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I checked with Johnny’s dad and Media Jean’s parents. They’re excited and surprised that their kids want to go to Yosemite. Neither has shown much interest in camping. We’re all going to meet in a couple weeks to talk about the trip.
After my first visit to Yosemite, mom suggested we return each May. But dad wanted much more. He had only two weeks off all year, and he yearned to see all the great national parks “before I move on to that big wilderness in the sky.” "What about Sequoia and Yellowstone?" he argued. "How can we miss the Grand Canyon and the Smoky Mountains, the Rockies and the Tetons?" So the next May, when I was eight, we visited Sequoia National Park. We delved into Crystal Cave, hiked through the Giant Forest, and stood in awe before General Sherman, the largest tree in the world. It was beautiful. It was breathtaking. But it wasn’t Yosemite. After three days, dad reluctantly pointed the Ranchero west down Highway 198, took 99 north, branched off on 41 ... and in just a few hours, we were back in Yosemite Valley. Mom wrote in her journal, “There is something here that Bobby finds nowhere else. Yosemite is Pascal’s missing piece for him; Yosemite fills the God-size hole nothing else can fill. If I could, I would move our family here, just for him.” After that, we spent dad’s precious two weeks every year in Yosemite. I thought Yosemite was the one place we all loved most. But after dad passed so much sooner than any of us expected, mom shared her journal entries from that time. “He wouldn’t let me tell you,” she said. “But I thought you should know.” I was only thirteen when I read those entries, and they made me cry in a way I hadn’t cried before. I learned that each year, my dad secretly planned trips to Zion in Utah, Acadia in Maine, or his dream of dreams, Denali National Park in Alaska. And each year, thinking about his son’s mysterious connection to Yosemite, dad put his own maps and books aside and steered our family back to the one place he felt I needed to go. After he passed, I spent days in his office. I found an old gas station map with a hand-drawn checkbox by each national park he hoped to see. But only two boxes were checked: Sequoia and Yosemite. The Yosemite box had been checked so many times, the map had torn through, leaving a hole that seemed to grow bigger the longer I stared at it. My dad died without having seen Bryce or Haleakala, Mt. Rainier or Arches, Joshua Tree or Glacier, Everglades or Death Valley, or even the Badlands where T-Rexes once roamed. And he died without hearing his son say, “Thanks, dad.” Not once. Not for that. Somehow, I only thanked my mom for Yosemite. In one of those stunningly self-centered blind spots of childhood, I didn’t see what my dad had given up. I didn’t understand that he had traded away every road in America for just one. I’ve been checking national parks off his map ever since. I’m about a third of the way through. If I don’t make it, I’ll leave the map for Chip and hope he finishes the adventure for us all. Thank you, dad. Comments 
Media Jean: Now I'm crying. 
Chip: Me too. 
Johnny: Why does your dad always tell such sad stories?
Chip: Sometimes sad stories are the happiest ones.
Media Jean: I think I'll go and say thank you to my parents right now.
Chip: What for?
Media Jean: Anything. Everything. I don't know. Just THANK YOU.
Johnny: Now that I think about it, I thank my dad all the time. But I never thank my mom. My dad and I act like we're running the world, but mom runs our world.
Media Jean: That goes double for me. For both my parents.
Chip: And it's not just our parents.
Media Jean: What do you mean?
Chip: Well, shouldn't we be thankful for our friends, too?
Media Jean: Does that mean I have to thank Johnny for being Johnny?
Johnny: You should thank me. Hanging around me is like going to business school—for free.
Chip: Media Jean, thanks for being my friend. Thanks for always being there for me. Thanks for making me laugh. Thanks for being braver than I am, for doing things I'm afraid to do, and letting me share in that. You're my best friend.
Media Jean: Wow. Thank you, Chip, for being my best friend. Thanks for helping me see the other guy's point of view, especially when I get carried away. Thanks for showing me that kindness is maybe the most important thing of all. You make the world a better place.
Chip: Johnny, thanks for always being yourself, no matter how much we tease you. Thanks for pushing us to get things done, because otherwise we might spend all our time playing. I'm glad I know someone as different as you.
Media Jean: Same, here, Johnny. Thanks for all of that.
Johnny: Oh, man. I hate this mushy stuff.
Chip: It feels great. Try it.
Johnny: I'd rather not.
Media Jean: Just think of it as practice.
Johnny: Practice?
Media Jean: Sure! When you're a CEO, you'll need to motivate the minions, right?
Johnny: That's true! Great job, I really appreciate you, we couldn't do it without you, yada yada!
Media Jean: Exactly! Why not practice on us?
Johnny: OK. Let's see. Media Jean, the way you think outside the box challenges me to think outside my boxes. Our company needs leaders with independent minds like you. I don't always agree with you, but I want you to know I respect you.
Media Jean: Thank you, Johnny.
Johnny: I'm a natural at this! Chip, you're a geek genius with a heart of gold. That's a rare combination in today's dog-eat-dog world. Thanks to your innovation, our company is more profitable than ever before. We wouldn't be where we are today if not for you.
Chip: Thanks, Johnny. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.
Johnny: Did I seem sincere? Did you buy it?
Media Jean: Hook, line and stinker, I mean, sinker.
Johnny: This is going to be easier than I thought! And the best part is, I don't feel a thing! I can say whatever I need to say to drive the lemmings to the sea, and not feel a twang of real emotion. You can't buy this kind of experience. Thanks, guys, really!
Media Jean: Was that last part a real thanks or a CEO thanks?
Johnny: Wow, that really hurt my feelings, Media Jean. Couldn't you tell I was being sincere?
Chip: I could.
Johnny: Then you're a sucker! Ha ha! I'm the Master of Platitudes!
Media Jean: That was rude, even for you!
Johnny: You're right. Sorry. You know how I get carried away sometimes. Sorry, Chip. I really do appreciate you.
Chip: Thanks, Johnny.
Johnny: Pow! The CEO of Cliches strikes again! Ha ha! So long, suckers!
Chip: He just logged off the network.
Media Jean: I didn't want to encourage him, but Master of Platitudes was pretty good.
Chip: Ha ha! CEO of Cliches!
Media Jean: Ha ha! He got us, twice!
Chip: I guess if you're going to really be thankful for someone like Johnny, you have to have a good sense of humor.
Media Jean: You can say that again! 
Comic strip from the series "Employee Handbook"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 1: Look Out, Tomorrow, Here We Come!) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
Darndest thing happened last night.
Chip said he wanted to read me a bedtime story. He looked so sincere, what could I say? So last night, he was the father and I was the son. He watched as I flossed and brushed, and waited while I settled under the blankets, finding my spot. He sat on the edge of the bed, took out a couple sheets of printer paper, announced, When Death Comes, by Mary Oliver, and started to read in his small voice: When death comes... I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness? When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. When it is over, I don’t want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.* Then he made me close my eyes and listen as he read it again. Next thing I knew, dawn was on the curtains. I had slept the night through. I woke rested and calm and at peace. How did that happen? After all my sleepless nights, all my metaphysical strike outs, one little poem read by my son changes everything. Go figure. Maybe you need more than prayer and philosophy when facing Death. Those are the basics, good in most situations. But sometimes prayers bounce back. Sometimes philosophy rings hollow. Sometimes you need something else. Maybe a joke, or a battle cry, music or a poem. Some other kind of reminder spoken in someone else’s voice. A whisper not your own. A whisper to live, live, live, because when you lease all the rooms of your mind to Life, there’s no vacancy for Death. When you wrap both your arms around the waist of Living, Dying can’t get close to your heart. Here’s to you, Life. * From When Death Comes, by Mary Oliver, from New and Selected Poems (Beacon Press). Comments 
Media Jean: Wow, he got a lot more out of that poem than I did. 
Chip: Yeah. I’m not even sure what it’s about. I just found it online and it sounded kinda comforting.
Media Jean: You know he’s gonna ask you about it.
Chip: Yeah. He’ll want to know what I think the poem means.
Media Jean: Well, what do you think it means?
Chip: I’m not sure. I like “cottage of darkness.” That doesn’t sound scary at all.
Media Jean: I think it means don’t capitalize Death.
Chip: Ha ha! Lower case death. That makes me think of the Grim Reaper wearing short pants.
Media Jean: It’s like Voldemort in Harry Potter. Wizards calling him “You Know Who” and “He Who Must Not Be Named.” Give me a break! That just made everyone more afraid of him. Harry and Dumbledore had the right idea.
Chip: My dad likes Harry Potter.
Media Jean: Tell him to stand up to death the way Harry stood up to ol’ Snake Face. Stand up for life and love and friendship and truth and all that jazz.
Chip: All that jazz. That’s funny.
Media Jean: Maybe we should get him one of those Harry Potter wand remotes, so every time he watches TV he’ll feel like a wizard.
Chip: Ha ha! That’s a great idea! 
Comic strip from the series "Bedtime Stories"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 1: Look Out, Tomorrow, Here We Come!) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
I can see Chip percolating on Aunt Bosky’s diagnosis.
I miss how it used to be. He’d climb into my lap, we’d talk, and all his troubles got sorted out right there, with my arms around him. Of course, most of his worries were the sortable kind. His little Rubik’s Cube was never more than a few turns out of sync. Now? I’m not sure how it happened, but most of my fatherly tasks have been delegated. So when Chip heard about Aunt Bosky’s cancer, he took his questions to Google. Meanwhile, I stand in the wings, waiting like an understudy to be called on stage. Let’s face it, dads. Fatherhood is being outsourced:
Wake up, dads of America! The Father Fire-Sale is on! The marketers and sellers and branders have hijacked your role! Task by task, you are being replaced! Stand up before it’s too late! Unplug those computers, turn off those Wi-Fis, box up those game stations! Take a page from Howard Beale’s notebook: get up, stick your head out the window and shout, “I’m a mad dad and I’m not going to delegate any more!” Whoa... Got a little carried away there. Take a breath, Bob. Wait a minute! Why am I apologizing? Maybe I need to get carried away. Shouting is appropriate in a burning house. Comments
Media Jean: I sometimes forget that your dad doesn’t just dislike technology. He kinda hates it.
Chip: Yeah. Once I tried explaining how the newspapers and books he loves are also technology. I mean, newspapers were new at some point. People used to gather in the town square. News was a real community event. If you asked a Town Crier, he might say newspapers ruined everything.
Media Jean: I never thought about it that way!
Chip: That’s nothing compared to books. Books were a bigger change than the Internet ever was.
Media Jean: I guess that’s true. Books changed how people got and shared information. The internet is just an upgrade.
Chip: Right! If you look at today’s technology as just the next step, then it’s not so scary because there was a step before this step, a step you were comfortable with. From that point of view, changing technologies are as natural as changing seasons.
Media Jean: I love that kind of thinking! What’d your dad say to all that?
Chip: He said, “That may be technically true, but it’s not emotionally true.”
Media Jean: Uh… What does that mean?
Chip: Beats me. He tried to explain it, but lost me after the fifth Thoreau quote.
Media Jean: Your dad has read us the Thoreau Riot Act so many times, I practically got that book memorized.
Chip: The Thoreau Riot Act. That’s funny.
Media Jean: Thoreau! What a sour puss! I bet he wasn’t invited to a lot of parties.
Chip: Ha ha! Thoreau the party pooper!
Media Jean: Ha ha! Instead of, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,” maybe his first draft of Walden really read, “I went into the woods because nobody liked me.”
Chip: Ha ha!
Media Jean: Let’s go to Project Gutenberg, download Walden, and publish an “unauthorized first draft.” We can rewrite the whole thing from a whiner’s point of view.
Chip: I don’t know. It’s pretty preachy already.
Media Jean: That’s true. Man, you can’t even make fun of Thoreau for long. What a sour puss! 
Comic strip from the series "Bob's No Tech Igloo"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 2: The Batcave of Childhood) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
Boy, it’s been a while since I sat down and wrote. Now I’m holding on to this typewriter like an anchor. A hatch popped open somewhere and the big Unknown keeps sucking all the air and warmth and gravity out of my little spaceship.
Hold on, Bob. It all started two months ago. Aunt Bosky called long distance to say she had been diagnosed with cancer. And BAM! Right then, right there holding the phone, I thought of the composer Charles Ives. In 1927, he came running downstairs with tears in his eyes and told his wife, “I can’t compose anymore! Nothing sounds right!” He never wrote another piece of music. I always wondered how his wife felt, hearing the Incomprehensible. How she reacted when the Impossible came tumbling down the familiar stairs of her everyday home. And exactly at that moment, with the phone pressed to my ear like an oracle’s shell, I knew. Hearing the Impossible was like playing Red Light/Green Light. Someone shouts, “Red light!” and you stop. Then you wait for “Green light.” You wait, your entire body poised. The only thing that matters is what comes next. That’s what “I have cancer” in Aunt Bosky’s voice did to me. It hit the Pause button in my soul, and I just can’t get around it. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t get diagnosed with anything except Life and More Life. She’s that big. When I was a kid, she held up the sky. When a day was grand and blue, we said it was, “Bosky.” When mom’s apple pie put dad’s peach cobbler to shame, we didn’t say, “Mom’s apple pie is tastier.” We said, “Mom’s apple pie is Boskier.” Bosky was our blessing. She settled family disputes, took in wayward sons, marched in rallies, and practiced “social justice” back when it was called “manners.” How can cancer take root in a heart on fire? That’s like God getting sick. You have to get to the end of your innocence to accept that reality. Maybe that’s the last bit of growing up a man has to do. So here I am, knocked flat as a cartoon character. And you know what I keep thinking about? Ives’ wife, Harmony. Can’t get her out of my mind. Harmony standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the Impossible. Comments
Media Jean: When was the last time you saw your Aunt Bosky?
Chip: Couple years ago. She lives in New York and travels a lot.
Media Jean: How’s she doing?
Chip: She just started treatment. The doctor said she’ll probably lose her hair.
Media Jean: What color’s her hair?
Chip: Red.
Media Jean: That sounds like the right color for her.
Chip: It used to be bright red like crayons. Now it’s red like watercolor. It’s really pretty.
Media Jean: Wow.
Chip: But she’s not going to wait for her hair to fall out. She’s cutting it off herself and donating it to Locks of Love.
Media Jean: She’s not a sit-around-and-wait kind of person.
Chip: Nope. She takes everything head-on.
Media Jean: I’d love to meet her someday.
Chip: She’d really like you. She’d think you were totally Bosky.
Media Jean: Thanks. I think you’re pretty Bosky yourself.
Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
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AuthorHey, I'm Bob, and I hate technology. So why am I blogging? Because I love my son. He upgraded my typewriter to wirelessly post every keystroke online. It makes him happy, so here I am. Archives
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