Baylor the Dog and social networking

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If we call our social network Facebook, then what would a dog call theirs?  Let me explain...

Tonight my trusty canine companion and I went for a jog/walk around the block in my neighborhood. It was a beautiful evening with puffy clouds backlit by an almost full moon. The sun had been down less than an hour and already the calm of evening had settled in. As we walked down the streets in my neighborhood, Baylor would zig and zag from front yard to front yard. Each pile of leaves and every mailbox he came to he took the time to sniff and mark.  Almost as if he was a scientist collecting specimins and cataloging them for later recall. Now if I had simply been 'walking the dog' I might have just observed and allowed him to go about his business.  But I was actually trying to get some excercise. And this constant stopping and starting didn't fit into my fitness plan. I mean I understand the concept of interval training, but I think you have to sustain enough activity to get your heart rate up for that to work. This was most annoying and I let Baylor feel my annoyance by jerking him out of his three-legged stance many times.  Two thoughts came to my mind as I was trying to establish a decent pace: 
1.Why is it so important for him to pee in the exact same spot as every other dog in the neighborhood? 2.Where does he store all this extra water?

As I rounded the next corner a thought occurred to me.  What if he's just trying to stay up on all his friends... his aquaintances...his "peeps"? (I guess in his case it would be..."pups"? I know, i know...)  Then it hit me. It was an epiphany of sorts. Running around and peeing on everything and sniffing where other dogs have done the same is the canine version of Facebook!

Of course, there are many other questions that now need to be answered.  How do they "poke" one another?  What is the equivalent of a "friend request"?  Is there such a thing as "like" in their little offline community?  The list could go on and on. But the question that made me lose my ability to keep running as I choked on my own laughter was the last one....If we call ours Facebook, and dogs sniff each other's behinds, what would you call their network???.....Think about it!

Stories my kids love to hear... Pt. 1 "The flamming marshmallow"

Recently my kids have been asking me to tell them stories about when I was a kid.  We started this tradition during the evenings when I'm home that I would tell the girls stories during dinner.  Its been a runaway success. More than I ever thought it would.  They think I'm the greatest story teller ever.  Little do they know that I come from a long line of story tellers!  My Dad, my brother, my uncle on my mom's side, my grand-father on my mom's side, my wife's dad, my wife's grandad and I'm sure generations that I never met. Apparently spinning a yarn is embedded deep within the DNA of both the Vickery's and Inzer's.  So, although I realize that I'm probably just an average story teller in light of my ancestors and contemporary family members, my kids love to hear me tell stories.  Now, the stories that my kids really like to hear me tell are not just any stories.  They always want to hear stories about when "I was a kid."

My upbringing was not quite Norman Rockwellian, rather a little bit more like "the Little Rascals". My older brother and I spent our school years living with our mother who was single and worked full time. There was always plenty of time for hi-jinks and mayhem.  During the summers we traveled to the Arizona desert where my Dad was stationed at William's A.F.B. outside of Phoenix.  In both locations we found friends, neighborhood bullies and plenty of adventure to occupy us.  Many of my stories come from these times. Simpler times. Very good times. Here is the first of what I hope will be many of these stories...

Camping has been a part of my life since I was a baby. In the countless 35mm slides that document my early years I've seen pictures of me with diapers on (and without) sitting around camp fires and the outdoors. Many of these early scenes were in the northwest part of the country where I was born. Later, many of them took place in the wilderness and mountains of Arizona. You see my brother and I would spend our school year in South Carolina with our mother. But once school was out we got to go out west. The old west!  Arizona.  The place that gave birth to the legends of Tombstone and Wyatt Earp. It was a great way to grow up.
 

Camping was just something we did with my dad in the summers. One summer, when I was around 7 years old, we were on one of our yearly trips to the mountains of Arizona.  We had setup camp close to a lake and were enjoying an evening around the campfire. You can't really have a campfire without roasting marshmallows, at least not if you have kids camping with you. So we were roasting marshmallows.  I use the term roasting lightly. Charring or torching might be more appropriate. You have to get close so that your eyebrows feel singed in order to get the end of the stick to the right location just outside that orange glow at the hottest part of the fire. Well, my older brother Shane had just achieved the perfect positioning of his whittled spear tip full of marshmallows. And as we were all admiring his ability to reach the perfect cooking placement he raised that heavenly harpoon and it burst into flames.  He immediately began to wave it around in the air to try to extinguish the ignited treats. I mean what kid wants chocolate, graham crackers and ash?  Well, as he soon found out, the more he waived them around the brighter the flames burned. With this realization he began to panic and started wildly swinging them back and forth. What all of us failed to see in time was the fact that I was standing directly in his path in my cutoff jean shorts. I was already about five feet off the ground by the time I realized that my leg was ablaze with burning goo. I of course let out a scream that no little girl for three counties could rival. Lucky for me my dad had seen all of this happen and had swooped in, picked me up and was carrying me to the nearby lake shore. What seemed like a forever at the time really only took about 3 or 4 seconds before I was thrown into the dark water and the flames were extinguished. As I realized that I was sitting on the bottom of the lake I rose to my feet where the water was about to my knees. I was in shock. But I doubt my eyes were near as wide as my brothers were as I'm sure he thought his short life was about to come to an end at the hands of my father.  Thinking back, I wish I had a picture of the look of sheer terror on his face more than anything.

Recently at a family gathering over the Christmas holidays we told this story again and all laughed hardily. No one laughed more that I did. Especially as dad summed it all up by telling us how somehow every time we went camping we managed to go through an entire first-aid kit.

The Little Rascals: The Complete Collection