben?”

“Always, Gracie. How is the Wii working out for you? Are you past the level you were on when we last spoke?”

“Yeah! I got me a new game. You kill aliens, it’s fun.”

I imagine Gracie saying this with a fat grin on her face. The grin that shoves her cheeks up into her eyes.

“So, what’s up?” I ask impatiently.

“Ruben, I was wondering, can you walk me across street to work today? It’s scary right now. And with cold people are crazy driving.”

Gracie has a habit of forgetting to say “the” in her sentences.

A few months ago I spent three consecutive weeks walking her to work. She fears the walk. Luckily, work is not far; a convenient walk of five minutes even for someone obese like Gracie.

In an odd way I feel glad for her call. Family and friends have since stopped calling and Gracie’s timing is penetratingly encouraging. I agree to walk her to work. “Okay, Gracie. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t call you if not ready,” she says, chortling.

“Okay, let’s do this, I’ll meet you like last time at your front door?”

“Should we dr..dr...drive Ruben, it’s cold?”

“Let’s walk. It will be good for us.”

With meeting details arranged, I close my flip-phone. Besides receiving a call, it feels good to hear someone say my name, even if it is just Gracie. I walk to the bathroom and grab my hat off the floor. I am not worried about leaving in sweats and a stained jacket. I look at my watch: 7:48 a.m.

I descend the stairs of my apartment. The sun touches my face. The warm sensation is familiar and foreign at the same time. It is cold, but not too cold for Gracie to walk. As if to validate this conclusion I breathe out into the air. No visible breath. Warm enough to walk.

Once downstairs I glance up at my apartment, avoiding eye contact with two people walking past. I walk across the parking lot to the other buildings in the complex. Gracie lives in the far north building with her husband, Steve. Steve’s job begins at 5:00 a.m. He walks two miles to work every weekday. At four miles a day, that is twenty miles of walking in the week. I am impressed.

As I walk to meet Gracie I remember an amusing incident. She found out one evening I was driving my wife to the airport the following day. She asked, “Can I come?”

My wife and I looked at each other; we smiled in meek condescension. I said to Gracie, “sure, but we have to leave by 4:30 in the morning.”

Gracie asked no follow-up questions and we thought she would forget the conversation. The following morning my wife and I both received texts from her at 3:30 a.m.: “Hi, ready to go. Call me now.” She came with us to the airport that morning. Every time we went to the airport after that morning my wife and I jokingly asked each other if we should invite Gracie again.

I hurry past building 900 and 1100 to reach Gracie’s apartment. She has a security alarm sticker on the front door I find amusing because her front porch is full of stuff - easy to steal. Nice stuff too. Cables, satellite dishes, chairs, a dresser, and more.

I knock on the front door and wait twenty seconds. I ring the doorbell, perhaps the only doorbell in the complex. No answer. I am frustrated and slightly angry. Why would Tiffany call me to walk her to work? It’s the easiest thing in the world. She needs to grow up. She needs a life.

These thoughts make me look down at my feet in personal rebuke. “Needs a life, Ruben? Look who is talking.” Tears well up in my eyes. I look up quickly as the doorknob turns and the door swings open revealing a smiling Gracie. She shines through my wet eyes.

“Hey, Ruben, you got here fast.”

“You excited for work?” I ask.

She makes a sound that resembles a starting car. I take that as a “no.” Her sounds confuse me sometimes and I am never quite sure how to proceed with the conversation.

“How’s Steve, Gracie?”

“He’s at work. He has a headache.”

“Is he still on his medication?”

“Yeah, but he don’t do nothing but watch TV all night. Course he has a headache.”

I am pleased Gracie makes the connection between excessive television and headaches. Maybe she will understand her doctor’s advice to learn about diabetic-friendly diets.

She steps outside and turns around to close the door. After the door is shut she looks down into her handbag. She pauses for five seconds. I ask if everything is okay.

“Yeah,” she mutters. Then she opens the door and steps back inside her dark apartment. She reemerges five seconds later and closes the door. “The alarm,” she says, “forgot to set it.”

We walk side by side through the complex out to the main street. We chat about a few things. Mostly I ask about the Wii. She seems to enjoy it more than anything right now. She is also reading a mystery book, she says.

“You like to read Gracie? That’s great.” I hate how condescending I sound. “Does Steve read as well?”

“No, he don’t. He just watches TV all night like I told ya.”

We reach the main street and turn north on the sidewalk. We pass a bus stop where two men are waiting for the bus. One is sitting with his head down, staring at the side-walk. The other is standing beside the bench with both hands in his pockets, trying to keep warm. Maybe it is a little cold outside. Neither one looks up as we pass.

We reach the cross-walk and I look over at Gracie. I sense her anxiety. But with me by her side she presses forward once the signal shows the blue man. Half-way across the street the orange hand begins to flash and Tiffany picks up her pace. I easily keep up with her and we reach the other side with time to spare.

“You don’t have to go on. I’m okay now,” she says. Her work is just across the parking lot.

“Oh, I don’t mind I’ve come this far.”

We continue on together cutting a diagonal path across the parking lot. Behind us the shallow winter sun is rising at its southern angle. The light from it hits our backs, casting tall shadows from our bodies. There I am, slim and tall. And there is Gracie, next to me, her shadow resembling a pumpkin with legs. As we walk I look at our northwest-pointing shadows.

“What if we could trade places with our shadows, Gracie?”

“That’d be cool! But why would you want to do that?” she asks.

“Because then we would all be the same. We wouldn’t have to worry about putting on a happy face for anyone. We could simply exist and function efficiently. And it would equalize all of us. One people, one color.”

I don’t expect Gracie to respond. We walk on for a few moments in silence before she suddenly stops. She swings around, her abdomen striking my thigh, and then extends her arms up and out. Her head is bowed. She looks like a three-year-old waiting for a hug from Father.

“Thanks for walking me, dude!” Gracie then gives me a hug. I can see her saliva-stained shirt come up into my neck. I look up and away and hold my breath.

“Great!,” I say. “Have a good time at work and thanks for calling.”

“No problem. Same time tomorrow?”

I think for a few seconds before responding. “You bet Lauren, best way to start the day.” As the words leave my mouth I realize I mean it.

We part ways. I turn around into the sun to walk back home. I notice my heart feels warm. My shadow is gone. And for a moment, I forget my addiction.

The Mathematics of Milk

Today I economized in a way that made me proud to be Grandpa's grandson. I walked into the Sunflower Market to the back of the store. The obligatory walk of consumption to buy milk. I asked the clerk if any reduced milk was available in the back. He said no but that if I found a jug with a sell-by date within the next two days, I could get it for 99 cents.

Like a man hunting geodes I stuck my skinny neck in the cold rows of dairy, squinting at dates on the top of milk jugs. I found one. I knew I would. I handed it to the clerk and he took a sharpie out of his pocket to write the reduced price on the jug.

"So, I can just walk in here and find a nearly-expired milk anytime," I asked with a grin.

"You bet, just make sure you are nice about it. Don't be like the old ladies who shove a jug at me and demand, '99 cents!' Just don't be annoying about it."

And with that I secured a way to purchase a gallon of milk for 99 cents. At two gallons a week that could save us 104 dollars a year. Multiply that by 30 and I've reduced our grocery bill by 3120 dollars over the next thirty years. Milk lasts longer than the date so we're safe. Now, onto the next money-saving idea...

I WIll Find You

A cloudy night. A semi-strong breeze. A dying moon. Perfect night for a jog. That's what Anna thought and she invited me along. I'm glad I went. We drove a mile east to the River Trail parking lot and parked in the darkest corner to begin our late night run.

We walked through the parking lot to the paved trail and began our run. The trail borders along the Rillito River. And if you know your Arizona, you know river is synonymous with wash, so we were basically running along a very wide wash, probably a hundred yards wide. The river cuts through the heart of Tucson. It's flanked the entire length by ranches, parks, and corrals so you really don't feel like you're in the city. But since you are in the city, the lights bounce off the clouds at night and light up your way like an eery Hogwart's night setting. It's great. And along the way you pass giant sentinel Eucalyptus trees. The Ghost Gums' branches literally float in the wind; giant dementors to scare you along the run.

And to perfect the ambiance, you're in the desert, which I'm convinced is the BEST spot on earth in the winter. It's not too cold, but nippy enough to wear warm clothes. The animals are still out - not hibernating. And the plants are still alive. There you go: mother nature in her happiest mood. Tonight we could hear the chorus of Coyotes howling along with us as we ran. They were in the wash. To liven up the run I did a goofy "Last of the Mohicans" dash through a part of the trail to show Anna my manliness. Sadly, a skinny runner man has little claim on James Fenimore Cooper's idea of masculinity. For that I would need fifty more pounds, a hatchet, and a lot of leather.

Luckily, our only hunting at the end of the run would be at Trader Joe's, our reward for the best run on earth.

Partners in Crime, Watch out J Edgar

How It Happened (A Primary Source)

We came around the corner of Harvest and Allen in the late afternoon. As second-graders we were just two nondescript Mormon boys having some after-school exploration through the neighborhood.

But let's provide some context. The neighborhood was what our parents called "blessed." At the time that meant nothing to me. But I did know I had a lot of friends. And if I walked down my street my arm could possibly tire out from the number of waves made to passing neighbors and cars. Waves were reciprocated earnestly. So waving in our neighborhood was as common as the warm sun. Nothing big here other than the fact that everyone knew everyone and was on good terms all around. This was to be a terribly important setting for what we were about to do.

Around the corner...I spotted a newspaper in the Kleiner's yard. Late in the day I thought they didn't need it. So I grabbed it. We kept walking and two houses down another newspaper lay in the driveway. So my partner in crime went and grabbed it. Two boys. Two newspapers. No. Big. Deal.

But here is the deal. If you throw your mind back to when you were a young boy in the prime of youth with only a pencil box in your desk at school to your name, you liked things, especially free things. And you were competitive. If your best bud had one, you wanted one. And if your best bud didn't have one, you never though about having one. We both had one newspaper. But I wanted another one.

And so, a few houses down, I grabbed another newspaper I saw (apparently our neighbors were not well-informed of what happened the day before in Mesa). Well, my buddy grabbed the equalizer at the next available driveway.

So, we got home with newspapers. Nothing big, but it was an easy booty. I bid my friend good evening and walked home to dinner with the family, passing the "Return with Honor" plaque on our front door.

The next day at school, my buddy and I started talking about resuming our collection. But newspapers were boring. And each one said the same thing. What else could we collect out there in our world? The answer came on the way home from school. Another one of our buddies was out of town. So we knew he must have had uncollected mail in his mail box. I told my buddy to watch out for anyone watching us, and I quickly opened the mailbox, which was stuffed. My heart skipped with joy as I plunged my hand in for the easiest "free" stuff in the world. We ran around a fence and sat down with my buddy's mail. At this point you might wonder where our consciences were vacationing. To this day, I never know why they were AWOL, so I cannot answer that question, I really was otherwise a good kid.

Back to the mail, one of the envelopes was a birthday card for our mutual friend. We opened it. I know, terrible. And we read it. And laughed at the words, though it was nothing special. But our hearts were racing. This was cool. It was fun. It was exciting. We looked down the street at an entire line of mailboxes, standing there on their posts like prisoners in front of a firing squad, unmoving and silent.

We moved on and at the next house opened the mailbox. Nothing. But at the following house the mailbox was again full of mail. I grabbed it all. This one was lucrative, veritable booty, if you will. It had a brand new shiny penny inside the envelope. The face of Honest Abe staring right at me. I was pumped up about this new scheme of ours. Funny birthday cards. Free pennies. Why hadn't we done this earlier?

We moved on down the line of waiting mailboxes. At this point you have to realize we were feeling no remorse. Not only were we pre-baptismal age, we simply had no idea about the significance or consequence of taking people's mail. That's another thing, we truly felt we were "taking" not "stealing." If it comes everyday, why would they miss one day's worth? With my hands full, my buddy grabbed the next box's contents.

By this point in the afternoon our hands were full. We crossed the street to my partner's home. On the side yard was a large vine with big, flat leaves. It crept up from the ground to the roof and spread across half the side wall. It was a perfect treasure spot. We cleared away leaves and branches and placed all our mail on the cool, shaded ground. No one ever walked at this spot except potato bugs.

What happened that night I cannot recall. I'm sure I was looking forward to more mail. Because we got more mail. And more mail. Day after day. How many days this happened I also cannot remember. I just have vague episodic memories that haunt me to this day. After one illegal excursion my partner and I sat atop the fence dividing his home from the neighbor. We had scored an actual box in someones mail, as it turned out, the box of my future church Bishop. We opened it up - a box of pills. We gleefully threw each pill into our neighbor's pool. That was fun! I remember they were red and white pills.

Another episode nearly ruined our fun. We had opened an envelope with two bank cards! One for each of us. We played with these cards in the downstairs of my buddy's house. His dad walked by while we had them out. He asked to see one. We didn't sweat it or skip a beat at all, we simply said we found them on the street. Now, looking back, I realize our "Sherman's March" through the neighborhoods of our youth was widespread. Because my buddy's dad had no idea who the person was named on the card. We might be talking a full square mile. My memory suggests more like a half-square mile.

After a few days we had loads of mail under the ivy. Our treasure was our fun. And no one suspected. I can't believe we were not caught. We always took mail during the day in full view of front windows and living rooms. But I think people started noticing. How else would Mom have been tipped off?

One afternoon we were coming around the street north of Harvest, which is my street. Our hands were full of mail. And there was Mom, walking with a purpose, to us. We both turned around to face away from her and quickly stuffed the mail up our shirts. Great minds think alike. Apparently, authoritative minds think alike, because Mom asked, "what is up your shirts?" I distinctly remember saying, "nothing." By now you realize my IQ equaled my age at the time, so you can understand the response.

I don't remember the long walk home with Mom. I don't remember what happened to my loyal partner when he went home. But I do remember that evening we were returning loads of mail. I can only imagine what our parents thought when we uncovered the ivy. What they saw must have made their hearts drop. But, in the 1980s and in a good neighborhood, we were cushioned against reprisals from the victims.

One evening soon after our capture was devastating. We had to sit through a half-hour lecture from our neighbor across the street who was...a mailman. He told us what could happen to us and where we could end up. I walked out the door feeling all eyes, including the birds, were trained on me. The worst part of the evening was that they were showing Crocodile Dundee II on TV. Mom would not let me watch, as part of my punishment. I learned my lesson. I loved Dundee.

About a week later my partner in crime and I were playing in my back yard. When it was time for him to go home we walked out to the front. And there, right in front of his house were two cop cars! We knew we were in trouble, possibly headed to where the mailman said we would be going if we ever stole mail again. So we ran into my backyard and spent the next hour crouched under a table. We were spooked. Way after dark we emerged, peeked over the fence, and saw the cops had left. Whew! Close call.

Not much happened after that. But the episode, referenced often at family reunions, brings a few laughs. It could have been worse. It should have been worse. But then again, we grew up in the best neighborhood on earth! So if you decide to steal your neighbor's mail, try it in Mesa, AZ. Just avoid the half-square mile around 1336 E Harvest because they're on alert!