My Very Favorite Parents

I got to spend two days with my Mom and Dad!

It seems like everyone who's ever met me has inevitably come to realize that my parents are the stuff legends are made of. A visit with them always hovers somewhere between being an utter train wreck and hilarious history in the making.

For example, there was the time my dad randomly stepped into his room for a few minutes, then came out dressed like this:

¡Es el Chapulín Colorado!

There was the time my sister, Beth, came home and realized there was a live chicken wandering around in the kitchen. When she asked my dad about it, he just said, "We like chicken. We might eat it one of these days."

Infinitely practical food expert

Or the time when some of my college girly friends and I went camping in the White Mountains but my dad wouldn't let us leave for the campsite until he had attempted to convince each and every one of us that we should carry pistols on our belts for protection from the bears.

The Glorious Gun Geezer Glenn

And of course, there are all those times my mom has carried on an entire conversation using only her patented catch phrases: "I don't know what's in your food that made you so silly, but I'm glad it's not in mine," and "Wanna play Rummy?" (By the way, if you turn down the Rummy offer, she'll follow up by offering to play Four Kings, then finish by insisting you play Canasta. I think that Canasta is her favorite game because she doesn't actually know how to play it, which means she gets to make up the rules from minute to minute to suit her fancy. I always lose.)

Behind those Harry Carey glasses lurks a Canasta cheater!

Last of all, there are my favorite moments: The times when mom randomly makes dad drop everything in order to dance with her right there in the living room. I hope to continue that tradition someday.

They're funky, but they're mine, and I love them more every day. :-)

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My classy hotel in Hollywood

Perhaps I should have worried when the hotel's front desk clerk was behind 3-inch-thick bulletproof glass. Or perhaps when I had to pay a $5 cash deposit in exchange for the television remote control. Or maybe when I had to step over a homeless man asleep in the outdoor breezeway on the way to my hotel room. Or when the door of said hotel room had 4 locks on it, one of which had recently been broken by brute force. Or when all but one of the room's light bulbs had been stolen by its previous occupant. Or when the toilet tank in the bathroom had no lid to cover its inner workings. Or when I found a half-empty bottle of gin tucked neatly under the ironing-board cover. Perhaps I should have worried, but there comes a point when you're just tired enough to click the 4 locks and peacefully drift off to sleep.

Things forgotten. Things remembered.

December has been a busy month for interviews. Here's a sketch of my life for the last week: Wednesday: 10 hour interview day in Minnesota, then a 10 hour drive to Michigan. 2hrs sleep. Thursday: 8 hour interview day in Michigan, then an 8 hour drive to Wisconsin. 4hrs sleep. Friday: 10 hour interview day in Wisconsin, then a 7 hour drive to Indiana. 3hrs sleep. Saturday: 6 hour interview day in Indiana, then a 9 hour drive to Minnesota. 6hrs sleep. Sunday: 12 hours of flights and layovers to get to San Francisco. 4hrs sleep. Monday: 9 hour interview day in San Francisco, then 5 hours to get to Loma Linda. 6hrs sleep. Tuesday: 9 hour interview day in Loma Linda, then 3 hours battling traffic to get to Los Angeles. Wednesday: 7 hour interview day in Los Angeles, and hopefully an awesome night of sleep tonight before I head to Iowa tomorrow then Arizona the next day. What do I remember from any of that travel odyssey? Only this:

Somewhere along I-90 in Chicago, there's a midnight toll booth operator with a black bouffant, a golden voice, and a steely gaze. I didn't have my camera with me, but I swear this recreation with PhotoShop is extremely true-to-life!

Elvis lives, and apparently the economy has been rough on him.

Treasure

With Thanksgiving behind and Christmas ahead, I've been thinking a lot about gratitude and truly appreciating the things I've been blessed with. My mind keeps returning to the kids in Ghana, especially this little boy.

Looking back through my journal, here's his story:

"My favorite part of the outreach clinic day always comes after we finish the vision screenings, while we wait for the bus to come pick us up. Today there was a crowd of children, as usual, so I pulled the little bouncy ball from my backpack to play with them. Most of them have never had the chance to play with anything like it.

"There was one little boy who I had noticed earlier in the day. He was particularly grubby, with flecks of straw stuck in his hair and such dusty clothes that the underlying cloth print was almost indiscernable. But the most notable thing about him was a bulge low on his belly, which I had taken for a huge umbilical hernia. Things like that are common here, since surgery is usually too expensive or too far away.

"When I got out my ball, his face suddenly beamed. Like a connoisseur extracting his most treasured specimen, he reached into the front pocket of his overalls and produced a tennis ball. Completely stripped of its fuzzy green skin, cracked and scaly and brown; the most valuable prize of a 4-year-old boy in the middle of nowhere Ghana."

There is so much to be thankful for.