These first five come from sources worldwide. The next five are more personal:

1.

Amidst the riots and “occupations” around the world this year came this surreal Hollywood moment. A young guy kissing and comforting his girlfriend while the tension roils around them. Sadly the reason for this riot was a sporting event, but the emotional weight is the same. Mob mentality may be overwhelming, but the moment the person you love is injured… rage is replaced by the desire to comfort, cradle, and love.

2.

The President and his National Security Team watching Osama Bin Laden get killed via live Satellite link. The closest most of us will ever get to this is the film “Patriot Games”. From a nice, well-lit, and unremarkable office in DC, our country is overseeing a man getting tracked down and ended. Looking around the room… For some this is a moment of somber power. For others a realization of the importance of human life. And for a few, just another day at the office.

3.

Steve Jobs definitely lived up to his quote “put a dent in the Universe”. I write this blog on one of his computers. I use one of his phones. I work on one of his programs. But I’m most intrigued by his moments of humanity: He hired a biographer partially so his children would have a record and understanding of why he was so rarely home. And at his last Apple Keynote address, an obviously very frail man retreated backstage and laid his forehead against his wife. He was a visionary, yes… but I like that he was also human, flawed, loved, and loving.

4.

This is the funeral for Navy SEAL Jon Tumilson, who was one of 30 killed when their helicopter was shot down over Afghanistan. His dog, “Hawkeye” is laying close to his master for the last time. I realize I’m a softy dog owner, but this makes me cry. Hawkeye gets it, and yet, will never understand. Like all of us.

5.

The Egypt protests which gridlocked the country and eventually brought down President Mubarak had this surprising subplot. About 10% of the country are reportedly Christians. A suicide bombing attack at a Coptic Christian church had killed 23 Christians at the beginning of the year. And yet, during the protests, Christians encircled the praying and vulnerable Muslims to allow them to pray in peace and protection. How much would we change the world if these were the kind of actions Christians were known for? And how likely would it be for a potential bomber to blow up the same people who protected him while he prayed?

I simply love driving. I didn’t even like it this much when I was 16.

Last month we took a family roadtrip to LA. Between the trip itself, two days on a racetrack, a half day in the Malibu canyon roads, and full days evaluating the new Cadillac CTS coupe, I logged more than 2000 miles behind the wheel in that week. And I didn’t even drive every day. In fact, I would have happily driven more.

Somewhere in the midst of this marathon of wheel-time I realized something quite odd. I’m not a sports fan, and I’ve known for quite some time that the sports which interest me (Climbing, Cycling, Skiing, etc) are all sports of individual achievement. I’ve somehow avoided the typical interest in sports with “ball” at the end of the title. However, my driving obsession closely resembles something else I’ve always blown off: Golf.

For years I’ve listened to golfers go starry-eyed while they talk about their perfect round. I shake my head because I simply don’t get it and don’t care to find it. Yet, now I must admit that the similarities are quite glaring:

Golfer’s always talk about how much they enjoy being in the outdoors and interacting with nature. While I find walking on the manicured lawns of a manmade creation to be a pretty anteceptic way to enjoy nature, I have to admit that I’m not exactly a mountain man as I race down a ribbon of asphalt cut into a mountain as the air-conditioner keeps things perfect.

Then there’s the maddening exactness, where golfers keep returning to their hobby in the hopes of achieving fractions of improvement. I know I can infuriate or mind-numb just as easily as I go in search of the perfect corner exit or a lap time two-tenths lower than my personal best. “Yes, I realize this is my thirty-fifth lap of the same two mile course, but this time I think I’ve really figured out the apex of corner five.”

See… you’re asleep already. Now start talking about your new putter or nearly getting under par, and I’ll wish for a coma.

Then there’s the social aspect of golf, where grown men stand around talking about nothing while wearing terrible clothes and looking jealously at the guy with the newest piece of gear.

Again, I’m without a leg to stand on, as car guys stand around wearing clothes with more logos and badges than the cars they own and talk about the best synthetic oil until someone pulls in with that exotic which got released last week.

Truth be told… I find this to be just as mind-numbing as the golfer’s discussion, but the concept is at least the same.

My conclusion? Well, I guess I’m just as boring as every other adult male. And I’ve finally found a common understanding with the avid golfers I know.

Except I could die in a spectacular crash next weekend… you don’t find that in golf. Maybe that’s what it needs.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ve finally figured out the perfect line for that chicane I did this morning.

Sorry… it’s like a Par 5 with a water hazard. That help?

We laughed a lot. In fact, it felt like two people excited to be dating. And all of this got me thinking about the changes of our last few months and the strangeness of marriage.

This summer marks a new chapter in our life together. Chapter one was Los Angeles, and it’s all we’ve known. Chapter two begins in Park City and we are starting over in nearly every way possible.

A strange side effect of this change is we’ve both felt a release of secret tensions which built up over our last year in Los Angeles. No matter how well we tried to cope with my lack of income and our dwindling options, the situation created tension. And fear. And unhappiness. But we were head-down and hanging on so I don’t think either one of us realized the pressure building.

Then we moved, and I started making an income again, and life took on a bit more security. This brought down the walls we’d built for survival. And brutal honesty flared up. Pent up frustration bloomed. Displeasure was no longer weighed down by more important concerns and we found ourselves in a martial free-for-all.

Two weekends ago we had a huge fight, complete with yelling at each other in public – which we simply don’t do. Tears. Screaming. Both of us feeling hurt, unheard, and unloved.

It could be said we cleared the air. Said things that needed to be said. But the result created an uneasy truce, like animals in a circling standoff.

Darkness invades. You pull away, only to suffer horrific tearing as you realize the years of letting this person in has allowed their roots deep into every part of your being. Wonton destruction ensues.

You can’t trace how you got to this place from that happy day at the altar. You look at young infatuated couples with equal parts jealousy and cynical distain.

Then the really toxic idea enters your mind. The thought that this is your new normal. This person you are bound to for life will always hurt you this much, and you will always hurt them. And being married will never feel good again.

In those moments, I try to remember something one of my best friends said:

“NewsFlash: Marriage is Hard!”

In the last year, three of my friends got divorced. A lawyer would describe each of them as completely “amicable” separations, but the human toll has been complete and total carnage. Severe pain and lingering questions like smoke clearing from a battlefield.

I can do nothing but love these friends. I can’t judge them, or second guess them, or even think I know what hard decisions ended each of these marriages. I’ve seen that path in our marriage – like standing at a crossroads in a dark wood and believing that the more frightening path actually leads to a brighter dawn. For some, it does.

But this past weekend reminded me that marriage is one of the most extreme and elastic of relationships. The great lows are matched by great highs, and marriage can not be judged from the outside. Our time together may have looked like a couple in the early stage of infatuation, but the laughter and shared experience was backed by more than a decade of digging into each other. Only time and openness can create this kind of connection. The trust to leave nerves exposed results in a person knowing you in ways you didn’t think possible.

I’ve come to think of marriage like a hike through spectacular jagged mountains. You’re taken by the beauty and experience of the journey and you reach a high ridge to see the spectacular world before you. But this leads to complacency as you descend the peak into the next valley below. And the valley air stagnates and bakes out your will to continue. You think you can’t possibly go on. If the valley is long enough and low enough you begin to wonder why you came on this journey at all.

Should you choose to fight onward, then a climb awaits you. Up out of the valley with exhaustion, sweat, and pain. And always the peak seems distant.

Yet when you get there, you look again at the break-taking world around you. The worst moments seem far behind. The deeper the valley, the more amazing the peak. I wish we could camp out at the peak. Build a marriage on the shoulder of the mountain. But I know it can’t last and life is not lived in a world of sameness.

The hardest thing for me is to remember the truths I’ve seen in these dozen years.
- No conversation or fight is ever as bad as I imagined it would be. So I need to speak up before I talk myself into believing in WWIII.
- Valley’s are hot and terrible, but like a forest fire of destruction – new and stronger life can form in its fertile wake.
- A quick, true laugh with my wife can wipe out our longest fight.
- I have no idea what a good marriage looks like. Because every marriage has days on the mountain in celebration, and days in the valley in bloody warfare.

After twelve years I can’t define our marriage. I couldn’t say what others see in it or believe to be true. I just know I’m always surprised when we reach a mountain top. The views get better. The memories of our struggles fade faster. And I do everything I can to take it in and cherish every second.

We passed the milestone of a dozen years with the joyful infatuation of teenagers with a driver’s license and a savings account. Lost in laughter, fun, and celebration. My favorite anniversary since the day itself. As little as two weeks ago I would have never dreamt it possible.

I know that somewhere on the journey there will be another valley. And the quickest way back to the peak is straight though the middle.

And right about now I’m thinking how blessed I am to have such an amazing hiking partner.

Here’s the short version: A 20 year old girl in Detroit has been put on probation at her job. Why? Well, she’s a waitress at Hooter’s and she’s getting a bit fat for her shiny orange shorts.

And this made the news. Redefining the “fluff piece”. Ah-hem.

As I fight back an onslaught of ever dirtier jokes I suggest you watch the CNN video for yourself. Then, I suspect you’ll see what I did:

First off, I agree with Hooter’s on this one. Their entire business and perception is based on a physical standard. The Dallas Cowboy’s cheerleaders are a good example to cite, even though the average Hooter’s girl is as likely to make the Cheerleaders as I am to become the first long haired man on the moon.

You go to Hooter’s to have your waitress bend over the table and show you things that aren’t on the menu. And for those of you giving the classic line “But, wait… the food’s awesome. My wife loves to go for their Hot Wings.” Sit down and shut up. I’m not buying it for a second. And if your wife does like to go, she’s enjoying making catty remarks at the same waitress you keep asking for a refill.

Hooter’s is not about the food. It’s more like a soft-core stripclub with an extensive menu. And if you’re going to come in for a bucket of hotwings and a cooler of beer the last thing you want to do is have a tubby waitress waddle over and cause lunch to come back up.

And the company gave her the tools to address the problem. A free gym membership. That’s a perk. It’s on the job training. Literally. Think of it this way, if you suddenly forgot how to do something vital to your job would you accept a free opportunity to relearn and keep your job? Of course you would.
I’m sure she was thinner when she was hired. If you don’t want to stay slim to keep your job… here’s a hint… don’t work at a place where the shorts double as napkins.

But this is not even the strangest part of this “news” story.

Everyone is quick to mention her height and weight. But, it’s not about the numbers, it’s about how the body carries it. And one quick look at this girl and I’m instantly thinking… please find bigger shorts.

Yet, I feel for her when she talks about losing her role “in the Hooter’s family”. Forget the fact that it must be a family petri-dish of dysfunction for a moment and ponder this: She was told all this in her two year review. That means she’s had this job since she was 18. And she’s teary-eyed at the thought of no longer sliding beer across tables while sporting polyester daisy-dukes? May I suggest you aim higher… reach for, well… reach for the sidewalk I guess cause this is a road to nowhere.

Speaking of NoWhere… how sad is your day if a Hooter’s on the outskirts of Detroit, Michigan sounds like fun?

But all of this pales in comparison to my favorite moment: If the company wants to impose a standard for its employees, fine. However, may I suggest that the manager of the restaurant not look like a planet. It’s impossible for me to take you seriously as a critic of other people’s appearance when you’ve got your own gravitational pull.

Terribly insensitive of me? Yes. Absolutely. But if we’re gonna talk standards, it should apply across the board. I don’t care how good the wings are.

I say take the gym membership, and turn yourself into a chiseled specimen. Then take your new look and boosted confidence out and find a new job.

So you might be wondering how I can write another entry about pregnancy. Well, I’ve decided I’m the town crier of pregnancy truth – “Hear ye, Hear ye….” Because it’s become quite clear that a few months of holding a newborn gives women amnesia. I suspect that something in the smell of fresh skin actually wipes out bad memories.

First off, the high-points. Our son was born healthy and full term via C-Section as planned. He has all his fingers, toes, lungs and limbs. And all the parts which properly qualify him as a boy. We are blessed.

But in nearly every other way the actual birth was as problematic as the pregnancy itself.

Multiple Doctors and Nurses took one look at my wife and said “Oh, a redhead… well redhead’s bleed more and have more pain than all other folks.” Imagine the great news that was to a woman who wanted a C-Section for less pain, and a man who didn’t want to see the blood and gore from the process.

But after watching my wife get jerked and tugged like the opening scene of Jaws, my son let out a cry, turned from a crazy purple black into a normal skintone, and we were suddenly parents.

Normally at this point things get better.

While our son rested comfortably, my wife endured rising pain. It took a while to find the right combination of meds to keep her both comfortable and lucid. Meanwhile, her blood levels were way down and her blood pressure way up – the exact opposite of her normal state. Thankfully, when things turned for the better we got to take our little man home and start returning to normal.

Or so we thought.

We’d been home less than 48 hours when her pain was up, and the incision was gaining a nasty growing bruise. One look from the doctor and he knew it was internal bleeding. After a quick sonogram we were re-admitted to the hospital and planning to go back into surgery.

Apparently sometimes when cutting through multiple layers, a blood vessel can restrict from the trauma of being cut and not present itself as something that needs to be dealt with. Then, after a patient is sealed up, the vessel relaxes again and begins pumping blood once more… into no where. There was a real chance of this pooling blood eventually bursting through the remaining layers and tainting more of the torso. Luckily the problem had been found early on.

However we now found ourselves in a Groundhog Day style retread. My wife who should have been a week into recovery was back at ground zero but with twice as much surgery and anesthesia to show for it. Thankfully she is now recovering properly, albeit slowly.

Yet she’s enjoying the fruit of her labor (or surgeries in this case). Our little man is a good sleeper, most of the time, an easy picture subject, and has stolen his mom’s heart in a huge way. Holding him, she feels no pain. She forgets many of the things that got her here until she shifts the wrong way and remembers… two surgeries.

All the while I keep thinking how everyone talks about the beauty of childbirth. And I realize there’s a great confusion going on. Beauty of a child itself… sure, I can go with you there. But the process of childbirth is far from attractive or enjoyable. Just a quick scan of my wife’s experiences and it’s obvious that most anything else would have been more fun.

We never had a glow. More like a spotlight of blinding discomfort, fear, and complication. Whatever our experience is in the years to come, we won’t look back and mistake it for a glow. It was a struggle. And my wife is a trooper.

At least she got something out of it.

In many ways I’ve spent a large portion of my adult life trying to figure out quick effective ways to use my native tongue. In fact, my only tongue.  (Porque yo hablo espanol muy paquito y muy mal….. or something)

But there are times when English doesn’t provide enough ways to get a point across.  There’s only so many times you can add “really, really, really” to something before it just confirms that you “really, really, really” have no idea what you’re talking about at all.

So I have a tendency to work in metaphor.  Using something unrelated to explain the gravity of my current point.

“Saying Todd has a tendency to use metaphor is like saying Iran has a bit of a PR problem”

You see what I did there…

And these days, because of Everyday Driver, I’m prone to torture metaphors like a Chinese Hitman on Redbull.

Sorry…

And I guess that’s my point, I generally enjoy not having the right English word and resorting to a mental picture for reference.  But sometimes I’d just like to have a way to hit the point in one individual word of perfect selection.  Of course all of our vocabularies would have to be exponentially better to make that idea work at all.

Other times however, a metaphor side-swipes a point so powerfully that it sends the conversation in an entirely new direction.  And that happened to me tonight.

My wife was sitting on the couch, very pregnant, very uncomfortable, and decided she’d spread the wealth.  So, she got her headphones, put them across her stomach and began scrolling through her ipod.  At one point she also got out a flashlight, so between the thumping music and the strobing flashlight our unborn son suddenly got treated to his own version of Studio 54.

And while he’s dancing (or trying to cover his little ears – let’s be honest there’s no way to tell) she says:

“This is just like the aurora borealis”

I have no idea what I was doing before she said that as I was stopped dumb by that proclamation.

“What’s that now?” I said.

“You know what I mean,” she says.

“Yes dear, of course… I see exactly why blasting Janet Jackson into your uterus is reminiscent of odd trails of light during sunset at the arctic circle.”

Now, she was referring to the rare strangeness of her stomach bouncing to the movement of an actual human inside her.  And yes, it probably falls into the same likelyhood & common occurance percentage as the average person seeing the northern lights.

But for me it provided one of the best laughs I’ve had in months.  And she laughed along with me.  But Bodie stopped kicking and his nightclub dance party never returned to its former glory.

You see, you’ve got to be careful with the ole English language.  Sometimes the metaphor is not our friend.

(If you didn’t know… well… SURPRISE… We’re 6 months pregnant!)

As my wife and I march closer to the birth of our little man, the changes are already coming fast and furious.  And anyone who knows me knows I over-think just about everything.  No starry-eyed wondering at the miracle of it all… not me, not here… I’m wired more the opposite.  Cold hard analysis. Looking at the short and long term effects of decisions.

You could argue I’m draining the wonder and glory out of the whole thing.  You might be right, but it’s who I am… and thankfully I married a woman who loves me anyway.

Except we are both quite blindsided by the most recent development.  Apparently, society has another topic which it displays in a blanket of misinformation and wrong advice from every side.  I thought the only thing fully in that category was sex and it’s true realities (don’t get me started… a whole other blog post about both the religious and secular worlds doing more damage than good).  But no-no… there is a bigger smoke and mirrors campaign.  Something like:

“Pregnancy is a beautiful wonderful thing.”

Um. No. That’s a lie.

Okay, maybe that’s too harsh.  I suppose there are women out there that have good pregnancies to perpetuate the myth.  Some must actually enjoy it.  Heck, that Duggar woman is now pregnant with her 19th kid so I guess that’s an example of good times no matter how extreme.

But in our house… any sighting or representation of “happy expectant mother” is laughable.  I truly believe that the “glow” is only something Hollywood created.  When have you ever heard a real “it was awful” pregnancy story? Morning sickness you hear about.  Maybe you know a woman put on bed-rest… but that doesn’t get discussed as anything worse than a monumentally boring hassle.

This is one of those things where looking back apparently becomes so altered by the rosy glasses of the little cuddly person that all the crap is forgotten.

So.  Here I am for the sake of history.  Or so I’ll tell myself.

Morning sickness. – Nope.  Didn’t happen.   We had evening sickness.  Not with puking, but a general dislike of all smells, food, and wafts of the airconditioner.  I had to eat in another room.

Oh… and the first trimester is supposed to be when she feels the worst.  Um.  No.  We’re on a perpetual rise of discomfort like a never-ending roller coaster crank hill.

Now, Catherine’s a trooper.  No doubt.  Wanted to go camping.  Likes to get out and do things.  But the snap-back for her boldness is horrific.

Heartburn so bad she wants to cry.  A bronchial infection.  That leads to coughing, which stirs up the acid reflux, which generally leads to puking, which empties her stomach, which makes her hungry, which leads to heartburn and the cycle continues.

But wait!  Coughing moves ribs!  That’s right, dear reader, ribs in my wife’s back are swinging out of place like they are on hinges.  And that comes with a big basket of excruciating pain, which makes her cry, which stirs the heartburn, which aggravates the cough, which hurts the rib, which often leads to puking, which makes her hungry and on and on it goes…  except now with terrible tear-stirring pain.

And… nosebleeds!  Cause when all of that’s going on what she really wants to do is lay down and let the blood trickle down her sore throat, stir her heartburn and…  yeah.  See above.

So.  Where’s the glow?  Who thought up that steaming pile of fiction?

What really breaks my heart is there’s not a thing I can do to help her.  She’s sorting through a list of medications longer than my entire medical record, trying to keep down lunch and not cough to send her rib screendoor-ing around her torso…

And I’m standing there going “I’m sorry, baby”.  I may as well just shrug and say “Sucks to be you” – that would be just as helpful.  Thus… if no one else in the history of pregnancy wants to say it… I’ve done it.

Pregnancy sucks.  It’s not wonderous.  It’s not beautiful.  There are no Angels with softly gelled spotlights making sure there’s a glow off perfect skin.

If you’re reading this – and you’ve gotten this far – I must ask one serious favor.

Do not ask my wife how she’s doing.  You’ve already read how she’s doing.  She’s somewhere in the discomfort cycle listed above and swallowing her way through her daily mountain of pills.

Don’t ask.  And don’t mention it.  That doesn’t help either.

There’s no glow.  Baby’s healthy.  Mom’s in Hell.  Dad’s hanging on.

And the truth has been recorded.

It was like every other morning. Days that change your life often start that way.

Don Merritt moved through his waking routine like a human metronome. Everything in its time. Everything in its place. A world just… so. By the time he exited the house and entered the garage, he was two minutes behind his optimum schedule, but still well within the ten minute buffer zone he’d added to his timeline after the backed up toilet incident of 2007.

No problems this morning, he just felt tired.

The latte in his stainless steel mug filled his Jetta with its sweet earthy aroma as he rolled out into traffic and started the stop and go dance. His commute took him between forty-three and fifty-one minutes depending upon the morning. Of course that was not including that time two years ago when it took ninety-seven minutes because of that terrible wreck on the other side. Don would never understand why people slowed down to see mangled metal going the other direction. What a morbid fascination, and it didn’t do anything but make things more congested.

So Don settled in, finding himself bored of XM radio, and wanting to talk to someone. He couldn’t remember when he’d become displeased with silence. The stereo continued to blather on, but it wasn’t enough. He watched the cars around him, or to be specific he watched the bumpers in front of him and the occasional motorcycle whizzing by between lanes. He hated that about Los Angeles. Come to think of it, that was only the first of a good list of really irksome qualities in this town. Too many people for one thing. “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians” as his mom would say.

That’s when he remembered he owed his mom a call. Seeing the SUV in front of him stopping again, he was braking to a stop as he reached for his iPhone. Witnesses would later report he was looking down at his center console and didn’t see the crash coming.

A blue V8 Mustang was charging down the HOV lane, thundering past all the stop and go rubber-band drivers to his right. The driver had started to pay more attention to the stopped cars than his own lane and that’s why he was rocketing along when he saw his lane stopped as well.

The tires spit smoke and screeched as the Mustang lived up to its name with unpredicatable bucking and darting. Still doing over sixty, the car ducked left, bounced off the concrete divider like a banked cue-ball and blindsided Don’s silver Jetta.

The Jetta was sitting still with a Chevy Tahoe inches in front. The Mustang curled back the left rear like a pull tab and spun Don’s door flush with the Mustang’s grill. Both cars embedded themselves into the Tahoe’s rear door, sheering off the third row seat and making Don’s Jetta the new second row bench. At least three other cars had obvious destruction as this growing metal snowball thudded to a stop against bumpers and sheet metal. When it was all over, the police would have twelve drivers on file claiming damage from the wreck.

Don was aware of smoke all around him. The smell was acrid and almost metallic, but he didn’t realize these were side effects of the numerous airbags exploding during the wreck. In fact, Don had no clear awareness of where he was in the world, let alone what was going on. He only knew someone had spilled a latte and it was all over him and everything. What a mess.

There was darkness for a long time. Then someone speaking to him, calling him “Sir” over and over and asking inane questions as if they thought he was a five-year old. “Can you hear me?”. “Can you tell me what day it is?” “Do you know your name?”

Absurd. Of course he could hear them. And today was… well, he couldn’t think of it right now, but it would come to him. Asking his name was the really offensive part, what person over the age of two doesn’t know their own name? For that matter, what dog or cat didn’t know their own name? His name was… what was his name?

“Don. It’s great to see you. Beautiful day.”

He was lying on a perfectly manicured lawn and a man was standing over him backlit by the sun. Don tried to get up, but the man reach down and offered a hand. Now he could see who was speaking, a mid-thirties paramedic in a dark blue jumpsuit.

“I never get tired of these breezes,” the paramedic was saying.

Don stood now and looked back at the grass. It wasn’t manicured, in fact it was quite wild. Yet somehow it felt more perfect than any carpet he’d dug his toes into. He stared at his toes, barefoot in this dense green paradise, and realized he had no idea where his socks or shoes were. Or his coat and tie for that matter. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember what a coat and tie looked like or why they were important. Just as he tried to focus this line of thinking it vanished as if the breeze had taken it hostage and pulled it away.

“It is nice,” Don mused, feeling his hair flutter as the cool swell flirted up this grassy ridge and on toward distant mountains.

“And the view?” asked the medic.

“Yeah. Nice.”

“Wow. You’re either a tough critic or you don’t like anything.”

The valley was more beautiful now. Maybe Don was paying attention for the first time, but it seemed as if the groves of amber leaved aspen and a whitecapping river had materialized as he stared.

“I just don’t,” Don started, but then stopped himself to examine what he was really wanting to say. “I don’t think about scenery. It’s nice, but that doesn’t resolve my day.”

“Resolve your day, huh? Too many management courses for you, maybe?”

Don looked at the Medic, expecting to be annoyed and tell the man exactly what he could do with his blue collar assessment, but two odd things occurred to him. First, there seemed no way to embrace anger while looking at this man. And secondly, instead of a paramedic, the man now looked more like a construction worker. The blue jumpsuit was the same color. Maybe he hadn’t seen the man correctly when he first awoke.

This posed a new question for Don. Where was he?

“Let me show you,” the construction worker said and turned like a man leading a buyer through a build site. He had a yellow hard hat all of a sudden. Don didn’t have one, but also couldn’t see buildings or construction in any direction.

This would have been the first thing to ask if not for the impression of the mysterious construction worker opening a door from apparent nothingness. It was as if a square of the world had been sliced with utmost precision and a thick chunk hinged back to reveal a room. Don suddenly wished he understood more about multiple dimensions, but all thought fizzled like a sparkler as he stepped through the door.

To call the room a stadium would be like suggesting a bottle rocket was the same as a Saturn V. Every concept of an indoor space was revolutionized by the size of this warehouse. It was as if he’d shrunk to the world of mice. And all around him were huge stalls of perfect white, each one clearly labeled with a destination.

“It’s snow,” Don said as if speaking it aloud would help him believe.

“Do you have any idea how many types of snow there are?” his guide asked. Don decided he must be a guide because now the coveralls seemed very high-class and fitted like a NASA flight suit. “Snow is a bit of a hobby of mine,” the man said.

“But every snowflake is unique right… so you’re asking a trick question,” Don’s head was clearing now and he wanted to make sure this guy didn’t take him for some patsy.

“Ah, you’re right. But I mean types of snow, wet, dry, light, heavy.” The guide was excited, scooping up handfuls of each one as Don stood over his shoulder. They weren’t walking and yet the whole room seemed at their disposal. The guide would only reach down and find yet another stall of snow available. “I have so much fun watching those little guys debate the consistency or the crystalline structure.”

“What guys?”

“Well, there’s Ahmil, Alfonse, Anthony, Armando…

“Okay, I get it,” Don hated the bite in his voice. For him this was the nicest way to stop the list of names, but even so, any tension felt ready to rip the fabric of this place. “Elves or something.”

“No. Of course not.” His guides said, flat. “But I realize you don’t know any of the snow scientists, so I’m not surprised you don’t know their names.”

“Snow scientists. Right.”

“How can you not like snow?”

“I’m more of a warm climate kind of guy”

“You say that,” the guide began, challenging him. “But when’s the last time you walked on the beach? Or sat outside and sipped a glass of wine?”

“Just last week,” Don responded, annoyed.

“You were inside. Drinking iced tea. And paying more attention to the game than the sunset.”

“How do you know?” Don demanded. But his guide didn’t seem to hear the question.

The man reached for nothing, but when he turned his hand around a doorknob it opened a door which hadn’t been there a second before. Another huge chunk of the world parted and his guide motioned him to step through.

It was night on this side of the door, a dense perfect blackness without any manmade light. Yet, Don shielded his eyes as they adjusted to a blazing white. The moon hung closer than he’d ever seen, it’s craters and ridges distinct . And in the blackness all around this blazing orb hung more stars than Don thought possible. Somehow they shone along-side this overgrown moon, visible when he looked for them, but vanished when he focused on the moon again. Simultaneous, and individual. Impossible, but true.

“Am I dead?” Don asked. Suddenly the thought overwhelmed him. This couldn’t be real, and it wasn’t a dream.

“No,” said his guide. “But the life you lead is but a walking shell. I would not wish to continue.”

Don didn’t respond, but his mind screamed out “Who asked you?” and stirred in defiant silence that this odd workman would dare question his existence.

“I am right to question you,” the guide said. “It’s all mine. This moon, and sky. The snow I mix and remix into a trillion combinations. And you and your unhappy existence.”

Don was really going to let him have it now, but one look at the guide’s face and he couldn’t remember why he was angry. Instead he felt the thing rising up from behind the anger. The hidden thing. The staggering thirst for beauty which brought him to tears under these million stars. He was lonely. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen something beautiful in his daily life.

“It’s alright, Don. There’s still much to see. Much you’ve missed.”

The first blue sliver of the impending sunrise revealed mountains on the horizon. Don realized he was standing on a beach of sand so soft and fine it felt like ground marble. And then he heard the crash of waves, unknown until this moment.

“Wait…” he pleaded, though unsure what he was asking for. But he needed more time here to figure it out.

The guide put his hands on Don’s shoulders and looked him in the face the way a friend does to build you up. A look of safety and support, with needed truth arriving soon.

“Time is a fabrication. Beauty is eternal.” his guide said. ““Check your schedule.”

The moon faded, taking the stars and the horizon as well. A blackness took him, dense enough to reminded him of his childhood hiding place so deep in his parents closet that he risked his own terror every time he used it for hide and go seek. A darkness filled with menace and texture. Immune to light.

And then his eyes opened to a sunny day. The sound of traffic, helicopters, and shouts of men crushed his ears as if a giant mute button had been turned off. He could feel hands on his neck. More on his shoulders. He was moving, but all his limbs were still.

He was laid onto something, then strapped tight to a gurney. He was now looking up at four paramedics. They looked like his guide, but they weren’t.

“We got him,” one of them said in a rush of adrenaline and stress.

Don could hear the squeak of a gurney wheel as they rushed him across the ground. He smelled gasoline, water, and sweat. Each distinct and somehow pleasing to him. They smelled like life.

Then he noticed the palm trees reaching up into the perfect blue of the day. Spaced and leafy, soaking up the morning sun like an image on a postcard.

And as the gurney tilted, Don could now see the freeway. Cars snarled around a terrible wreck. Flares on the ground. Onlookers slowing in the traffic going the other way.

But most shocking to Don was the palm trees. Here, just above this freeway which he recognized were the beautiful trees. He’d never noticed them before, and now their mere presence overwhelmed him.

Tears filled his eyes as he noted the hundreds of faces in the cars. None of them looked up. How many had even noticed the palm trees or the cloudless sky. But he knew the answer.

None of them. And he wanted to tell them.

But it was just as likely he’d forget as well.