Vacation Box of Chocolates: Part I (Franconia Fiasco Edition)

"Life's a box of chocolates, Forrest. You never know what you're gonna get," Mrs. Gump explained to her son in the movie Forrest Gump.

Vacations are certainly like that, even more so if they involve children. Now don't get me wrong. I LOVE chocolate (a little too much, if truth be known), a box of chocolates (preferably multiple boxes), and the variety of flavors within.

As for the sweeping metaphor, yes, I enjoy the unpredictability of life as well. Routine has always seemed rather boring in my book. Vanilla, stagnant, tedious. Since I have a desire to shake things up, I have frequently sought out change -- in jobs, homes, areas of the country where I've lived, etc. Change keeps me engaged, motivated, and on my toes. It's just how I operate.

But there does come a point at which ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. Exhibit A: Our holiday vacation.

For the past few years, we have had practically nothing to do over the long Christmas/New Year's break from school. With no family to visit -- parents, siblings, or aunts and uncles -- our calendar has been WIDE open. Most of our cousins who are still living don't reside close by, and they are busy with their own families anyway. Having no family plans is just par for the course for us at any holiday time.

The onus is on me to create plans to fill up the TWELVE AND A HALF DAYS so we don't all go STARK, RAVING CHARLIE SHEEN with nothing to do for such a long stretch. Unlike previous years when I was behind in my scheduling, I had booked a couple of activities this time that would occupy seven consecutive days, a whole week.

I was pretty proud of myself. We were in good shape.

Before Christmas I didn't have to come up with anything really because I had my hands full scrambling to get ready for the holiday: stringing the outdoor lights along the railing in the front, putting up the tree for the boys to decorate, hanging the stockings near the fireplace, and purchasing and wrapping presents for them. Racing against the December 25 deadline, several tasks went unfinished -- taping up Christmas cards arriving in the mail, composing our year-in-review newsletter, and mailing out seventy-five photo cards with the newsletters.

We went to a friend's house Christmas afternoon, and the next day Christopher was scheduled to take a three-day ski racing camp at Bradford Mountain thirty-eight minutes away. Problem was: no snow but some rain. First and second days canceled. Honestly, I wouldn't have minded it at all if the third day, Friday, was also nixed because I needed the time to get us ready for our trip to New Hampshire the following day. But it was cold enough to make snow the night before, so the third day of camp was held. With Charlie in tow, I dropped Chris off at the mountain and returned later to pick him up. Total driving time: 152 minutes.

Now before I launch into the story of the NEW YEAR'S WEEKEND TRIP FROM HELL, let me mention that one other activity involving a part of two days and two more drives of varying length materialized during this period. This was the audio and film recording of the 26 Angels video
dedicated to the families of the Sandy Hook shooting victims. Created to raise money to build and
beautify a memorial park, it has now been seen by more than 11,000 people on YouTube. I wrote about it in my last post, and it was clearly the high point (VERY HIGH!!!) of our vacation.

Now onto the fiasco.

On Saturday afternoon, we were due in Franconia, NH, at a rustic lodge. (For the uninformed,
 witFranconia is way up there, not far from Vermont -- the northeastern section of the state -- and not such a long way from Canada.) We would stay three nights with an Appalachian Mountain Club family group. The trip cost me $385 for accommodations and meals during that time for the three of us. We would ring in the new year with these people, the rest of whom (or almost all of them anyway) had arrived the previous afternoon. I hadn't wanted to stay four nights due to the higher cost, and that option conflicted with the ski camp anyway. Two nights felt too short for such a long drive, considering that we'd be attempting to fit in skiing, skating, and/or sledding during the days. I was afraid of wearing myself out -- always my primary consideration whenever we go away.

Three nights, on the other hand, felt Goldilocks just right . . . until I saw the weather forecast: a SNOWSTORM! The snow we hadn't gotten in time for the ski camp was coming in time for my THREE-AND-A-HALF-HOUR drive! Just my luck. I would have preferred to have arrived around noon to avoid the afternoon storm, but check-in was at 3 p.m. It looked like we might get caught smack dab in the middle of the swirling white stuff.

And that, of course, is exactly what happened! We hit the storm at the I-93 tolls in Hooksett. No warning flakes, just full-blown snow as I rolled down my window and reached into my purse for $1.00. The driving was slow going until it came to a complete stop just south of Tilton after a pickup truck slid off the road. I was not enjoying this driving, and there would be plenty more of it as I had MILES to go before even REACHING the White Mountain National Forest. (Franconia is just beyond it.)

Did I mention that I've crashed two cars in winter driving? The first: my post-college-graduation Nissan Sentra (totaled on black ice near Killington, Vermont, in a 140-vehicle, four-mile-long chain reaction). And my second -- my brand new Toyota 4Runner (rendered undrivable on New Year's
Day '98 after my then-boyfriend yelled at me to change lanes on a snowy/icy highway in British Columbia). Thanks a lot, E!

So, feeling unsafe, I got off in Tilton and checked into a Super 8. It would have been foolhardy to continue to drive to Franconia in those conditions and downright negligent with my two young sons in the back! In fact, I learned at KFC -- we trudged there through the snow for dinner -- that twenty cars had crashed earlier in the day on the highway in New Hampton just north of where we got off. Twelve in the northbound lanes and eight across from them heading south.

The next day I decided to take the boys to Gunstock Mountain in nearby Gilford. We were too far from Franconia to arrive in time for breakfast at the lodge. Since sandwiches were going to be packed then as well, we would also be missing lunch! My room charge at the motel included breakfast, so we would take advantage of that and grab lunch at Gunstock. We would leave the mountain early to make the Franconia check-in before dark -- twenty-four hours late.

Meanwhile, I had been in sporadic cell-phone contact with the trip leaders and was feeling agitated from discussing the lost night and lost meals (read: LOST MONEY). For example, I had suggested that the group save meals for us. Like leftovers from a restaurant, I could take the food home at the end of the trip. Very simple. But the trip leaders were not amenable to my idea. First it wasn't understood that I was talking about the meals AFTER preparation, not the separate ingredients BEFORE they became various dishes. Then the roadblock shifted to the containers. "We have nothing to put the food in," I was told. So I volunteered to pick up some containers on my way, my head spinning with thoughts of using our KFC trash (and that from breakfast at the Super 8) as containers to avoid spending any MORE extra money. Well, the trip leaders pooh-poohed that suggestion as well, saying they didn't think sending me home with "soggy eggs" was the way to go.

Hey, LISTEN UP! Since I PAID for those soggy eggs, I'LL decide whether I want to keep them or not. News flash: I WANT TO KEEP THEM!!! But no. The trip leaders wanted to send me home with nonperishables. I could just see it now: "Here, Shelby," one of them would chirp as she handed me a giant can of green beans as some kind of supremely lousy $385 consolation prize!

Well, nothin' doin'!

My stress only grew worse at Gunstock. We got a late start to the mountain. (I was enjoying breakfast too much.) The drive over took more time than expected. It was VERY cold and windy, and six-year-old Charlie was unhappy with the long walk from the parking lot. It would be a really short ski day, but after all that effort I couldn't exactly say no to the day's plans. After obtaining Charlie's rentals, a helmet for Christopher, and three tickets, we hiked uphill to the quad chair taking us to the trails named Upper Smith and Smith. Though they are blue squares, I felt confident Charlie could handle them. He'd been on intermediate trails before, and the few inches of fresh powder would make it easier and slower to ski . . . not to mention more fun!

Alas, again things didn't turn out as hoped for or expected. Since it was now afternoon, the snow had been skied off in the middle of the trails, and it was tough moving to the side with the skiers and boarders of all stripes whizzing by at breakneck speed. Charlie grew frustrated fast after taking a number of tumbles and getting snow trapped in his mittens and boots. I've skied the Smiths before but certainly not with a first grader (or third grader). So what I found not steep myself suddenly felt like a double black diamond (expert trail) now that I was responsible for my own young children!

Halfway down, Charlie staged a revolt. He screamed and -- like Bill Murray in Moonrise Kingdom -- threw a mitten at me. (It was a loafer in the movie.) Then he took off his skis and began stomping his way down the mountain. No amount of cajoling could change his mind about skiing, and the fact that the only green circle (beginner trail) was a LOOOOONG walk away certainly didn't help matters. He was done for the day. DONE. I carried his skis the rest of the way then headed for the ticket booth. I got my $108 back for the three lift tickets and $34 for the rentals. We then snagged a quick lunch and ride to our parking lot via a shuttle van.

The driver directed me back to the highway for our second attempt at reaching Franconia. But a lot of time was lost because she sent me THE LONG WAY. In heading west, I was also traveling south back to Tilton instead of north through Weirs Beach! Crap. Why didn't I check the map first instead of blindly taking her word for it?!

In the late afternoon of Sunday, it was very windy on the highway as I raced against daylight. I needed to arrive at our destination as soon as possible because I didn't want to be ALONE WITH TWO CHILDREN on the SNOWY roads in the MIDDLE OF NOWHERE searching for the lodge in the DARK. With each passing mile and minute, I was growing increasingly tense and anxious as it looked more and more likely that I would not achieve my goal for the SECOND time this trip.

And then . . . the nail in the proverbial coffin: a neon sign overhead reading BLACK ICE POSSIBLE. Are you $&@?@ kidding me??? No, it was not a joke. Let me tell you: there is nothing that sign could say that would freak me out more. SERIAL KILLER AHEAD? Scary, but I could drive past. TORNADO ZONE? Turn around and drive south. AGENT ORANGE ATTACK? Lock the windows, kids! Okay, exaggeration yet you get my drift. Black ice terrifies me! I totaled a car on it. I will not drive on it, so I got off at the next exit in Lincoln. Comfort Inn: booked full. A hotel/resort whose name I've since forgotten: too expensive, though we could have stayed there for free if I'd been permitted to sit through a two-hour presentation the next day. I would have done it, but I was disqualified because I'm not married. (No comment.) EconoLodge: just right. Feeling like Goldilocks again. (Insert smiley, happy face.)

Let's get real.

I'd found a place for us for the night. However, that meant MORE money escaping my wallet like BP oil out of the Deepwater Horizon and many MORE trips from the car to the room and back transferring all our stuff -- three pairs of skis, three pairs of boots, two pairs of poles, two small backpacks or larger bags per person, snack bags, and extra coats that didn't fit in bags. Bags, bags, bags! It was a nightmare. I really couldn't believe it was happening, not to mention how mortified I was to have to place yet ANOTHER call to the trip leaders. I felt like a big fool, a giant wimp (new title for my blog: Diary of a Wimpy Mom), and a major Loser.

Yes, with a capital "L."

I envisioned the people in Franconia laughing at me. "Who is this bimbo who can't get to the lodge in TWO days from only ONE state away?" Needless to say, I'd lost my motivation to spend New Year's Eve with these "meanies." NYE is a special night -- meant to be shared with a person or people in your life you are close to. I knew one of the trip leaders from my single mother's support group and the AMC of the early '90s when I took courses, got certified to be a hiking/backpacking trip leader (she was one of the instructors who signed my certificate!), and flew out to Wyoming with her and two other hardcore AMC-ers to climb Gannett Peak. But I did not know the rest in Franconia, though I believe the other leader also ran the family camping trip we took to Cape Cod three summers ago. That adventure was noteworthy for Charlie getting lost on crowded Dennis Beach. Yet I do not remember this woman. If anything, she probably had a negative view of me/us from my wild then-preschooler's behavior at that time.

The Franconia Families had been bonding since Friday night. Showing up on Monday for one night only would feel AWKWARD. Temperatures hadn't risen before breakfast to even make me feel confident I wouldn't hit black ice during the remaining twenty minutes of driving. Plus, I was exhausted from all the moving around, lugging of SUV contents, intense road conditions, confrontational conversations with the trip leaders, waiting for callbacks from them for messages I left, and refereeing of my rowdy boys away from home. NO energy remained to accommodations-hop yet again to a lodge even FARTHER from home and where a ONE YEAR OLD (maybe a poor sleeper) was part of the group.

By Day 3, the idea of pushing on to Franconia SHATTERED my cardinal rule of single-mother traveling: Will taking this trip make me more wiped out than before I left? YES!!! It was settled. We stayed NYE as well at the Econolodge, swam in the pool, soaked in the jacuzzi (ahh!), and went to a movie.

Under the heading of ADDING INSULT TO INJURY: the last time I spoke to one of the trip leaders, she informed me that we could have arrived BEFORE the designated 3 p.m. check-in time the first day to avoid the snowstorm that started the chain reaction of problems! Again, I ask, "Are you &@$?! kidding me?!" The e-mail clearly stated the check-in time, and NOWHERE in the information provided did it state anyone would even be at the lodge at other times during the day to let us in! It seemed to me that everyone skedaddled right after breakfast to go skiing, sledding, and skating and didn't return until late afternoon. Well, I was understandably PISSED, and my head was splitting from the most intense headache of my life consuming the entire right side of my skull.

"Happy New Year!" said this trip leader as we concluded our last frustrating conversation.

"Happy New Year," I gritted through my teeth, the angriest new year greeting ever uttered.

I returned to my room and collapsed on my bed. I spent the day under the covers succumbing to my paralyzing headache and worrying that I was having a brain aneurysm like Sharon Stone when she was married to that journalist whose foot was attacked by a Kimodo dragon. My boys, meanwhile, were happy as clams catching a coincidental double dose each of Nanny McPhee (the original and Nanny McPhee Returns) and The Fairly Oddparents (the animated TV show and live-action movie called A Fairly Odd Movie: Grow Up, Timmy Turner!) over the course of the ill-fated weekend. Weird. In the afternoon, I felt well enough to take them to Parental Guidance. (Hey, we had to do SOMETHING fun out on NYE!)

It was at the movie theater that I met a couple who had spun out and crashed on the highway black ice just before reaching the neon warning sign and about ninety minutes after I came through that area. "You did the right thing," they assured me about getting off the next exit. The sentiment was repeated by our waiter at dinner. Like the couple, he said the roads were worse that night than he'd ever remembered them in twenty-five years.

I may have been a punchline up in Franconia, but I feel good about the decisions I made under very trying conditions with the information I had at the time. I kept my sons safe, and that's all that really matters.

As I try to recoup $385, let's just hope the top brass at the Appalachian Mountain Club agrees. What a way to start the new year!

"26 Angels"

I had planned to write a Christmas blog post, or maybe even two. The stress of holiday preparations, perhaps. Creating family traditions, definitely. That post was under way.

But then a severely troubled young man with access to his mother's cache of guns unleashed his fury on twenty-six innocent lives at the purest of places: an elementary school. Twenty of the Newtown, Connecticut, victims were children -- first graders, in fact, just like my son Charlie.

Like the rest of America, I am heartbroken. These were six and seven years olds just beginning their lives. They were playing soccer, drawing pictures, building with Legos, drumming, baking cookies, and buying toys for needy kids. They were in their first year of Daisy Scouts and Little League. They adored their parents, helped their younger siblings, and loved school. Looking at my son, I cannot fathom the depth of the pain the families are experiencing right now and during the Christmas season to boot!

Connecticut is my home state. I grew up only thirty-five miles south of Newtown -- in the very same county, by the way. So I have wanted to help. Well, this week I got my chance.

As part of my ongoing networking effort on behalf of my older son, I joined a Facebook page on Friday for parents of child actors in the area. Immediately, I saw a notice seeking children for a tribute video for the victims' families that would be posted on YouTube. All monies raised from the video would be donated to build and beautify a memorial park at the site of the shootings. I contacted the video's director, and Christopher was accepted for the project that evening. Less than two days later, we headed to Manchester, NH, for the audio recording in a studio atop an old mill building. And today the video was shot in the Andover, MA, High School auditorium.

My eyes welled up with tears as I listened to the brave boys and girls assembled from across New England sing the chorus to 26 Angels, a song written and performed by Justin Cohen and accompanied by five other musicians. Boston filmmaker Ben Proulx directed the children as they represented the twenty youngest victims. Each child sang while holding a sign dedicated to a Sandy Hook Elementary School student.

Christopher decorated the sign honoring Chase Kowalski, a blond-haired and blue-eyed boy just full of life. By all accounts, he was an absolute dynamo -- very much like Charlie. He loved watching the New York Yankees, riding his bike and a four-wheeled quad, being a Tiger Scout, playing baseball, swimming in a lake, and enjoying the outdoors in any and every capacity. When he was six, he won his first-ever triathlon. Yes, triathlon! If Chase wasn't a star, I don't know who is.

Now he and his equally beautiful and impressive classmates are angels forever.

Psychologically Protecting Kids: One Size Does Not Fit All

The most important job of a parent is to protect his or her child in every way possible, both physically and psychologically. The latter half of this duty has been severely put to the test by Friday's horrific acts of violence at a Connecticut elementary school.

Should parents tell their children about the mass killings of adults and first-graders? If they don't, will the kids hear about the tragedy at school from friends and become afraid that the same thing might happen to them? If parents do, will the children grow too fearful to return to school? It's been hard to know what to do.

In my case, I had some precedents. I had to put my nearly fifteen-year-old bichon frise down when Christopher was three. Sparkplug had become blind, had fallen off my back deck, and could no longer control his bowels. He was having frequent accidents on the carpet where Charlie was learning to crawl. Sparky was in bad shape, so I had to make a tough decision. Since Christopher naturally adored Sparky and had always lived with him, I needed to address the subject of death with my preschooler. I was torn about how to approach the matter, but then I found a beautiful children's book called Dog Heaven by Cynthia Rylant. It describes a joyful place where dogs live after they have left Earth. Showing the book to Christopher was the perfect way to let my son know that his precious doggie was gone. Later, I occasionally discovered Christopher looking at the book on his own. He was missing Sparkplug and seeking comfort.

A couple of years later, I was faced with another dilemma when a friend of his and Charlie's from preschool died from a brain tumor. This boy, only five at the time, was in between my sons in terms of age. So when we had C over once to our house, the three-way playdate worked really well. I was devastated by the news and again stymied as to how to handle it with my boys. After much thought, I decided not to tell my sons. C lived in the city next door and had graduated to kindergarten there, so he was no longer in school with Christopher and Charlie at the time he died. He had basically moved off our radar screen by virtue of living in a different community and attending a different school. It's one of the most common rules in the book: You simply lose touch to one extent or another when your commonality (in this case, the preschool) is no longer there. My boys knew he had gone to kindergarten, and they had plenty of other friends to occupy their time. I could avoid the situation. They were far too young to learn of a peer and friend having died, I felt. Hence, I kept my mouth shut, and it never became an issue . . . other than eliciting from the preschool director and her assistant assurances that C's death would not be spoken of at all in front of the children.

This time around I had several factors to weigh in making my decision about what to do. And, yes, I did make a decision that I followed through on just tonight. As the Newtown incident happened on a Friday, I (and other parents) had all weekend to mull the situation over before sending our little ones off to school tomorrow morning.

First, I thought about Christopher. He is a nine-year-old third-grader with a broad understanding of the world as well as past and current events. He knows John F. Kennedy was shot and killed while president. He knows terrorists masterminded and carried out the deadly 9/11 attacks. He knows Michael Jackson died from prescription drugs. He knows about the day-after-Christmas earthquake/tsunami, the Japanese earthquake/tsunami/nuclear disaster, and the H.M.S. Bounty replica that he toured on September 1 going down in Hurricane Sandy. He knows about the big news events because he has seen or heard about them on TV or from me.

Christopher is the little man in my house. He is smart, mature, sensitive, and grounded. From a very young age, he has shown interest in, well, just about everything. I made a conscious decision not to talk down to him or baby him when he was clearly beyond that. I exposed him to Harry Potter at age five, and he immediately loved hearing me read the books to him. We watched the films as soon as they came out, and now we own every single one. I took him to Hugo, and he wants to see Lincoln next.

Knowing Christopher as I do, I felt strongly that he would be able to handle the news of Newtown, Connecticut, with just the right amount of concern, sensitivity, and anger -- and, yes, I believe it is completely appropriate for a mature third-grader to feel, and be instructed to feel, anger toward senseless gun violence. I resolved to tell him. But when? And would he have already heard the news?

Christopher was performing in a holiday show all weekend. Five performances in four days, to be exact. I needed to find the time to tell him, but I also needed to avoid rattling him before he went on stage. Then there was the issue of all the other children in the show, most of whom were older than my son and more likely to have learned about the carnage. Would Christopher overhear kids talking about it? Or might he stumble upon the news at his brother's well-attended basketball clinic Saturday morning?

Fortunately, neither scenario panned out, paving the way for me to break the news early tonight when I took him aside in his bedroom after returning from the last performance. I didn't want to upset his sleep if I could help it, so I spoke to him sooner rather than later. This was the best I could do under the circumstances because explaining the situation tomorrow morning right before sending him off to school, of all places, would obviously be far from ideal!

Well, I am relieved to report that Christopher handled our talk just as I expected he would -- and even asked me afterward if we could drive down to Newtown to support the grieving families.

What a great boy! I am so proud of him.

Next up: Charlie, my tough-as-nails six year old. Even though he is only twenty-nine months Christopher's junior, I couldn't simply lump them together by sitting them down for a one-size-fits-all family explanation. I felt I must respect the fact that Charlie is younger and, therefore, less mature in every way than his brother. The child shooting victims were, tragically, Charlie's age -- one of them only three days older, in fact. So how would it feel to hear that your exact peers in the state next door were gunned down in their own elementary school? Downright terrifying and confusing, I would imagine.

Thus, while Charlie also has had early exposure to Harry Potter, the fate of the H.M.S. Bounty -- I wanted both boys to know because it was personal to us -- and some other rather grown-up or unfortunate real-life stories, the slaughtering of these sweet innocents in the Nutmeg State crosses the line of being WAY TOO MUCH for Charlie or any other first-grader to hear about. If my son happens to learn something from someone else, I will deal with it with him at that time. But the principal of his school has assured parents via e-mail that no staff members will provide information about the situation with students.

Wise move.

Sayonara, False Threat Queen!

I've turned over a new leaf. I'm playing hardball. I've said goodbye to the False Threat Queen. That's right! No more giving in to bad behavior.

Now I can't say I won't allow certain privileges, like use of a Nintendo DSi XL, that help mitigate a particular situation -- in fact, I have already done just that since changing my ways -- but I will say NO to the big treats the misbehaving child doesn't deserve.

Let me explain. Last Saturday I was planning to take my boys to Rhode Island for a fun overnight with friends. We hadn't been away for a night since the summer, so we were way overdue. We always have a great time with these people but, due to distance and busy schedules, do not get to see one another often at all. Until a month ago, we hadn't managed a face-to-face since the end of June 2011 when Christopher, then seven, was cast as an extra in "Moonrise Kingdom." Our friends put us up for one night as we needed to spend two days in their state while Chris got fitted for his costume, was given a '60s-style haircut, and shot his scene in a Newport church. Then, with schools closed on Election Day last month, we rendezvoused in Boston at the Museum of Science. The visit lasted only a couple of hours because we had to hightail it to Gloucester (one-plus hours away) for Christopher's afternoon holiday-show rehearsal. Not time enough to get through either the special SHIPWRECK!: Pirates and Treasure or Mammoths and Mastodons exhibits.

Argh.

Yet these people are much more than friends to us. They are family. Not the family I was born into but the family I created when I chose to become a mother in an unconventional way. My friends' children are half-siblings of my boys through their anonymous-donor father. S is one month to the day older than Christopher, and N is two years to the day younger than six-and-a-half-year-old Charlie. (March 25th is quite a milestone day, indeed, as it is also the anniversary of my mother's death.)

The kids get along great, and I am very fond of their two fun moms. If I met them in my town or in any other way, I would want them to be my friends. I consider myself very lucky to have them in my modern family.

Since not all of the moms are on board yet with disclosing to the kids our connection to one another, we just refer to each other as "friends." It has been tough for me to keep the secret from my boys, but I have parceled out hints. Christopher and Charlie know they have half-siblings scattered across the U.S., and they know they have met one family of them. I haven't revealed which one. "It could be a family in our town, a family we know out of town, or a family we know out of state," I've said cryptically.

Then I have asked each boy to guess which family it might be, and they both guess this family. Perhaps it is because I have described this family as "special" to us. Perhaps it is because this family, like ours, has no father in it. Or perhaps it is because my smart boys sense a different kind of kinship with the daughter and son. Indeed, part of our enjoyment in spending time together is watching the children interact with one another -- how they immediately fall into good-pal mode despite not seeing one another for a long time and how Charlie (my rambunctious one) leads N in fun, boyish physical activities like a sweet big brother.

It is beautiful to watch the four of them together.

Now in order for me to make the ninety-minute trip down to their house in Rhode Island and return the next day, I need to feel fairly rested. The problem is: I frequently don't feel this way. I suffered from chronic fatigue syndrome for about four and a half years, so I have to pace myself. Or I will seriously regret it.

When it comes to the Rhode Island family, however, I have pushed myself beyond my limit because I haven't wanted to cancel plans once they are finally made. But last Saturday, a new problem arose: it was SNOWING! The first real snow of the season, though it didn't accumulate in our area and barely stuck on the ground at all. I even forgot to pick up a handful, and now I've lost my chance. Driving in the snow is NOT one of my favorite activities, especially at the very beginning of the season when I (and everyone else) are out of practice. Still, I was willing to do it that day because I needed the happy break that visiting the family always provides. I envisioned watching the daughter play basketball then going back to their house for a pizza, beer, and salad dinner; relaxing with good conversation, heaps of laughter, and a child-friendly animated movie -- it was "Despicable Me" last year -- and retiring for the night with my boys on the carpet of their renovated basement floor. (I like camping, whether it's outdoors or indoors.) In the morning, we would all eat a big, leisurely breakfast then leave in time to make it back to Gloucester for that show rehearsal at noon again.

Given the snow, I needed to be EXTRA rested for the drive. I expressed that sentiment to the boys that morning. In other words, DON'T GIVE ME ANY DRAMA! But Charlie The Younger lives in his own world, so he ignored my plea and launched into his usual routine of tackling Christopher in too rough a manner. The protests erupted; the tears flowed; and the retaliatory fighting ensued, prompting more protests and tears. And it escalated. I got mad and separated the boys.

I CAN'T STAND this behavior of Charlie's. It is my single biggest problem with the boys when it comes to family dynamics. It would be one thing if Christopher liked the roughhousing. Then it would only be a matter of making sure they kept it under control so no one got hurt. But that is not what I have on my hands. I have two boys pretty close in age who are opposites in terms of their personalities and interests. I am perpetually being put in the position of having to referee these skirmishes, physically break apart the boys (not easy to do without reinjuring my fifty-one-year-old back), and punish the offending party (Charlie, always Charlie).

Then there's Christopher. He also HATES it when Charlie invades his space and won't leave him alone. He runs to his room (well, their room) and starts to scream, "I hate you! I wish I didn't have a brother! I can't go on like this!"

The truth is: NEITHER ONE OF US CAN GO ON LIKE THIS.

And that is why I decided on Saturday that the buck stops here. I was going to set an example. I would lay down my iron fist. I canceled the trip to the Ocean State. I announced my decision in the car on the way home from Charlie's basketball clinic and the bank. "As much as I wanted to go to Rhode Island, I agree with you that you have to cancel the trip," said Christopher, who is mature way beyond his nine years.

"Snow, snow, snow," said Charlie, trying not to take responsibility for his behavior and instead blame my decision on my not wanting to drive in the snow.

NOTHIN' DOIN'. I was not about to let Charlie believe for ONE SECOND that he wasn't the cause of the change in plans, "NO, Charlie, YOU ruined our weekend with your bad behavior this morning. I would have driven in the snow if I had felt rested enough. But you WORE ME OUT before 10 a.m. You made it IMPOSSIBLE for me to be able to make the drive," I said.

"Snow, snow, snow," Charlie kept muttering.

Frustrated, depleted, and depressed, I informed the boys back at the house that I was off duty for the rest of the day, and they had to entertain themselves without fighting -- in the house. Yes, they could use technology. It was a very quiet afternoon and evening as the severity of what Charlie had done sunk in. I retreated to Facebook to reach out to my friends, and they responded in full force with praise for my decision. It seems it is very common among mothers to threaten to cancel impending fun plans when a child is misbehaving . . . but it is equally common to fail to follow through because the parent wants the fun plans to happen, too! One friend summed the problem up by calling herself the False Threat Queen. Then she gave me permission to borrow the catchy moniker. I was very grateful to be able to communicate with my friends under our stuck-in-the-house circumstances. They made me feel much better, though I by no means felt good.

As the afternoon progressed, photos of an event occurring in our town began to pop up on my Facebook page. It was Santa's arrival by boat. He was accompanied into the harbor by stand-up paddleboarding elves. I kid you not. Only a quaint coastal town such as ours could dream up such a unique Christmas festivity. Well, I couldn't exactly reward a badly behaving child with a trip to the park to meet Santa now, could I? Certainly not. If I'd had more time between returning from the bank and the start of the event, I might have thought to call the mothers of some of Christopher's friends to ask if they could take my obedient son. But I was still processing what went down that morning. My head wasn't clear enough for me to come up with an alternative plan. Besides, I didn't know how Charlie would take it if Christopher was allowed to leave the house. He might have staged some kind of a revolt -- a possibility I was not willing to risk given the fact that things had calmed down since we'd gotten home.

Instead, I made a point of showing Charlie the Facebook photos. "See? This is what we ALSO couldn't go to because of your bad behavior," I said. Charlie is a tough kid. Looking at the photos did not faze him, at least not outwardly. It was only after I'd scrolled through quite a few that he finally pulled the red blanket on his lap over his head. For his part, Christopher continued to support my efforts to drive the point home with Charlie that what he did had consequences and would not be tolerated in the future.

It has been five days since I canceled the trip to Rhode Island, and I have to say Charlie's behavior has improved considerably. Just to be sure my clamping down has made an impact, however, I have followed it up with two more actions designed to keep him in line.

The first is setting up an Elf on the Shelf in the family room, the room where we spend most of our time. According to Christmas tradition, the slender, red-suited male doll watches the behavior of children in the home by day and reports back to Santa by night. This is how he knows who's naughty and who's nice. When the elf returns from the North Pole each morning, he plants himself in a new location in the home.

We have named our elf Larry. Charlie's choice was Mike but -- in a rare and most-welcome show of giving in (good boy, Charlie!) -- he agreed to Christopher's pick, which was the name Lily on "Modern Family" gave her baby brother when it looked like her two dads Cam and Mitch would be getting one via a surrogate. Christopher and I, of course, love "Modern Family" and watch it religiously together every week.

The second additional step I have taken is to make a clear, bold sign delineating the house rules. The collection of NOs, now prominently displayed on a family-room wall, covers the gamut of Charlie's bad behavior at home from just-for-the-heck-of-it screaming to unwanted roughhousing that leads into fighting in all its various forms both verbal and physical. The sign will remain on the wall permanently as a constant reminder of what is not allowed.

Something tells me Larry will be sticking around through the off season as well!

Why I Love My Thanksgiving Angels

I have the best Thanksgiving angels.

I don't know who they are going to be each year until they appear, and sometimes they don't appear . . . but that's okay. In case you're wondering, a Thanksgiving angel is a loving, generous person who steps forward before the holiday and invites you and, if you have them, your children over on Thanksgiving.

For the past sixteen years, I have needed Thanksgiving angels because I have had no plans on Turkey Day, no place to go. Thanksgiving is the penultimate family holiday, and I no longer have my birth family. My father died in 1986 and my mother in '95. Oh, and I am an only child. I am aware this is a pretty unusual situation for someone my age, but this is MY situation so I accept it.

What choice do I have?

When I was growing up, things were very different for me on Thanksgiving. We had concrete plans just about every year. First, we would stop at my paternal aunt's house in the Connecticut town next door to our own. I'd stand with the adults sipping my Canada Dry ginger ale like a small grownup while my first cousins once removed who were my age ran around and played with all manner of toys in the large house atop a long, winding driveway. I wanted to stay and join in the play, but we were off in no time to another destination, leaving me with a palpable feeling of longing and regret.

We were headed to my maternal cousin B's house in Greenwich, one more town over and just a fifteen-minute drive from our home in Darien. B is my first cousin yet, like all of my first cousins on both sides of the family, he is much older than me. His four children -- my first cousins once removed -- are my age. B's sister attended this Thanksgiving celebration as well. She lived in Manhattan with her husband and four daughters, also my age. Headed by another cousin of B's, a third family with four sons also my age came as well. Other stray relatives showed up from time to time such as my widower uncle in the early years or an elderly single woman whose exact relation to the family I can't quite place.

You can only imagine how I, the lone only child in the younger generation, felt about these gatherings involving three families of four children each. I LOVED them. TWELVE girls and boys in one fell swoop! TWELVE. For one day nearly every year, I was surrounded by all these relatives my age. It was fantastic. I got to talk to them and play touch football with them like the Kennedys. Then there was the feast -- my favorite meal of the year -- laid out amidst an array of polished silver candlesticks, delicate glass serving dishes, and a beautiful seasonal tablecloth. Turkey, gravy, cranberry sauce, stuffing, and side dishes galore including the absolutely yummy sweet potatoes with melted marshmallows on top. Martha Stewart would have issued her stamp of approved and then some.

Unfortunately, Thanksgiving Day was also bittersweet for me because it came to an end, and I literally didn't see these people again till the following year unless someone in the family got married or died. My parents didn't socialize with the adult relatives and not residing in our town, though two out of three of the families lived within a fifteen-minute radius and the third just an hour away, they did not come into contact with us unless something was planned. Invariably, it was not.

I attended this gathering, which changed homes as B's family moved within the same town and B's sister was able to accommodate the group once her family moved out of the city to Connecticut, from as early as I can remember through the deaths of both of my parents. A couple of years thrown in there the party didn't happen (or perhaps we weren't invited) as I remember one or two Thanksgiving meals eaten at local restaurants. (My mother wasn't a cook.) Then in 1982 -- thirty years ago this year -- my father suffered a near-fatal aortic aneurysm at home on Thanksgiving Day. My father and I didn't make it to the party, though my mother did, briefly. (Don't ask.) Other than these few aberration years, the gathering of cousins was a steady gig I looked forward to all year long.

It was SO important to me, in fact, that I planned to keep on attending even after moving across country to Seattle following my mother's passing. The year she died I delayed my move until after Thanksgiving, and the next year I took a trip back East to coincide with the holiday so I could see my cousins. However, the following year B's wife pulled the proverbial rug out from under me during a long-distance phone call to Seattle. Her family had decided not to host Thanksgiving that year, she said. The three families would be celebrating separately . . . and that was the way it was going to be from then on is the way I understood it.

Alas, Thanksgiving as I knew it had come to an end. Just like that. My favorite day had suddenly become my least favorite day as I wondered how on earth I was going to spend the rest of those Thursdays in November and be happy about them. So began my sixteen years of fending for myself on America's premier family holiday.

Incidentally, I learned some years later through one of the families that the three had NOT gone their separate ways after all, at least not every year. Two of the families were still celebrating together regularly, and I suspect the third joined in from time to time as well since that family was actually the closer one in terms of familial relations. Liars.

What's this? An eleventh-hour invite to a gathering one other aberration year came my way many years later when B's wife let it accidentally slip in a birthday card to me something to the effect of "Hope to see you at R's house on Thanksgiving." (R is B's eldest son and the person who had taken up the mantle of holding the holiday get-togethers). Was I actually going to be invited again? Well, no, I wasn't supposed to be. R inferred as much when he placed a call to me just days before the holiday telling me what time to arrive "according to the written invitations that went out to everyone" else. I suspect I was proffered the backhanded invitation because I had mentioned B's wife's comment in the card to me to another first cousin of mine along with the information that I had been shut out of the party for the past seven years. I asked the other first cousin -- a kind and well-intentioned man -- if he was behind me getting the phone invite. He denied it, but I don't believe him.

Honesty is the characteristic I value most in a person.

Not expecting an invitation from the cousins, I made other plans for the holiday that year. Well, it just so happened that our Thanksgiving angels lived only one Massachusetts town over from R. How about that for a coincidence?! So I told R we could stop by for a little while. And that's exactly what my son Christopher (then only a baby), my boyfriend at the time, and I did.

However, R decided to humiliate me in front of everyone as we excused ourselves to go to the home of our Thanksgiving angels as planned AND as I had told him on the phone about THREE times. (He had called me back repeatedly to make sure we were coming, and I had each time reminded him that we were eating dinner at the other house per our first invitation). "You're LEEEAAAVING???" R bellowed, as we said our goodbyes and thank yous and made our way to the door, to which the others -- not privy to the fact that I had made our plans CRYSTAL CLEAR to R -- piled on with disparaging harumphs and outright abuse. My boyfriend, who had never met these people, was justifiably horrified! As was I.

I have neither seen nor spoken to R since.

If you're thinking to yourself at this point, wow, what shitty people, let me say just two things: 1. You haven't heard the half of it. 2. You're not the first to come up with that particular descriptive adjective in this context. My former psychotherapist in Seattle beat you to it by about thirteen years.

I can't recall what I did every single Thanksgiving since 1997 when B's wife placed that call to me in Seattle. I know I spent a few of them alone, maybe eating frozen pizza or going to a movie. One year a friend from a writing class invited me to her friend's celebration because she was estranged from her own parents. Lo and behold, the friend of the friend decided at the last minute to disinvite me because she'd never met me.

But more often than not, I have happy stories to tell surrounding the holiday, and many of them involve my Thanksgiving angels.

Here is a sampling of some of these wonderful people: Ju is a hilarious cousin once removed on the paternal side of my family. Ra is a friend from my Christian Science camp in Maine growing up. (Also hilarious). We were somewhat subversive cabin counselors together. The party at Ra's house, which happens to be located in my very first hometown of Katonah, New York, was highlighted by the setting off of very cool radio-controlled rockets. Christopher, then a preschooler, was allowed to press the button. We went to Ra's house a couple of times, but it was very far away. Re is a woman from my single mothers' support group. My boys had fun playing with her young twin daughters. Ja is a lovely woman who lives in my town. With her parents and brother visiting from the Midwest, she opened her home to my family and another from the elementary school. T was my Thanksgiving angel this year, inviting us to her beachfront home with many others: Ja's family, another third-grade mother whose children spent the holiday with her ex, a Guatemalan exchange student, members of T's extended family, and her husband's water-polo-playing nephew attending Harvard.

The gorgeous day turned into a starry night and the warmest I ever remember for a Thanksgiving. We went outside to the beach after a scrumptious dinner and stood around a huge bonfire built by T's husband.

My Thanksgiving angels mean the world to me.

The Day Everything (Well, Almost) Went Right

With Thanksgiving around the corner, the season of being grateful is upon us. It is a time to reflect on family, health, work, love, and other aspects of our life for which we feel blessed. But instead of focusing on one of these significant areas, I decided that I wanted to show gratitude for something very, very mundane -- something micro rather than macro -- a single day during which everything (well, almost) went right.

Last Sunday started with my sons and I sleeping in. Okay, as much sleeping in as is possible in a household with two young boys. As it was the first Sunday since the school year began that we did not have a football game -- Christopher's third- and fourth-grade team lost in the league Super Bowl the previous week by two points! -- we could all hang around the house in our pajamas as long as we so desired.

In fact, it was the first weekend day in SEVEN weeks that we had not had an activity or appointment requiring us to leave the house in the morning. We had driven to Boston the day before to meet one of our half-sibling families -- the half-sister and half-brother of my boys (via their anonymous-donor father) and their two moms -- at the Museum of Science. Previous to that, football practice had been moved to Saturday mornings due to a sundown-to-sunrise outdoor-activity ban resulting from a horse in a neighboring town being testing positive for a mosquite-borne illness. Oh, and a dentist appointment was thrown in there as well.

With nothing to do, I felt no pressure last Sunday to check the status of Chris's uniform first thing, i.e. was it clean? I felt no pressure to get a load of laundry going so it would be dry in time for the late morning practice followed by the game. I felt no pressure to make my son a hearty helping of scrambled eggs and bacon or toast to fortify him for playing defense. And basketball hadn't started yet.

It was that rare weekend between intense sports seasons when parents can actually breathe. Indeed, we were in kickback mode.

Ahh!

But then while leisurely emptying the dryer in the basement storage room, I noticed a pipe leaking. NOOO! Not just dripping, it was leaking copper-stained water in a steady thin stream accumulating on the floor. Hastily, I fetched and threw down numerous towels. I discovered a valve near the leak was loose unlike one in the same position on the other side of it. I couldn't imagine how that had happened since I hadn't touched it, and no one else had been in there. Of course, I considered tightening the valve in the complex, antiquated system but -- not being a plumber or heating expert -- I wanted to check with the professionals first. I certainly didn't want to do anything wrong in case the valve was supposed to be open. Well, I am happy to report I stopped the leak myself after speaking to the heating-company owner and being told to tighten the valve.

Phew! That was fortunate. We didn't have to spend the next hour or more waiting for a technician to arrive, fix the problem, and charge me an arm and a leg for the visit.

My boys were getting along very well on this day for some reason. They didn't fight. I believe it may have been because we were just coming off a particularly rough patch with Charlie acting too aggressive toward Christopher and me being too cranky while trying to manage the situation plus too tired from repeatedly staying up too late on Facebook.

A case of too many toos, in other words.

Around noontime a neighbor called to ask if my sons wanted to play with her son, a first-grader like Charlie. The boys eagerly said yes. They got dressed and met him in our driveway a few minutes later. For the next several hours, they entertained themselves in our cul-de-sac, alternating between riding bikes, scooters, and a skateboard. Charlie did a lot of fast running as usual, and Christopher and the neighbor raced each other on bikes.

We had a tense few minutes when a rough child showed up to join in the play. I watched through the front window then moved outside for a better view from a white Adirondack chair planted in our front yard. Shortly, he was scooped up by car and driven away.

Dodged another bullet! Yay.

My sons and the neighbor moved into our backyard where I suggested they build a giant leaf pile to jump in. I got a miniature rake and hoe out of the shed, and Charlie found the two sets of yellow "bear claws" in another storage area attached to the house. The boys worked hard on the leaf mound, took breaks on our swing set, and enjoyed the fruits of their labor by running and hurling themselves joyfully into the soft brown pile while I snapped their pictures.

While most of this was going on, I was inside putting away laundry. Way overdue and not fun at all . . . yet necessary. The football schedule had been so demanding that basic chores around the house had fallen so far by the wayside they were lying in a ditch! I put away four or five GIANT piles of laundry this day.

That felt GOOOOD!

When the boys were famished from playing, I made lunch. Turkey sandwiches with mayonnaise or mustard for my boys and mustard only (no turkey) for the neighbor. That's the sandwich he wanted, I SWEAR! In fact, he liked it so much he asked for and got a second. Truth be told: He wanted a THIRD! But I reasoned that three French's classic yellow mustard sandwiches might be a bit much. Might, just might give this six year old a tummy ache. So I suggested cookies for dessert instead.

Kids are SO funny!

Next Charlie had the idea to set up some oversized white plastic bowling pins in the street. To make it more interesting, the kids rolled the ball down our sloping driveway toward the pins. Since the driveway surface is rough, the royal blue plastic bowling ball invariably veered off course.

Okay, the game became less interesting and more frustrating.

Things began to wind down, and that was good because it was fast approaching the time we needed to leave to make our 4:30 p.m. commitment in Waltham. Charlie brought out his Nintendo DSi XL to show the neighbor his newest game. I could have said no to turning to technology on a beautiful, warm fall day. Yet the boys had creatively played outdoors in a multitude of ways for hours on end by that point, and the neighbor would be heading home shortly. So I allowed it.

I enjoy attending monthly gatherings of the Boston chapter of Single Mothers by Choice and have been doing so on and off for a long time. In fact, next month marks a full decade since my first meeting. They may not be exciting, but they are important to me as they provide me with a community of single mothers I don't have in my town. My boys have grown up with the children of some of these mothers, and I enjoy catching up with those I have known for many years. In the early days of single motherhood, I needed the group to answer my questions or relay experiences that could help me as I undertook raising one then two infants alone. But for many years now, my motivation for attending meetings has been social and to give back to the group by providing my answers and experiences to those thinking or trying to become mothers, those who are pregnant, and those who are parents of babies or young children.

It was time for "Revenge," my favorite TV drama, when we returned from the meeting in Waltham, having picked up dinner at McDonald's on the way home.

I am very grateful for last Sunday -- a simple, happy day. Now you might think: But she had a leaking pipe, and a rough boy interrupted the sweet playdate. Yes, that is true. However, both problems were averted, and that's why it was a great day.

The reality is there are snags in my life every single day. Some of them become bigger situations to handle, and sometimes I get lucky like I did this time around.

Blessed is the day that is slower-paced and more relaxing. Amen.

Touring the H.M.S. Bounty, R.I.P.

Hurricane Sandy has been devastating and deadly for the East Coast, particularly the New York/New Jersey metropolitan area. Living in a coastal town one hour north of Boston, my family endured a power outage lasting less than twelve hours and a few downed branches. Nothing, basically. Friends I communicated with on Facebook fared much worse, but I really don't know the full extent of what they suffered through. As a new storm, a nor'easter, churns its way up the East Coast just over a week later -- enough already! -- I would like to take this opportunity to reflect on one aspect of Hurricane Sandy of many that has particularly affected me: the loss of the H.M.S. Bounty, its captain, and one crew member.

First, let me say that I don't consider myself a Sailor the way others are sailors. I know how to sail and can and have sailed Sunfish, catamarans, and twelve-footers in light and moderate winds. True. I have also raced both a few times -- as a teenager, I was awarded a highball glass (pretty funny considering my age and the fact that I grew up a Christian Scientist!) for coming in second in a Sunfish race at my parents' beach club on Long Island Sound but had to be verbally assisted in righting my capsized catamaran in a race not too many years ago in a Florida river while staying at Club Med. I have never owned a sailboat, though I did purchase the original Windsurfer One Design when it first came out and enjoyed tacking that heavy sailboard back in forth in whatever body of water was near my home at the time. Currently, I do not have the opportunity to ply coastal waters in a sailboat, despite my close proximity to a harbor. (Note to self: make friends with people who own boats!) So, no, I am not THAT kind of sailor -- a hard-core sailor -- much less a Tall Ship sailor.

I have the utmost respect for those who are. I also hugely admire people who choose a risky, beyond-the-norm type of life such as the men and women aboard the H.M.S. Bounty. For nearly two years while I budget-traveled around Asia and the South Pacific some twenty-odd years ago, I led such an alternative existence. Today, as a single mother by choice of two young sons (i.e. I am very tied down), I am living the opposite kind of unconventional life. Still, the travel bug and the yen for adventure remain very much with me. Hence, I jumped at the chance to tour the replica of the mutinous vessel immortalized in the classic book "Mutiny on the Bounty," built for the 1962 film of the same name, and featured in "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest." Seeing as my elementary-school-age sons are big fans of the "Pirates" flicks (natch!), and my older son loves history, it was a no-brainer that we would venture to the city next-door to check out the three-masted schooner when it came into port over Labor Day weekend for the annual Schooner Festival.

I wish I could say I had a great talk with Captain Robin Walbridge or that Claudene Christian explained the rope system to us. But the truth is: my six-year-old son does not do well in museum settings, seafaring or otherwise. He is too rambunctious in the company of his older brother. He jumps on him, hangs on him, pulls him, punches him, and kicks him -- anything physical to engage poor Christopher. Thus, the visit on board was marked for me by all of the above plus Christopher's legitimate complaints and my futile attempts at stopping the bad behavior.

I often wish I could leave Charlie at home with another adult in order to get the most out of the event at hand with manageable and appreciative Christopher. But I don't have another adult at home, and I can't afford to hire a babysitter on top of the event's admission price time and time again. Oh, and my house is not presentable enough for a babysitter anyway. Charlie has to come along, and Christopher and I have to deal with whatever Charlie dishes out . . . in public . . . again.

As we stepped on the ship, we passed a man dressed up as Jack Sparrow, the quirky pirate captain from the "Pirates" movies played by Johnny Depp. It was the end of the day on Saturday, September 1, and only a handful of deck hands were on board. The ship was in beautiful condition. Countless ropes, a gorgeous wheel, a handsome wood-paneled control room, economical living quarters. The schooner was smaller than I expected, and I was disappointed she was not in full sail. She was in port so, naturally, her sails were neatly furled.

A woman was selling some kind of handcrafted item on deck -- knitted, perhaps? My recollection is usually much sharper than this, but I was in full-on minimize-making-a-scene mode with Charlie so my mental energies were otherwise occupied. Crew members had tee shirts, postcards, and caps for purchase on the lower level. I wanted to buy a shirt yet resisted because doing so would have precipitated protests from my sons who also would have wanted something of equal value. Always thinking ahead of the cause and effect of each action I take in the company of my boys!

I spoke to a male crew member on deck in his late twenties or early thirties about the ship's itinerary, and I listened in as an older hand explained to another visitor why the two small dining tables downstairs were attached by chains to beams above. (To keep them stable and level during storms). I believe I glimpsed Captain Walbridge. I would have said something to him if our visit had been different, if I'd been without children in tow, or if I'd just been with Christopher. When I Google photos of the captain, he looks familiar to me, but I can't be completely sure. It makes me sad to think that I can't remember this and other details of our visit. I don't believe I ever saw Claudene Christian, the striking blond former cheerleader-doll company founder and alleged direct descendant of Fletcher Christian -- the mutineer aboard the original H.M.S. Bounty who died when that ship was burned off Pitcairn Island in early 1790.

Two Christians meeting the same fate in two different ways 222 years apart while aboard two versions of the same ship: strange.

It was surreal hearing on the news of the replica ship's fate, watching the video of the incredible Coast Guard helicopter rescue of the survivors, and seeing photographs of the magnificent schooner crashed sideways into the ocean like a scene -- ironically -- out of the very "Pirates" movie in which it appeared! The tragedy occurred the day before Christopher's ninth birthday, and we both cried as I told him about it.

This morning I watched the fourteen survivors interviewed on TV together for the first time. They were happy to be alive but somber when talking to "Good Morning America" about their missing captain and deceased shipmate. Douglas Faunt seemed to speak for them all when he said: "After this, I'm never going to have another bad day in my life." Later in the day, I was further touched by the very personal obituary of Captain Walbridge that appeared in the "Tampa Bay Times."

I am grateful the paths of my sons and I crossed those of the H.M.S. Bounty crew. I hope Christopher and Charlie never forget our visit on board the ship and the promise of adventure and personal reward that can be gleaned from living life outside the box. Captain Robin Walbridge and Claudene Christian died doing exactly what they loved.

May they rest in peace.