October 24-28, 2011: My Message to President Obama

Thanks to Blogger’s meticulous recordkeeping, I know Unemployment Lines has an inexplicably sizable following in Russia. I know I have a smattering of readers in Italy, France, the United Kingdom, Germany, Canada and Puerto Rico, as well as a few loyal quacks in Malaysia, China and Pakistan.

I’ve also learned that there are many Democrats in my readership, though this information came to me in a much more personal way than Blogger’s pie charts. When the Obama campaign posted on Facebook that it is looking for editors and writers, a gaggle of wonderful people forwarded me the news.

Liv taking in Obama's election-night rally.

Thus far on my blog, I’ve avoided talking about politics at all costs. It’s a divisive topic—especially these days—and I haven’t wanted to come off as a raving political lunatic. I’ve been content merely to come off as a raving lunatic in general, which is why I’ve limited my focus to matters such as my cat Fluffy, my ailments, my guitar and, of course, my lack of a job.

But after the outpouring of goodwill from my readers, it’s time to come clean: Thank you for the heads up on the job openings because, yes, I’m a staunch supporter of Barack Obama. In 2008, I even took my family to Chicago’s Grant Park for the election-night rally. Though an eight-year-old Liv was asleep on the infield dirt of a softball diamond when it was announced that Obama had been elected the 44th president, at least she’ll always be able to say she was part of history.

Things haven’t worked out as planned for either Obama or the country—he walked into an absolute shitstorm, and the absolute shitstorm remains. And for me, the irony is that I lost my job during the administration of this man I so admire.

But I still believe—I still think he’s the one who can lead us out of this mess. Plus, I need a job. (I love it when idealism and pragmatism coalesce.)

So I have a message for you, President Obama: I’m ready, willing and more than able to lend my talents to the cause. View me as the first step in your jobs-recovery plan.

October 18-23, 2011: Aches and Pains

Tuesday, October 18

Maybe I got carried away with the Rocky stuff in my last blog entry. The fact is, I’m nicked up. I still plan to reach the top of those museum steps, but a couple people may have to carry me up there.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you may have inferred that I’m prone to psychosomatic illnesses. While I fully admit to having an active imagination—why should an achy shoulder be an achy shoulder when it could just as easily be shoulder cancer?—I swear my recent maladies are real. This transitional period in my so-called career hasn’t agreed with my body.

Just today, I wake up in the wee hours of the morning with the toothache I had so dreaded. Remember how my dentist had said I would “know” if I needed a root canal? Well, this is the big one—I “know.”

And then I don’t. As if to taunt me, the blasted thing goes away as suddenly as it came.

I forget about it and move on to bigger and better issues.

Wednesday, October 19

Right now, as you read my blog, you may be asking yourself the following question: What kind of weenie is this guy?

Let me clear up any possible misconceptions: I’m no weenie. Consider: Rain or shine, I work out five times a week, lifting weights and doing cardio. I’m strong, robust, and youthful. You would never guess by looking at me that I’m 47 years old.

Actually, today you might. As I’m running my beloved lunchtime circuit around the perimeter of the golf course, I’m tripped up by a sprinkler head that’s insidiously hidden under some leaves by the edge of the sidewalk. Before I know what’s what, I’m sprawled across the pavement. My right knee is bloodied, my right elbow is battered, and my ego is bruised. Hobbling through the remainder of my circuit, I’m hardly the picture of youthful exuberance.

Thursday, October 20

Today my back is also killing me, and I don’t know why. I do, however, have two theories:

• It’s an aftershock from my lunchtime running spill.

• It’s an aftershock from Frisbee. Cole and I spent a lot of time over the weekend playing Frisbee, and I showed the lad the meaning of the word “hustle” as I chased down some of his errant throws and made spectacular grabs. In the process, however, I twisted my body in ways a middle-aged body isn’t supposed to be twisted.

As compelling as those theories are, they miss the mark. Midway through my day of freelance work, as my back continues to tighten, I realize that the culprit is the dining room table, which has served as my home office for the past six weeks. Dining room tables are built for eating meals—they’re not ergonomically designed to be desks. Nevertheless, the inescapable truth is that I’ve suffered a typing injury. Maybe I am a weenie after all.

Friday, October 21

By evening, I just want some tranquility, but it remains elusive. I can’t find a position on my bed that doesn’t aggravate my back, and when I finally do, my battered elbow is placed awkwardly. At least my tooth doesn’t hurt.

Saturday, October 22

Before I was laid off from Crushed Soul, Cassie bought a Groupon for a one-night stay at a quaint spot in Lake Geneva, Wis., called the Geneva Inn. Today we’re using cashing it in. The getaway is perfectly timed—I imagine it will do my aching body and frayed mind some good.

It does. We go for a long, peaceful walk along the lake (which is good for my body, even if I’m shuffling along like Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame). And we drink a bunch of beer (which is good for my mind because it numbs pretty much everything). We even run into our friends the Plelis, who are up here for a work function. They’re the ones, remember, who gave me the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label (which was delightfully good for both my body and my mind). All in all, I’m feeling revitalized.

Sunday, October 23

The feeling lasts roughly six hours. I wake up in the middle of the night with a killer headache—not because of the beer I drank but because of my cursed tooth. As I toss and turn, I resolve to call the dentist and sign up for a root canal, find a place to work that won't wreak havoc on my back, and see to it that no other body parts stop working. Who knew that career reinvention is a contact sport?

October 14-18, 2011: Of Rocky, Muddy, Fluffy and Toothaches

Friday, October 14

I cram Fluffy into his cat carrier, a process akin to wrestling a size-40 ass into a pair of size-36 jeans. It’s a tight fit. Several minutes later, the vet does his thing: He blows anesthetic gas into the carrier so that he can take bladder X-rays of the ill-humored beast without being attacked. All this effort is for not—the X-rays reveal nothing. And for that, another $150 is added to my Fluffy tab. I briefly think about sending the Fluffster to a “farm,” but my brainstorm quickly fades. The kids would never believe he went to a farm instead of his eternal reward. For better or worse (including financial ruin), we’re stuck with him.

Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for a toothache of epic proportions to set in, signaling the need for a root canal. It’s been 24 hours, and my head hasn’t exploded. That’s good, right?

Saturday, October 15

Still waiting.

Sunday, October 16

Still waiting.

Monday, October 17

I’m strangely relaxed, so much so that I’m on the verge of getting really anxious about it. Why the sudden calm nerves? I’m not exactly sure, but I have some theories: the cleansing effects of exercising at lunchtime each day; the spiritual release of occasionally strumming the acoustic guitar that’s leaning against my dining room table; the fact that I’m still waiting.

Or maybe—just maybe—it’s this: I’ve moved from “unemployed” to a category I had never even heard of until the economy melted down a few years ago. Policy wonks call it “underemployed”—I call it progress.

Slowly but surely, my days are being filled with tasks, tasks that pay money. It isn’t nearly as much money as I was making at Crushed Soul Publishing, but any type of paycheck is better than no paycheck at all.

Better yet, I’m doing it on my own terms. I feel kind of like Rocky Balboa scaling the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art in Rocky. Not the out-of-shape, beaten-down-by-life Rocky Balboa limping upward midway through the movie. No, we’re talking about the kick-ass, pageantry-filled Rocky Balboa toward the end, the chiseled fighter who sprints to the top of those suckers and then jumps around confidently, all the while looking down on the streets of a city that will soon belong to him.

I’m sprinting up the museum steps, and it’s only a matter of time before I arrive at the status of “fully employed,” working either for myself or someone else.

Of course, being a cynic at heart, I can’t shake my nagging worries. Several movies into the Rocky series, remember, our hero winds up brain-damaged and destitute.

How will the story play out for the neurotic protagonist in Unemployment Lines? Who knows? I’ll worry about the future when I get there. Right now, I’m thinking about another ass-kicker, Muddy Waters. I'm living by his gravelly delivered words in “Mannish Boy”:

Oooooooh yeah, ooooh yeah

Everythin’, everythin’, everythin’s gonna be all right

October 13, 2011: The Party Line

For about the past 15 years, some of my old sportswriting cronies and I have kept up an email group that we call the Party Line. Party implies fun, but that isn’t the case here. Mostly the Party Line consists of cynical, wholly inappropriate observations about ourselves, the people we know and the world at large. It’s a great way to blow off steam.

Today I need to blow off steam. I type out a flurry of Party Line dispatches, including:

• 8:08 a.m.: “I may have to get a root canal today. I’m petrified.”

• 8:09 a.m.: “There’s only one thing I hate more than doctors: dentists.”

• 8:10 a.m.: “They use tools on your face that you’d find at Home Depot.”

• 8:11 a.m.: “And the needle they use to numb your mouth is, like, 42 inches long.”

• 8:12 a.m.: “Swing low, sweet chariot. Comin’ for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot. Comin’ for to carry me home.”

• 8:17 a.m.: “No two ways about it: I’m doomed.”

• 8:18 a.m.: “They’ll carry me out of there in a body bag.”

I manage to focus for a while on the freelance assignments that have been suffering all week from my various distractions. And then:

• 9:52 a.m.: “Look, I’m a dead man walking, and everyone knows it.”

There’s more focusing. And then:

• 12:49 p.m.: “In 81 minutes, I shall be walking the plank.”

• 12:50 p.m.: “Don’t cry for me, Argentina.”

• 1:41 p.m.: “I’m off. Live well, brothers. Live well.”

      They think I’m joking. I guess I am…sort of.

When the moment of truth arrives, I slide into the dentist’s chair. We’ll call him Dr. Smashmouth. He pulls out something resembling a javelin and says, “This shot will sting a little, but after that, you won’t feel a thing.”

Dr. Smashmouth tells me about his passion for fantasy football while we wait for the Novocain to take effect, and I pretend to care. With one eye on the wildly gesticulating Dr. Smashmouth and the other on my iPhone, I send a text to the Party Line: “Am in the chair.”

One of my Party Line cohorts responds: “Bill is now texting from the dentist’s. What kind of chickenshit root canal is this?”

Dr. Smashmouth is right: I feel nothing once the drilling begins. Unfortunately, he didn’t numb my eardrums, too. In addition to the evil whirr of the drill, I hear his periodic sighs as pieces of my decayed tooth fly out of my mouth.

“I’m all the way down into the nerve,” Dr. Smashmouth says anxiously to his assistant.

Even though I can’t feel a thing, I know this can’t be good. During a break in the action, I send out more Party Line texts:

• “Am on a gurney.”

• “Body parts are everywhere.”

Okay, those last two texts are a bit, but the fact is, the outlook isn’t pretty. Dr. Smashmouth fits me with a temporary crown until the permanent one is ready in a couple weeks and says, “You’re probably going to need a root canal. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a couple weeks. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“How will I know?” I ask.

“You’ll know,” he answers ominously.

I send one final text to the Party Line: “I see a light. It’s glorious.”

Someone responds: “Go to it, Billy. Just go.”

Instead, I go home and wait. The good news is, I’m not overcome by pain when the numbness fades. Still, I know I’m not home free yet—my bum tooth could take a turn for the worse at any time.

And there’s this: Fluffy is scheduled to return to the vet tomorrow for X-rays of his bladder. Who knows what they will reveal?

(A note from the management: It occurs to me that this entry had nothing to do with looking for a job, doing freelance work, or anything else that’s career-related. Oh well. At least it fit within the “quest to stay sane” part of my blog’s theme.)

October 7-12, 2011: Hanging On for Dear Life

I’ve fallen hopelessly behind on my blog, which you might construe as a positive sign. Theoretically, it means I’ve been productive—so productive that I haven’t had time to stop and ruminate on my feelings. The reality, however, is slightly different. Consider:

October 7–9, 2011

I’m on the road, though not to a job interview. Since the kids don’t have school Monday because of Columbus Day, we’re visiting Cassie’s family in Cleveland.

We’ve made this 368-mile drive across the Indiana and Ohio turnpikes dozens of times, and I have it memorized. I know it will be snowing in La Porte, Ind., regardless of the season. I know we’ll pass the inexplicably massive RV Hall of Fame in Elkhart, Ind., and the parking lot will be empty. I know the fam will groan collectively when I threaten to stop at the Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Center in Fremont, Ohio.

And last but certainly not least: I know that once I get within radio distance of Cleveland and spin the dial, I will soon hear a song by AC/DC or Led Zeppelin. And not on a classic rock station—John Bonham’s 134-minute drum solo in “Moby Dick” will be passed off as something hot-and-now. Therein lies the beauty of Cleveland. Except for semi-regular plant closings, nothing ever changes. Going to Cleveland is like slipping into your favorite black concert T-shirt from 1974: Yeah, it’s torn, faded and out of style, but it sure is comfortable.

Once there, we catch up with family. This is no small undertaking, literally: Cassie’s dad is one of 12 children. We’re shown wonderful Polish hospitality—i.e., loads of food—as we make the rounds. And through it all, I don’t see a single green vegetable.

Monday, October 10

We’re a person down on the ride home: Cassie flew to Florida this morning for a business conference, so it’s just me, the kids, and the open road. As Cole and Liv snooze, I think. This is a big week for me, and since today is Monday and I’m on the turnpike instead of at my dining room table, I’m already behind the eight ball.

On Tuesday, I’ll need to:

• Start fretting about my potential root canal on Thursday

• Start a couple new freelance projects. Since I want to make a good impression, I’ll have to be at the top of my game.

Tuesday, October 11

Tuesday comes, and there are issues, so many issues. With Cassie gone, I have to deal with everything myself. For example:

Our McDonald's Monopoly game pieces taking up
real estate on my trusty dining room table.

• Liv is a cantor at this morning’s school Mass, and she’ll be crushed if someone doesn’t show up and watch her. Thus, I set aside the freelance projects I’ve barely started and dash over to Liv’s school for her show-stopping performance.

• After school, I set aside my still-barely-started freelance projects and cart Liv and Cole all over town for their various activities. I don't recall ever being this busy and structured as a kid. Mostly, I hung out in my friend Bennett's third-floor bedroom and listened to Pink Floyd.

• At 8:30 p.m., it dawns on me that I never fed the kids dinner. I set aside my confounded freelance projects and trudge to McDonald’s, not so much for the food but for the Monopoly game pieces. Christ, all we need is a Boardwalk and our financial worries are over. But to our dismay, we don’t win the $1 million grand prize or anything else of note. Just two crappy orders of medium fries.

Wednesday, October 12

I finally build up a head of steam on my freelance projects and begin worrying in earnest about my potential root canal. Life is good.

By mid-afternoon, however, it all falls apart. When I pick Liv up at volleyball practice, I learn that she needs to make brownies for a school bake sale tomorrow. I don’t know anything about baking brownies, nor do I want to know anything about baking brownies. We go to Dominick’s and buy the ingredients, and then Liv gets busy baking. I eye her pensively from the fringes of the kitchen—much to my amazement, nothing blows up or even burns.

At 9 p.m., after failing to build up another ahead of steam on my freelance projects, I retrieve Cole from a school activity. We then go to the airport to pick up Cassie. When she slides into the car, I breathe a sigh of relief, but just a small one. I’m not home free yet: Tomorrow I must confront my destiny at the dentist.

October 4-6, 2011: Running to Daylight

A friend of mine helped edit Jeff Pearlman’s new biography on Walter Payton, Sweetness: The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton. (Incidentally, this book is a fine, evenhanded piece of reporting on a very public and very complex figure. I’ve been dumbfounded by the bitter reaction to it from the Chicago media, most of whom probably haven’t even read it in its entirety. The media’s mission never was to love Payton blindly—it was to report on him objectively. Yet they seem as crushed as many fans by the revelations in Pearlman’s book.)

Anyway, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, I can move on to my point. In the midst of an email conversation about the book, this friend sent the titles of the final six chapters to me and some of our cohorts. I winced as I perused them, and for reasons that had nothing to do with Walter Payton. If I were a cynical man, I’d say these chapter titles pretty much sum up my existence in the five weeks since I was laid off from Crushed Soul:

• “Now What?”

• “A Bottomless Void”

• “Depression”

• “Sick”

• “The End”

• “Legacy”

Good thing I’m not looking at life after Crushed Soul that way. True, I’ve penned some “Now what?” entries since starting this blog. Indeed, I’ve talked about moments of depression, bouts with the flu, and the abrupt ending to this phase of my career. And yes, I’ve expressed fears that my legacy will involve living under a bridge. But I’m no cynic. To prove it, I’ve drawn up a list of good things that have come out of the past five weeks:

• Running. Okay, running sucks, but I’ve really gotten into it lately. It’s an effective diversion when weighty matters are burdening your mind. As fatigue sets in, you stop dwelling on the minutia of your troubles and start focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other. Before you know it, your mind is cleansed.

• Gas. How much does gas cost these days? About $77 per gallon? See, I wouldn’t know because I barely ever drive now that I don’t have a commute. While the rest of you continue to guzzle precious resources, I’ve gone green.

• Daylight. I never had much—or any, actually—in my bunker at Crushed Soul. Now, though, light streams through the window next to my dining room table.

• The thrill of looking for something new. I’ve come a long way in a matter of weeks, even if it feels more like months. After starting with only a pink slip, I might be on the verge of stringing together a promising foundation of work (more on that next week). It’s pretty damn satisfying. You learn a lot about yourself when you kick adversity right in its fat ass.

• I still have my health. Everyone seems to trot this one out when the chips are down, so I figured I'd do the same. You know how it goes: My wife ran off with my best friend, but at least I still have my health or My 401k lost $23,000 last week, but at least I still have my health. But on second thought, as I look back on the flu-riddled month that was, it doesn’t apply to me.

Whatever. My health might be somewhat sketchy, but at least I haven’t disappeared into a bottomless void. Talk about bummers.

Monday, October 3, 2011: Money Is Overrated

In a way, it’s cathartic to be free from the shackles of an income. There’s a chance—slim, yes, but a chance nonetheless—that being laid off from Crushed Soul will turn out to be a good thing.

I didn’t become an editor and writer for the glitz, glamour, or gobs of cash. Who would? You’re much more likely to encounter unforgiving deadlines, obnoxious bosses, long hours, and crappy workspaces. Publishing is less of a career and more of a calling.

It’s kind of like being a sports fan: You don’t choose the team that you’re going to spend a lifetime following—it chooses you. In a humane world, I would have been chosen by, say, the New York Yankees. Instead, I was chosen by the Chicago Cubs.

But you know what? Who cares if publishing is the Chicago Cubs of professions? I dig it. I still get a thrill out of the publishing process: starting with only ideas, working them through each step of creation, and winding up with a tangible product in print or on a computer monitor. My job has never felt like a job—it’s been a labor of twisted love.

Until recently, that is. The importance of a paycheck can't be denied, but I became a slave to mine. In my final year or so at Crushed Soul, I was taken away from the creative endeavors that give me such a charge, and my job had a mechanical bent. Nevertheless, since my most basic needs were being met—putting food on the table—I felt no sense of urgency to look elsewhere. I swear I could have gone on that way indefinitely. Another decade might have passed before I looked up numbly from a pile of spreadsheets and said, “Wow, that was quick. What did I do anyway?”

Now, though, my paycheck has been stripped from me. It’s scary but also sort of empowering. I can reinvent myself or, at the very least, rediscover the things I really love. What the hell? I have nothing to lose, right?

October 1, 2011-October 2, 2011

Saturday, October 1, 2011

After a restless night’s sleep, I awaken with a start. Sick or well, rain or shine, there’s no other choice: Liv and I are going camping.

One of Liv's bull's-eyes.

We scramble to get packed so that we can hit the road and seize the day. Normally, marinated skirt steak is the centerpiece of my provisions. It’s a big hit with the girls, who devour it in a matter of minutes. These are thrifty times, however, and I’m bringing juice boxes instead.

By 12:30, we’re settled in at the campsite. Liv decides she wants to go to the archery and rifle ranges, and that’s fine with me. When the staggered economy finally collapses and law and order dissolve into anarchy, marksmanship will be a useful skill. Liv proves to be a natural in archery: She scores three bull’s-eyes.

Next Liv wants to make candles, and that’s fine with me, too. When America’s creaky power grid finally goes kaput, we’ll need to tap into alternate light sources. As Liv joyfully sculpts her candle, it occurs to me that my lack of gainful employment has perhaps lent a morose quality to my thoughts.

Meanwhile, John “Captain Jack” Connolly is back at the cabin. Connolly has been entrusted with the most prestigious of all tasks—cooking for the tribe—and he’s meticulously prepping the grill. Late in the day, he serves up a few helpings of sausage as sort of a sorbet. The real grilling won’t commence until much later.

The campfire.

One of the dads dashes off to the hospital with his daughter because she needs a few stitches, but they’re back by nightfall, just in time for the campfire. As we approach the campfire site with the other tribes, the smell of accelerant hangs in the air. We all know better than to stand too close to the impressive collection of wood, which goes up like the city of Chicago in 1871 once it’s ignited.

After the campfire, we adjourn to the grill, where Connolly cooks meat after meat with both love and skill. Liv, who not so long ago aspired to be a vegetarian, stares down a hunk of wild boar without even flinching. Then, bless her little heart, she pops it into her mouth and chews it up.

In the wee hours of the night, the usual cacophony of snoring men fills the cabin. Predictably, there’s shock and outrage the next morning that people were snoring. But I say, cut the snorers some slack (and not just ’cause I’m one of them). Given all the food and drink in our stomachs, be glad for this signal that we were still breathing.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

I stagger out of the cabin at 7 a.m. and find a few of the dads gathered around the grill. They’re shaking their heads somberly. One mutters, “Such a shame. Such a shame.” Indeed. When I get up close, I see about three pounds of cooked sausage that had never been pulled off the grill.

“How’d it happen?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” answers a dad. “I guess no one was still up to eat it.”

Soon Liv and I are on our way home. I don’t feel any better than I did 24 hours earlier, but I don’t feel any worse either. I’ll take it. All things considered, I’m ahead of the game.

September 29, 2011-September 30, 2011

(A note from the management: As you can see, I’m a little behind on these posts. The hows and whys of it will be explained within.)

Thursday, September 29, 2011

In the baseball movie Bull Durham, the following pearl of wisdom is dispensed: “Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains.” I’m not entirely sure what this means, but it seems apt. After all, storm clouds have gathered, and not just outside. Consider:

• X-rays during a routine visit to the dentist today reveal that a tooth underneath one of my crowns has decayed badly and might require a root canal. This development transcends my needle phobia (not to mention my issues with power tools being applied to my teeth)—it also plays into my newfound fears of going broke. Even with insurance paying part of the freight, the procedure will cost me a bunch of cash.

• When last I spoke of Fluffy, he was making a heroic comeback from his bladder infection. Suffice it to say, he’s taken a turn for the worse, and the vet has called for further tests. This, too, plays into my newfound fears of going broke.

• By dusk, I’m a shell of a man—I’m achy, chilled and listless. I take my temperature, and the thermometer reads 101. It seems I’ve fallen victim to another flu bug.

Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes you wish you had a confounded umbrella.

Friday, September 30, 2011

This latest illness has put one of my most sacred fatherly duties into jeopardy: taking Liv to an Indian Princess campout.

Indian Princess is like Scouts without all the rules and regulations. Liv’s Indian Princess name is Broken Arrow; mine is Sitting Bull. Indian Princess season consists of three campouts (fall, winter and spring), as well as assorted other get-togethers. This is Liv’s fifth and final year of Indian Princess, and tomorrow we’re supposed to go somewhere in Indiana for the fall campout.

It’s heady stuff. Daytime is for activities such as canoeing, fishing, wall climbing, archery, Frisbee golf and hiking. Together, Dad and Daughter explore the rustic beauty of the outdoors. (Afterward Dad might explore the blessed world of slumber by sneaking in a nap.)

Nighttime is for fellowship. As the girls do whatever it is they’re doing, the fathers congregate by the grill with adult beverages and, oh, a month’s supply of meat. In my five years of Indian Princess, we’ve prepared countless varieties of beef, pork, chicken, fish and sausage, and we’ve experimented with all manner of game, including venison, bison, elk, snake, alligator and wild boar. The full list of meats we’ve grilled is too long and complex to compile here. By my second year, I felt like I needed to travel to Australia and slay a bearded dragon just so I’d have something different to bring.

But I digress. These campouts are all about the girls, and they have a blast. Without their mothers helicoptering over them, they’re free to have fun, fun, fun. Sure, they come home the next day sleep-deprived and with burrs in their hair, but that’s how life goes in the wilderness. What’s important is that we always get through these things without any incidents. (Okay, late one night a dad leaned back too far in his lawn chair and rolled down a hill and into the darkness, but that was the exception, not the rule.)

Right now, though, everything is in doubt—it’s all I can do to drag myself to the dining room table for a couple hours of work. Liv is not happy. I go to her bedroom to say goodnight, and her last words to me are, “I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to go on the campout.” As I leave, I hear her mutter something like, “Can’t you just suck it up for one day?”

I hobble back to my bedroom and hope for a miracle.