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Here we are, in the middle of a corn field maze. The sun's about to set, but the kids are ready for it, lanterns in hand.
Colleen: "We're in the middle of a buffalo's eye."
Suzanne just finished quoting Robert Frost.
I think we're lost.
Sometimes I run across 'celebrities' in my job. I say "run across" because I don't really spend time with them or, for the most part, particularly care to spend time with them. I like the occasional bumps, hallway passes, or collisions because these usually make for the more interesting stories. For instance, take John Travolta. He stuck me as kind, genuine, and engaging. But the people who surrounded him - his entourage, well that was something else. They were like those paintings in old haunted house movies, the kind with the eyes that followed you around the room. Those were the people around him: haunted house eye people. Creepy Scientologist people.
Today was different. Today I escorted Elie Wiesel from New Jersey to Amarillo.
I was nervous about this one, particularly since I'd be spending six hours in a plane with him, three hours from New Jersey and three going back (although going back was late at night, landing at about 2:30 in the morning, so I figured we'd just sleep on that trip).
What do you say to Elie Wiesel? What kind of topics do you pick? What would be something that he wasn't tired of talking about over and over again?
None of that mattered, really, because some weird sickness had overcome me, ripping at my throat. I had completely lost my voice and was miserable for it. Professor Wiesel did suggest drinking hot tea with honey to make me feel better.
I didn't know what to expect of Elie Wiesel, but now I know that was silly to think about. He is a kind, warm, welcoming man, wise and amazingly friendly. And when I shook his hand I knew I didn't have to talk. I didn't have to ask any questions. I was there, and that was enough.
He spoke at the West Texas A&M convocation and then at a conversational event that evening, and when he was done, he was spirited back to the airport (I drove quickly to catch up), and then we hopped on the jet to fly back the New Jersey. On that late night flight he shared some of his own, private stash chocolate with me and we split some fruit and didn't talk much.
What did I learn from my time with Elie Wiesel? He likes chess and doesn't like sports, so we're kindred spirits. He liked the pictures I showed him of Suzanne and the kids (it was odd to whip out the iPhone to show off the photos, but it was the best I had).
I also learned that we didn't have to say much to have a good conversation, and just sharing a piece of chocolate is a great way of passing the time.
It was a long day today but a good day. If only I had brought my travel chess board, it would have been perfect.
Today was a quick day in New York full, as always, of adventure, intrigue, and moronic use of the #6 subway line.
The Apple store on 5th Avenue is a sight to behold. The entrance, a gigantic square of glass, erupts from an open courtyard like some kind of Jobsonian temple to straight lines, empty space, and transparency. The store itself is downstairs, so you can take the Willie Wonka glass elevator or the clear stairs to the sanctuary below.
Boy, was it crowded! Really jam-packed, with all sorts of sweaty people buying iPods and computers and whatever else. I meant to get a battery for my laptop, but in the heat of the new iPod moment, I forgot.
Afterward, we dashed (I say we because my traveling companion on this trip was Russell, a Big Cheese and Great Fellow from West Texas A&M University, which is in Canyon, Texas - half an hour south of Amarillo) to Grand Central Station to meet my dear friend Davide whom I've known forever and have promoted to official Aunt status for the kids. We met her for dinner at an oyster restaurant below the Grand Central Station terminal, a dinner at which I immediately knocked over her glass of water into her bag and across the floor, causing quite the ruckus with the restaurant wait staff. They clamored and scurried over the pool of water on the floor like ants on a picnic watermelon, all the while assuring me it was all okay, everything was a-okay.
From there, Russell and I took the subway to the Village to see Gone Missing, an off-broadway play that was quite good and entertaining. Russell knew one of the actors from some way-back-when speech tournament, so we had a very pleasant hour after the play at a French bistro restaurant talking about the show. Our waiter was a weary Frenchman, and I really wanted to order "water with ghaaaasss," but by then my sore throat had conspired with my voice to make me utterly and incomprehensibly hoarse. All I could do was smile and point.
Right after the play had finished, I noticed the six actors hanging around outside the theater's entrance. They were regular people again, hanging around a darkened door, talking to friends, and you wouldn't have guessed they had just been the object of attention for a hundred or so of us other people for the past 70 minutes. I liked this part of show, the part most of the audience misses, the part where pretending stops and life begins, the part where you see a tattoo on an actor's arm and wonder if he has to cover it up or lose roles because of it, the part where stage accents are gone and homegrown accents are back.
That's the part of the night where the city takes the crowds and shoppers, hungry diners and frantic waiters, pretenders and playwrights and pushes them all into the background noise of the city.
I like that transition. It's like dusk, moving people from one source of light to another.
Even though (because some odd school board misinterpretation of "vacation day") the kids had school on Labor Day this year, we decided to go camping - a family first.
We met a few other families at Caprock Canyons state park, which is a couple of hours southeast of us. Suzanne and I had been to this park a long time ago and had had quite an adventure riding our bikes into an old railroad tunnel inhabited by scores of friendly, squeaking bats.
The park is astounding beautiful, but it's something you don't really see until you get into the park and start hiking. Deep canyons abound along with, rumor has it, a pretty large bison herd.
So we pitched our borrowed tent, blew up the air mattresses, and set out the sleeping bags, and then we did all the normal campish stuff after that, which included: chasing snakes and toads, standing in eye watering smoke from the campfire, eating the most wonderful homegrown watermelon (from our very own garden), hiking, grilling up burgers, hot dogs, and ending the evening with s'mores over the fire.
The next morning, at the bathrooms, we ran into strange little man hanging around outside the doors.
"Where ya from? Where ya from? Where ya from?" he said, speaking through his nose. "Lubbock?"
"Amarillo."
"Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh."
I turned to the kids. "Stick close to me."
And that's when Colleen gave me a little lecture: "You're not supposed to tell him where we live."
She, of course, is right. The student has become the master
