I went camping last weekend. Let me reiterate that: I. Went. Camping. My idea of the outdoors is reading a book on the porch rather than on the couch. There are bugs. And spiders. And … dirt. Not to mention the fact that I have a one-on-one relationship with my allergist, who knows how allergic I am to anything green or furry.

My daughter’s Girl Scout troop had a mother/ daughter camping trip. It was a first for this group of 7 year olds. Technically, we slept on (painfully thin) mattresses in a lodge, but we went creek walking, hiking and cooked over an open camp fire (started with kindling, thankyouverymuch). Oh, sure, it was 183 degrees and I was sweating in places I didn’t know I had (even my sweat was sweating), but I endured it for her.

And here’s a surprise for those who knew me. It was a walk down memory lane.

I was a Girl Scout in the same troop from the time I was 6 until I turned 18 and graduated from high school. I spent nearly every summer as a camper and counselor at the Girl Scout camp we visited last weekend, and to my now-adult eyes, it seems so much smaller than it did then. …CONTINUE READING »

Ponder if you were born 50 years ago this week.

Think back when TV was black-and-white with rabbit ears and limited channels, telephones were rotary and we dreamed of flying cars and jetpacks.

Would the historical events you most remember be Neil Armstrong stepping on the moon, sledgehammers bringing down the Berlin Wall and airliners slamming into the Twin Towers?

Would the sports events that produced the most tears be Mike Eruzione scoring in 1980 and making us believe in miracles or the Red Sox ending their championship drought? Would it be something monumental like witnessing Henry Aaron pass the Babe? Or something unique like attending the Washington Senators’ final game? Perhaps, it’s something as simple as watching a kid you taught to catch a baseball make a one-handed, over-the-shoulder stab of a line drive and race towards you with a colossal grin.

Would your memorable personal events be family- or work-oriented? Would they be spiritual?

In your past half century, would you look back at all the places you’ve called home, your career changes and your relationships choices and recall each fondly? Can you still rattle off all the cars you’ve owned or who was your first kiss? Do you still own that dinged Rat Patrol lunchbox?

How many youthful dreams have you attained? What challenges did you conquer? Do you recall the praise you’ve been given or the criticism leveled? Did you start your own business, write the great American novel or use your talents to help others over the past 50 years?

Are you like me, looking in the mirror each morning at that same face and all those ideas, yet thinking you’re still 15 and anything could happen today? And it could be amazing.

Not even being a day over 50 changes that.

My personal home improvement run hit a wall this weekend.

Or more like a ceiling.

I had enjoyed a nice sense of accomplishment the past few months over trimming the bushes, hiring a yard treatment service and overseeing the replacement of a faulty light switch and the guts of a pair of commodes. I was feeling good about myself and my home.

Then, it rained really hard.

Now, it had done this before and I had ignored the tiny water stain forming on my closet ceiling. I ignored it as it grew from quarter-sized to a dollar and seeped down the wall. I ignored it until a small piece of plaster dropped onto a stack of sweaters, exposing the sheet rock.

It was then I took action. Well, sort of.

Action meant I grabbed a flashlight, opened the oven, I mean, attic and realized I couldn’t see around the insulated rafters to where the leak might be. I also realized I didn’t have a flashlight strong enough to illuminate the darkness to spot dripping water if I decided to weave past the air ducts hovering over crossbeams hidden by white fluffy insulation.

So I went outside and glanced at the roof. Everything seemed in place to my untrained eye.

Weeks later, it rained really hard. I raced to the closet and waited to see if water dripped. It didn’t take long to realize that ignorance and vigilance weren’t working.

Re-entering the sizzling attic, I poked through the insulation with a 7-iron until I located a crossbeam. After a few successful steps, I concluded that winding my way through the labyrinth of rafters was not wise with sweat dripping into my eyes. I pictured myself missing a sturdy 2×4 and stepping through the bedroom ceiling. Getting stuck there. Without a cellphone. When they found my mummified body months later, the leak still wouldn’t be fixed.

So, I retreated. But it rained so hard the next day I swear I saw animals pairing off.

Drip, drip, drip.

Rather than call somebody more qualified on a Sunday, I determined to locate the leak myself. Walking off the distance downstairs, I calculated 30 feet of walkway will get me there.

With my $8 piece of plywood cut in even strips, I return to the blazing attic. Weaving past cables and ducts while nailing down planks, I attain the midpoint of my destination. Wiping away sweat and coughing, I discover my planked pathway ends here. The maze-like landscape ahead proves unwelcoming to modification.

Any further steps will require dexterity. I debate. At least, I can find my way back.

Armed with flashlight and 7-iron, I clear sure footing and step over one air duct. For several feet, I channel my inner Wallenda and tightrope-walk to a vertical beam. Mindful of my balance, I edge to where I imagine my closet exists.

I pause and trace my flashlight beam on the angled surfaces around me in search of dripping water. Roof, wall, ceiling — nothing. I wipe a nearby pipe for dampness. Dry.

Am I in the right place?

I mentally affirm my position. I cast my light at the insulation under the pipe. It looks like finger pokes in cotton. I draw back the insulation with my golf club. White fluffs adhere to the blade. I’ve discovered the destination of my leak. For a second or two, I feel like Indiana Jones. I trust my discovery won’t require a mad dash out of here.

The source must be nearby. I see no evidence, not a drip line from elsewhere. However, mildew has started. On the board, on the pipe. I can’t reach where the pipe meets the roof. I don’t want to stick my hand in the dark space under the beam.

Here my home-improvement journey stalls. If I make it out of this attic alive, I’ll call in the calvary.

The fuel pump flashed “SEE CASHIER” and I knew my day would not go as planned. My card had been declined.

Now, I’ve been utilizing a credit card since graduation and never failed to pay the bill in full nor render one late.

Until this week.

But I had a good excuse. They never sent me a bill.

I had waited and waited, even paying a guesstimated total online, but still no notice. I didn’t discover until Saturday that my estimate didn’t match their total. Never mind 20 years of on-time payments or residing several $1,000 under my max. You miss by $20 and you’re cut off like a law-abiding Hybrid in the fast lane.

So, believing I didn’t need a financial planner nor a personal organizer, I set out to right this wrong. Having never accessed my account online, I navigated all the registration steps until it asked for my secret password. This baffled me. Since I was creating the online account, how did it already become password-protected? Had my account become self-aware and Skynet was now in charge.

Oblivious that the bank desired the password it set in place when I first opened a terrestrial account back in the 80’s, I cheekily entered “SEE CASHIER”.

The error message didn’t appreciate my sense of humor. However, it offered a hint: “Other.” Which really narrowed things down. I tried “JOSHUA” and waited for it to ask me if I wanted to play a game, but was informed I was now locked out of my account – which I hadn’t yet created.

So much for that strategy.

Frustrated, I picked up the phone and began poking numbers like a kid on an elevator. Enduring the push-button maze in hopes of speaking to a bank representative, I learned my path yielded the wrong destination. I wound up in Auto Loans and they had to transfer me to another department. Of course, this came after I hung up the first time because I wandered into kitchenware.

Finally on the right floor, I was promised that all late fees would be waived. He punched a few buttons and said my card would be good for 24 hours but would be invalid again until my bank transferred the additional funds.

He then thanked me for being such a loyal customer. I hung up thinking if their computer felt the same way, I might not have needed to SEE CASHIER.

With the approach of Father’s Day, my memory strolled down an odd path.

It didn’t amble over to games of catch, fishing trips or my first car. It didn’t jog through his words of wisdom or life lessons. Rather, it settled on those clichéd presents I bought him as a kid: the ugly ties, the boxed set of Old Spice cologne and who knows what else he received with what Mom graciously funded. Was that really soap-on-a-rope?

I’ve heard great gift ideas like hiring somebody to reduce his project list: replacing the gutters, trimming branches or cleaning the carpets. Basically, allowing Dad time to enjoy his time off.

However, I’m almost cemented into the routine of a greeting card and lunch, rationalizing the small gesture and time spent matters most.

For a time, Dad didn’t get the store-bought card. We’d just do lunch or dinner. That changed after my grandfather passed. Sorting through his personal belongings, I found a generic birthday card from my dad. Nothing special about it nor the simple message penned inside. But, for some reason, my grandfather had placed it among his valuables.

That’s the funny thing about memories. You never know what may create them.

At a recent church gathering, we acknowledged our World War II veterans with a “thank you” luncheon.

We sat rapt as 18 old soldiers, sailors, pilots and Marines unpacked their memories.

We saw their bent bodies now erect, their saggy faces taut with pride. We listened as oft cloudy minds crisply recollected returning a crippled B-24 Liberator safely, firing anti-aircraft guns from a battleship platform and pulling injured sailors out of Iron Bottom Sound. They revealed the horror at Peleliu and the joy of letters from home.

And each, with their eyes instantly wet, spoke haltingly of those who didn’t return.

Those fallen are the reason for Memorial Day. General John Logan proclaimed the day in 1868. Back then we took time to place flowers on the graves of Civil War dead. After World War I — when all who perished in our nation’s service were to be honored — we wore a single flower as symbol of their sacrifice.

Poet Moina Michael’s response to In Flanders Fields championed this idea with her We Shall Keep the Faith:

We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.

Sometime this weekend, find time — whether you place an American flag on a serviceman’s grave, pin a red poppy to your lapel, or offer a silent moment of remembrance — to make a gesture of thanks.

“And holding high, we keep the Faith/With all who died.”

It’s what Memorial Day’s really about.

Right now, I’d like to be the swashbuckling Inigo Montoya fencing with the Dread Pirate Roberts atop the Cliffs of Insanity.

I’d like to smile and say “I am not left-handed.”

But I am.

Thus, my frustration level soars.

Granted, that’s not inconceivable. After weeks of protecting my injured left hand, my right side now wants to storm the castle. My shoulder throbs. My elbow aches. Somewhere deep inside, I swear my left side is snickering that “we do this every day, get over yourself.” Which isn’t helping.

Try using your non-dominant hand gripping the steering wheel, writing, moving the mouse. Even doing double-duty on the keyboard with an opposite-handed hen peck. Do it for a week and you’ll feel my frustration at fumbling, wincing and otherwise slowing to a crawl over routine exercises like opening a door, pulling up the covers or getting dressed.

I probably should find a physical therapist to speed my recovery since, unlike an octopus, I can’t give my pair the day off. I can’t even ponder the possibilities since it hurts to rest my chin in my hands.

Arrgh! Both arms hurt. Both hands hurt. Anybody seen Miracle Max?

For weeks, I’ve seen the numerous commercials for Mother’s Day.

Head to the florist to design a bouquet that reflects how special she is. Chose a greeting card that puts a smile on her face and a tear of joy in her eye. Locate a jeweler and splurge on something she’ll always treasure.

Madison Avenue’s unceasing campaign, either overt or subtle, erodes our will, making us feel like ungrateful sons or daughters. Not that I’m complaining. I’m sure millions of us appreciate the advertising reminders that Mother’s Day is coming so we don’t forget to stop by the drugstore on the way over.

But I know my mom isn’t buying what’s being peddled over the airways. She prefers what you can’t buy in the store — personal time.

Already, I’ve whetted her appetite for where the play’s the thing: David Tennant’s recent performance as Hamlet on DVD. I don’t know if she’s more excited about what we’ll be watching or knowing I’m bypassing my current Sunday fare of the Stanley Cup playoffs or a baseball game in favor of her company.

And I know we’ll discuss the merits of the performance well past when flights of angels sing the Prince of Denmark to his rest.

Now, I hope I didn’t wait too late to order the DVD.