Mom vs. The Water Beetle

From two rooms away, Bart and I heard my mom scream at the top of her lungs. We jumped up and looked out the door only to see her running from the bathroom, ripping all of her clothes off, and yelling, “don’t look! Don’t look!”

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I grew up in the Bird Rock area of La Jolla. We don’t have alleys in La Jolla. We have “ways” and “lanes”–and though they look like alleys, they are named. I’m quite sure that we don’t have rats. But there are lots of really huge mice around. We also don’t have cockroaches. No. They may look, act, and be genetically identical to cockroaches, but in La Jolla they’re called water beetles. At least that’s what my mom tried to call them. She would slip up now and then, and the word “cockroach” would be used. But for the most part, “water beetle” was the preferred term. She was terrified of all bugs, but cockroaches held a special place of fear in her. Most likely from a story her mother used to tell her about the time she lived in China in a place where if you went into the kitchen at night and turned on the light, “the whole wall moved.” Covered in cockroaches.

Um, I mean water beetles.

For a while, my mom was prone to wearing long, flowy garments that brushed the ground. Even when out in the yard doing light gardening or simply watering. She would do this, and her mind would wander as she sprayed water around the back yard, her thoughts in far off lands (her childhood in India and what is now Pakistan, for instance) or simply in areas inconceivable to most of us.

On one such evening, after a pleasant half-hour in the back yard while the air cooled and the glowing sunset faded toward night, my mom was in the bathroom down the hall while Bart and I sat in my room, talking about and listening to music. She was combing her hair and began to think to herself how wonderful it would be if you could think of something and it would simply appear. A delicious dinner, perhaps. Or an object you needed. How amazing and useful that would be! You simply think, and it’s there. (I don’t know if she ever saw the “Shore Leave” episode of Star Trek, but it’s pretty much along the lines of where her mental wanderings were headed.) She stopped herself short, though: What if you thought of a cockroach? That would be terrible!

At that very moment a cockroach walked up onto her shoulder.

Which is where I started. My mom had one of the biggest freak-outs that you could ever imagine. She screamed at the top of her lungs and ran out of the bathroom–tearing off all her clothes as she went, yelling “don’t look! Don’t look!” to Bart and I as we hurried out of the bedroom to see what was wrong.

She ran and grabbed something to put on, while Bart and I simply stood there, utterly baffled. When she managed to calm down to a point where she could speak in a somewhat rational manner she finally conveyed the reason for her distress. Bart and I went in search of the, ah, water beetle. At first, we were looking at each other and wondering if she’d just totally flipped her lid. But after several minutes, yes, we did find the nasty thing. In retrospect, it’s obvious that the water beetle had managed hitch a ride on my mom’s long, flowing clothing. But for a while there, she was absolutely convinced she had conjured it out of thin air. I wish she’d conjure up the winning lotto numbers. Now that would be useful.

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A Morning on Palomar Mountain

Last Friday, I realized that with little on my schedule for Sunday, a holiday on Monday, and the weather finally getting to something of a reasonable temperature, it might just be time for me to visit one of my favorite places on Earth: Palomar Mountain State Park. The park was slated for closure due to budgetary cuts, but a great group called Friends of Palomar State Park stepped in, did a fund raising drive, and worked a deal with the State Park system to keep the gates open to the public. Of course, continued operation depends on people actually paying the fees to use the park, so the least I could do was spend a night there. There were several campsites available and I booked one.

The drive up was relatively uneventful, with one slight exception. In several places on the park website, it is mentioned that there’s no gas station on Palomar Mountain. I was around a quarter of a tank as I reached Escondido, and used the GPS in my phone to locate a gas station. The closest one was the Qwik Korner on East Valley Parkway. Now we all know that gas prices have jumped like crazy over the last week or so, but this was just nuts:


Across the street at the Mobil station, the price was a relative bargain at $5.29 a gallon for regular. Yes, there were people fueling their cars at both stations. Not knowing what was ahead, I put three gallons in at the Mobil station. Turns out that another 15 miles along the road at Harrah’s Rincon Casino, there was a 7-11 with regular priced at $4.63 which, while still obscene, was at least along the lines of prices elsewhere in the county.

Reaching South Grade Road, I took the twists and turns the way I can only do when driving alone. I can’t imagine any passenger enjoying that drive. I loved it. I had to turn off the traction control as I slammed my automatic transmission from D to 2 to L and up again, hitting the turns hard and fast. Even so, I had to pull to the side three times for motorcycles to pass me.

I got to the campsite and, first things first, set up the tent while there was still a lot of daylight. Then, after a snack of some grapes and sliced turkey breast, went over to the camp host to buy some firewood. Things all set, it was time for my first hike. I took the Doane Valley Nature Trail. It’s an easy, 1-mile trail that starts in the Doane Pond parking lot, with beautiful views and lots of variety.

Back to camp. Time to split up some of the wood for kindling and build a fire. Once it had been ablaze for an hour or so, I realized I needed more wood. Back to the camp host.

The night itself was something of a loss. While I had a fabulous opportunity to view the stars (and it’s so amazing how many stars you can see up there, a mile above sea level and away from city lights), other campers were loud: radios, overly-raised voices, oh yeah, and barking dogs. Nice. had said that the temperature was going to drop to around 50 degrees overnight. Not too cold. I brought a suede jacket just in case and it was already getting rather chilly by 8pm. I had planned on just using my sleeping bag as a mat. I normally like it cool and use no covers save a sheet. Since I was planning on actually wearing something to bed, I figured I’d be warm enough. I was wrong. Had to get in the sleeping bag.

Woke up at 6:30, cold, just around sunrise, fingers numb. A quick bowl of cereal and brushing of teeth, and I was off on the hike I really wanted to take: early morning down the French Valley Trail. This trail begins where the Doane Valley Nature Trail ends: pretty much right in the middle of the campground area. Almost everyone was still asleep in the campground. And it was downright chilly.

Up to the left, the campsite across the narrow road from the trail head was ringed with large black crows, silent and still. They were all facing the tent on the site, waiting or watching for something, some event. One hopped a few feet forward and was again still. I’ll never know what they were waiting for, but it was an eerie early-morning sight.

On to the trail and into the first small meadow, the temperature dropped several more degrees in the open air. But it was crisp, clean air. The shriek of bluejays had begun to pepper the morning that was coming alive with chirps, whistles, tweets, and calls from other unseen birds all around.

Perhaps 50 feet into the first area of cover on the trail, a sudden bounding started in front of me then off toward the left! A large deer had been spooked by my not-so-subtle gait. I stopped, and it paused, some 40 feet away, directly left, watching me through a thin bush. When it decided I posed no threat it began to graze on some of the grasses. I watch for a while longer until it wandered off, out of sight.

Farther along, the trail split. To the left, it went down into the valley meadow, still in shadow, while the ridge beyond blazed in sunlight.

From where I stood, with the rising sun still hidden behind me, the grasses in the meadow, yellow, green, and brown the afternoon before, looked oddly white in patches. I took the right fork, up, through more trees. A slightly more ambitious trail, this one. In several places, trees had fallen, and one was presented with the choice of climbing over or going under.

Several times along the way I stopped to soak it all in. The beautiful views, the bird-filled quiet. The serenity.

When I finally reached the point where the trail left the trees and skirted the meadow, I could see the white somewhat more clearly. Bizarre, yes, but it looked like frost. Trekking on, I eventually made it to a stretch of trail that went directly through . . . frost. The crunch under my boots was confirmed when I reached down and scraped a layer of frost from a blade of grass. And then another, just to be sure.


I’m going to say that might have been a few degrees off in their forecast of the overnight low.

By that time, though, I was anything but cold. The altitude and the hike had raised my heart rate, for sure. Reaching the end of the meadow, the French Valley Trail met up with the Lower Doane Valley Trail at the base of the ridge that was now hit with full morning sun. I knew this trail would meet back up with the Nature Trail back toward the Doane Pond parking lot, so up I went, along the lower part of the ridge. I turned just in time to see a large hawk fly from a nearby tree to one further along my path. Smaller birds scattered as it landed.

Along this trail, from ferns and other flora either side the dirt path, gossamer strands intersected my way. Spiders had spun their webs overnight. There was no choice but to cross them, breaking the webs that would surely be rebuilt again the coming night.

Up, up, down. up. Down, along, and down to where the two trails meet. Then up, up again to the road, and back to the campsite, sweaty, breathless, and fully refreshed.

I need to do this again, and soon.

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Avast, Me Hearties!

Recently, I had the distinct pleasure of having a drink named in my honor. At Small Bar, of course. They just celebrated their third anniversary. Louis (the GM there) asked if they could name a drink “The Vampyrate”. If you’re unaware, I am co-creator and co-writer of a comic book called “Vampyrates“. It was served in a special mug. Here’s a photo of yours truly enjoying this delicious, rum-based (as if you had to ask) libation:

‘Nuff said.

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They Pull Me Back In!

As I mentioned, these Doorman Diaries are from a time when I worked at Small Bar on Park Boulevard. It’s been well over a year-and-a-half since I stopped working there, but I try to visit often. Once a week or so, actually. It’s the people–both the ones I worked with and the customers–who bring me back. I simply enjoy the mix of folks, the conversation, the people-watching.

Recently, I ended up at Small Bar by myself after an…adventure. I had been conversing on the book of faces with someone I knew from way back when in the old Mod days. We decided it might just be easier to go grab a beer. Naturally, I suggested Small Bar. Somehow we ended up going to talk a friend of hers out of doing something stupid. He had been drinking and made a vaguely “done with life” type of comment to her in a text. (She has been dating him and another gentleman on and off for the last five years or so.) Without going into a lot of detail, I’ll just say he definitely needed to be out of the house, but he was in no condition to actually go to a bar. I drove them both to her place, whereupon the other guy she’d been dating showed up. Oops. After a few minutes, I departed for Small Bar, adventure accomplished.

Or so I thought.

An hour or so after I got there, the doorman came in and told a couple of us who were standing in the “alley” area that we should see these two guys who had come out of Bourbon Street, heading past Small Bar in the direction of El Zarape. He said neither of them could walk, but they were both trying to help each other do so. The end result was that it looked like some bizarre form of ultimate fighting–they were basically body-slamming each other into the ground every four or five steps. When we got out to the street, we all realized that one of them was now injured, bleeding from the back of his head. A guard from Bourbon Street ran back and got towels. We convinced the injured guy to sit down while I ended up calling 911. Drunk Guy #2 kept trying to get Drunk Guy #1 to stand up, and we kept having to convince him that, no, that wasn’t a good idea. Especially as he was the reason Drunk Guy #1 was bleeding. Apparently, Drunk Guy #2 had tried to carry Drunk Guy #1 and instead dropped him on his head. On the metal grate around a small tree.

The ambulance arrived. I told them what I knew and let them take over.

That’s part of the job I do not miss. At all.

Mom vs. The Backrest

As I mentioned before, my mom and I work at the same place, and worked together previously at another company. I handled many things there, including all the computers. This was, well, a long time ago. Modems were slow and phone charges were expensive. We had people who did field work for us around the country. One of the things that these representatives did was meet arriving foreign student groups at international airports and get them to the next gate. (This was well before 9/11, so it was far easier for our reps to meet the kids.) I had designed a database program to help track the students and their host families, along with travel information. A few times a year, the reps would send their laptops back to the office for me to work on–update the database, do some general system work, etc.

Now, while my mom had a computer on her desk, it was a mysterious object. She simply had no idea (nor any desire to learn) how to use it. I tried. I continue to try to this day. It’s . . . excruciating at times. She’s an intelligent woman, so that’s not the problem. I believe she has convinced herself that computers are too complicated and that she’ll never learn how to use one, so she simply doesn’t make a true effort. This has been going on for more than 20 years. (And people wonder where I get my stubborn streak from!)

Something my mom did (and, yes, continues to) do, though, is order things from catalogs. Gadgets (nothing too techy, of course), books, movies, CDs, shoes, what have you. One thing she’s always trying to do is find things that will help her back. She’s had a bad back on and off for a very long time. To a point where she’s been forced to lay in bed for days due to the pain. Various lumbar supports and other back-stress-relieving items have come and gone over the years. Typically, she has them delivered to the office and then has me come and install the gadget du jour. Because she somehow assumes I have lots and lots of time to do such things. At one point I explained how I really didn’t have time to help her with each thingy that showed up at the office. So she began a relatively vain attempt to figure out the installations on her own. And then I’d get a call to come and help after she gave up.

On one particular occasion, a box arrived at the office and she eagerly opened it to get at the latest back thingamajig she’d ordered. But, as usual, I got a call on the intercom an hour later. “Kev, can you come down and take a look at this thing I got for my back? I don’t know if I’m using it right, and it’s not very comfortable.” Down the stairs I went, over to the adjacent building, and back to her office. “See? I don’t know how it’s supposed to go. There were no instructions. I don’t know if it goes behind me or if I’m supposed to sit on it. And if it goes behind me, does it go vertical or horizontal?”

I looked at the item and knew exactly what was wrong. “Mom, can I see the box it came in, please?”

“Sure, it’s right there. Why?”

“Because I want to look at the label. Yeah, just as I thought. See this? It’s not from a backrest company.”

“But I haven’t ordered anything else!”

“You’re not the only person who receives packages here, Mom. It was addressed to me.”

“Why would you order a backrest? Are you having back problems?”

“Mom, it’s not a backrest. You’ve been sitting on a laptop computer wrapped in bubble wrap!”

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An Angry Person

On the Book of Faces, I was told I’m angry because I make and vehemently defend a lot of political/social posts. First, I’m going to explain why that opinion is wrong. And then I’ll explain why it’s right.

It’s wrong because, as most anyone who meets me can tell you, I am almost always easy going, friendly, happy, and loving. In fact, I am almost hippie-like in my belief in the importance of love and peace. Elvis Costello had it right: what is so funny about peace, love, and understanding? If people were more open and loving with each other, I believe that we’d elevate our society. I want love and acceptance to overcome hatred and aggression, and I don’t see why that can’t be the case. I know it sounds corny, but if you think about it, it only makes sense that the world would be a better place if we’d all just let go of hate–even if it’s just a little bit–and love that much more.

But, yes, I am angry. I’m angry at people who promote hate. I’m angry at those who hide their bigotry behind a smile and a pulpit. I’m angry at those who would bully others, whether it be on a personal level or from a place of political power. I’m angry at those who would push others down so that they can feel better about themselves. I’m angry at those who would deny rights to others–rights that they, themselves, enjoy. I’m angry at those who feel they have the right to tell others who they may love and how they may love. I’m angry at those who hold disdain and contempt for the disenfranchised and less-fortunate. I’m angry at those who blind themselves to the misfortunes and miseries of others while lining their own pockets.

I articulate this anger and outrage against injustices I see. I feel compelled to point these things out, to say, “Hey! Look at this! There’s a problem here! PAY ATTENTION!” Because so many people find it all-too-easy to look away and ignore the hurt, pain, and social injustices that assail us every day. I can see how one could simply say I need to grow a thicker skin and learn not to care. The thing of it is, I think I already have! I just don’t know how I could possibly cut myself off completely from the rest of humanity. I love too much, care too much, and empathize far too much to be able to ignore such things completely.

Concert Review: Adam Ant at 4th & B, San Diego, 2012-09-15

The Adam Ant show at 4th & B was truly excellent. While, no, he didn’t jump as high as he might have some 30 years ago, he nonetheless had great energy and an excellent band backing him up. I will admit, I did miss Marco Pirroni on guitar now and then (I think Marco is one of the most influential and underrated guitar players of the last several decades–his use of feedback alone was innovative and I can hear it in so many recordings from so many other artists to follow).

All told, Adam played for nearly two hours, featuring music from all eras of his career. The highlights for me were the many B-side songs, such as “Beat My Guest”, “Red Scab”, and “Fall In” to name a few. Now I must come clean about my bias, here: I became a fan shortly after the “Kings of the Wild Frontier” album came out. This strongly influenced my enjoyment of  his set list as it was heavily peppered with songs from “Kings”. He performed approximately half of the songs from that album, several from “Dirk Wears White Socks” and two-to-three each from “Prince Charming”, “Friend or Foe”, and “Vive Le Rock”.
As to Adam himself, I very much enjoyed the fact that his look has returned to the pirate of old–high boots, gold-trimmed jacket, scarves, and trinkets. Let’s face it, Johnny Depp owes the entire Captain Jack Sparrow look to Adam, so it’s only fitting that Adam should reclaim it now. And as someone said to me that night, very few musicians can pull off wearing a T-shirt with their own face on it. Adam did, without seeming either self-aggrandizing or showing any sort of conscious self-parody.
By the end of the show I was drenched in sweat from jumping up and down, hoarse from singing along at the top of my lungs, and grinning from ear-to-ear due to sheer enjoyment of the evening. Welcome back, Adam. It’s been a long time and you’ve been missed.

A Gentleman In A White Dress, or, Three Nights Of Fun

More Doorman Diaries!

MAY 8, 2010

12:32 am: Large group of approximately 7 females walking from Adams to Bourbon Street, laughing loudly between El Zarape and Small Bar, but quiet down just before they reach me. Simultaneously, a group of 3 males depart Bourbon Street and are very loud wile standing in the street looking for a cab.

12:35 am: 4 females in front of Bourbon Street, laughing loudly.

12:53 am: Saw a male who had exited Bourbon Street urinating behind a car. He tried to enter Small Bar, but I simply blocked his path and shook my head. He then staggered back to Bourbon Street, obviously intoxicated–and they let him in. However, I told the Lei Lounge doorman what I saw and he ran over just as the guy was going inside. The Bourbon Street bouncers stopped him and sent his whole group away.

1:02 am: Large loud group in front of Bourbon Street, laughing, yelling, and clapping.

1:30 am: 4 males depart Bourbon Street toward El Zarape. 3 walking, 1 riding piggy-back, too drunk to walk.

1:31 am: Group outside Bourbon Street. Lots of yelling. (“LORENZO!”)

1:32 am: Male ran out of Small Bar and asked where he could “take a piss” as the line inside was too long. I directed him to Lei Lounge. They kindly let him use their restroom even though they had already called last call.

MAY 13, 2010

1:00 am: Group at corner table/booth and group at long table closest to exit in Small Bar are throwing coasters at each other. Also singing VERY loud, drowning out street noise.

1:03 am: A loud group exits Bourbon Street but quickly disperses.

1:36 am: Group of 4 males and 1 female exit Bourbon Street, crossing toward Madison. Female is yelling at the top of her lungs.

MAY 15, 2010

10:55 pm: Bourbon Street has some sort of “Carnival Night” going on, with popcorn, cotton candy, a bubble machine, and alcoholic Sno-Cones. That said, it’s been fairly quiet so far. Why do I think this is going to change?

11:47 pm: Denied entry to 2 males who have been here a few times in the past. One had an expired ID and the other was just a bit too intoxicated.

12:28 am: Fight out in street in front of Bourbon Street. Might have been 2 different females trying to get a cab. Bourbon Street security broke it up, but there was a lot of yelling.

12:40 am: Car with loud (no?) muffler set off the alarm of a truck parked across from El Zarape.

1:05 am: Just noticed that what I first thought was a bus parked down across from The Lancers is actually a lunch truck, open for business.

1:07 am: Group of approximately 12 outside Bourbon Street. Lots of piercing whistles and yelling.

1:10 am: 3 males dressed for the drag queen contest at Bourbon Street, walking past El Zarape toward the direction of Small Bar and Bourbon Street are SCREAMING. I quietly and politely asked them to respect the neighbors. They loudly and rudely refused.

1:40 am: A gentleman in a white dress and up-do wig is standing in the middle of the street with a bunch of balloons, yelling “BITCH!” at each passing car.

1:50 am: From amongst the huge crowd from Bourbon Street making scads of noise outside, a Small Bar customer came up to the gate and made an extremely loud and piercing whistle, trying to get his friends to hurry up for the bus. I did get him to stop, but he’d obviously already made a huge noise.

A Night On Park Boulevard: April 29 & May 6, 2010

Here I start a new category on my blog. It’s notes from the time I worked as a doorman at Small Bar on Park Boulevard. The bar was relatively new at that time, and a few complaints (mostly about noise) had been lodged. So the owners began having the guys at the door keep notes as to goings on, especially after 10pm when the San Diego noise curfew takes effect, mostly to show that Small Bar was not the source of the problem. For a visual, facing the street from Small Bar, Lei Lounge is directly to the right, Bourbon Street is just past Lei Lounge–to the left is the issue. There are several apartments above the businesses between Small Bar and El Zarape. It’s a relatively short stretch, probably about the same distance as the front of Bourbon Street and Lei Lounge combined. But the problem is that it is residential . . . and just beyond it is a business that stays open until after the bars have closed: El Zarape taco shop. I got my hands on a couple of the old notebooks. Enjoy the transcripts.


8:20 pm: Turned away a male for intoxication. He insisted he was not on anything, but motor skills were impaired & speech slurred at times.

10:05 pm: Loud group of approximately 6 males and 1 female outside Lei Lounge yelling and laughing loudly.

10:45 pm: 2 males ran across the street from El Zarape to a truck, yelling loudly.

11:35 pm: 3 females exited Bourbon Street toward El Zarape, passing Small Bar. They started shrieking and poking each others’ breasts.

11:55 pm: Group of 7 standing in front of Lei Lounge door, talking. Not too loud, but going on for several minutes.

11:56 pm: For the last 2 or 3 hours, the group at the window table inside Small Bar has been very loud. Then again, they have been trying to hold a conversation over the music.

12:28 am: Group of 7 from Bourbon Street heading toward El Zarape–they became loud just after passing Small Bar.

1:00 am: Group at window table is still audibly loud from outside, even though the music was turned down half an hour ago. Dan asked them to keep it down a bit. We’ll see…


10:37 pm: A male got out of an SUV in between Small Bar and El Zarape . . . with a megaphone. He turned it on and started yelling through it to the bouncers at Bourbon Street. I approached him, pointed out that he is in a residential zone, and asked him to turn off the speaker. He apologized and complied.

10:43 pm: Group of 4 females in front of Lei Lounge, talking and laughing loudly. Asked them to keep it down. They apologized, but did not quiet down very much.

11:07 pm: Lei Lounge doors are still open and music is blaring.

11:10 pm: 5 patrons exit Lei Lounge, heading past Small Bar toward El Zarape, talking and laughing loudly. I asked them to keep voices down as it’s  a residential area. They complied.

11:57 pm: A group of 6 males walking to Bourbon Street from the direction of El Zarape were talking and laughing loudly as they approached Small Bar. When they passed I politely asked them to keep their voices down. They refused.

12:10 am: Just learned from a patron that Bourbon Street is having a wet underwear contest tonight. Great.

12:14 am: 1 male and 2 females in front of Bourbon Street yelling and otherwise conducting themselves in a loud manner. They started walking in the direction of El Zarape. As they passed Small Bar I said, “Hey folks, just so you know this is a residential area, so–” and they cut me off with “we don’t care!” They continued making copious amounts of noise as they headed past El Zarape and toward Adams Avenue.

12:31 am: There is a fair amount of yelling and screaming audible from inside Bourbon Street right now. I’ll guess that the wet underwear has something to do with this.

12:33 am: 2 males ran out of Bourbon Street, shrieking at the tops of their lungs. One ran straight down the center of Park Boulevard, the other paralleled him on the far sidewalk as they headed toward Adams.

1:15 am: 3 males ran from Bourbon Street toward Adams, yelling and shouting at each other. I was unable to say anything to them. After passing Small Bar, they ran into the street.

1:45 am: Group in front of Bourbon Street, singing and shouting. They head to El Zarape, but do not quiet down at my request.

1:46 am: 4 from the above group head back past Small Bar–my request for them to keep their voices down is again ignored.

Mom vs. Days of the Week

For this Mom story, we need to delve a bit further back. No, farther than that. No, more. Okay, look, let’s just go get in the Wayback Machine… Tim, you really need to come along for this one. It’s your favorite. Yeah, there’s room in here. Please fasten your harness and pull down on the safety bar.

Okay, everybody in? Controls set for 1978, aaaaand here we go!

Pling. And here we are.

My best friend, Bart, would often stay the night at my house on school nights. He lived in a different part of town and it was a long ride. It tended to make a lot of sense. Mom would come in each morning and wake us to get ready for school. Being best friends we would regularly stay up way too late, talking about music and what have you. So waking up was rarely an easy thing. “Boys! Boys! Wake up!” She’d start off gentle. We’d groggily open our bleary eyes and make vague attempts at consciousness. “It’s getting late you have to get ready for school!” She’d never get really loud, but perhaps a bit more firm in her calling to us. “Come on! Get up, you’re running late!”

One morning, however, she came up with, well, how shall I put it? An . . . interesting twist. “Boys! Boys! Wake up!” Came the familiar call. We’d stayed up extra late the night before, so it was taking a bit more on her end to get through to us. “Come on, boys, wake up! I need to tell you something!” And so, we forced ourselves awake and peeled our eyes open to hear:

“I just wanted to tell you it’s Saturday and you can sleep in as late as you want!”