What a porch cat can teach you about appreciating life

It’s a bit emptier in the house. Losing a pet is like that. Even a pet you didn’t mean to have. Especially those. Like the old man porch cat named Sunburst who had trickled into our lives. Eventually, he also trickled off our front porch and onto the wicker Ottoman we kept in the dining room. There he would curl up like a loaf of bread, watching all the craziness around him.

Our house is always crazy. A hive of activity. Like rush hour at Grand Central. Running. Screaming. Unintelligible PA announcements about boarding trains or getting ready for school. A flurry. An unending bustle. A panic and a whirlwind.

This cat was fascinated by it. He watched it all – these fish in their bowl. Going about their multi-tasking and manic lives. “Don’t they see there’s a perfectly warm Ottoman here?” he seemed to say. “Why don’t they just kick back with me?”

That was the look on his little critter face: Content. Grateful. Always at peace.

Lucky bugger, right up to the end.

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An uncharted, never-ending Florida adventure with Uncle Scott

The text message thread is the modern-day equivalent of a ship’s log – a break-down of everything that happens as you record information, offer updates and make cries for help. It can capture moments in time, like when your dad comes up and your brother plots an elaborate, meandering adventure to see a number of “historical” outdoor sights … the same weekend a Nor’easter roars in with King Tides and the lowest temperatures of the year. Outdoors? Yeah, makes sense! And off you troop, against common sense, with his 8-year-old son and your 15-year-old daughter. Your wife is back at base camp getting regular reports … and wondering when she should send out the search party. Here is a word-for-word transcript of that ill-fated adventure:

Me: We have made it to Flagler Beach. Crossed flooding, traveled through heavy winds and rain, and almost lost a man to a gas station donut that must have been 3 months old. We’re now looking at crashing waves on the beach. Not sure what our plan is. We may go to Ponce Inlet Lighthouse and then see some Native American shell mounds.

Nancy: WHAT?!!! I thought you were going to a museum because the weather was so bad and it was inside?

Me: Yes. My brother, it turns out, is a raging liar. That was his ploy to get us out in the middle of a Nor’easter. He should probably run a con-man shell game. He would make gobs of money. I may have to go. His son’s jacket puffed up in the wind and he’s being blown over the dunes like a kite.

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Experiencing all the joys of standardized testing

And now for some REAL fun at the dinner table, it’s time for …

SAT Vocabulary Flash Cards!

Because you don’t know how to suck the marrow out of life until you sit down with the entire family for a nice, nutritious meal, and then proceed to show how little you grasp about the English language.

Now, that’s what you call living, kids.

It’s been all about gearing up for the PSAT the past couple of weeks in my house. The PSAT stands for “Preliminary Scholastic Aptitude Test.” It is a practice exam for high school sophomores like my daughter, and it has one simple objective: Scare the living daylights out of you so you go back and prepare for the real SAT. Because the SAT, as we all know, is the mother of all standardized tests – the T-Rex of its class. It is widely used for college admissions, and guaranteed to have fewer than two questions that are actually relevant in the real world. (Plus, you get to show your skill at filling in bubbles with a No. 2 pencil.)

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A New York City getaway where the rats steal the show

It was a heck of a knock to the ego. A trip to New York City full of Broadway shows and cultural attractions, shopping and good food, lots of lazy strolls through the most exciting city on the planet. But what makes one of the highlights for my 15-year-old daughter?

Semi-befriending a rat in Central Park.

What does that say about my planning? My inability to create the perfect fall getaway to Manhattan?

Or maybe it says something more about her big heart. Her inability to look down on any living creature.

It wasn’t one of those subway rats, it should be noted. More of a country rat. It wore overalls and could have passed for a squirrel if only it had a bushy tale. But it was a rat all the same, and you don’t drop this kind of cash to stare at vermin!

Either way, it’s part of what makes New York such a unique experience, no matter what you do or where you go.

There’s always some adventure to be had. Like when we saw a bunch of New Yorkers in the park frantically chasing a brightly-colored flying insect. One of them had pulled off a shoe and was screaming, “Quick! Kill it!”

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Better do something when your dad turns 80

“You realize your dad is turning 80, right?”

My wife said it in such a way that it wasn’t really a question. More of a statement. I sat on the sofa with a blank expression on my face. I mean, I was trying to watch TV. Probably YouTube. Videos with titles like, “10 times when people did really dumb things.” I did not see the irony. Or where she was going with this.

For starters, I barely know how old I am. How am I supposed to remember my father’s age?

Did I know his birthday was coming up? On this one I was proud to say I did. Because my computer calendar saw to it that I don’t forget. It was all set to remind me on when I should call him and say something thoughtful and profound, like: “Happy birthday, dad! OK, gotta’ go.”

But my computer had no idea how old he was – what good are they?!? And if my wife was right, this was certainly going to change things.

“… turning 80, right?”

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The Florida summer fine-line between fun and crazy

You know, in Florida there has always been a fine line between really fun and really stupid. I don’t know why that is. And I say this as a third generation Floridian. It means I can say it without having anyone read into too deeply into it. Look, we all know it’s true. And no one can say for sure what causes it.

It just is. That’s Florida.

It causes us to do crazy things. Like try to tickle alligators to see if they laugh. Drive at incredibly high speeds on the interstate while hanging out the window. Buy expensive houses on the coast. Go to Disney World in August.

Let me repeat: Go to Disney World in the HEAT of August. The blistering, driving, pounding, unrelenting heat. The kind that will turn the weak into beef jerky in a matter of minutes. And because a pandemic is still going on, will mean you have to wear masks in various locations. One more layer of fabric to keep in the heat.

This is what we decided to do as a family last week. One last hoorah before the start of the school year. A quick overnight trip to Orlando and a day in the park. Crowds were supposed to be slightly thinner, and average temperatures only slightly higher than the surface of the sun.

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The cord-cutter strikes back

I did it! I absolutely did it. Totally and completely. After months, and even years. Waiting, procrastinating, dawdling, worrying, researching, testing, praying, previewing and then praying some more.

And then finally, I pulled the plug.

No … I believe the correct term is: I cut the cord!

You know what I’m talking about here, right? The cable cord? Th e wire that comes into your house and brings 3,200 channels of live, 24-7 non-stop content … none of which you actually watch. It just flows in like a raging mountain stream, you pay for it, it flows back out, and then you say, “Yep, hit me again next month.”

And it goes on like this month-after-month, year-after-year. Paying for a premium service you don’t use – I mean, I’ve never watched a regional sports network in my life, but I had them! – to the tune of thousands of dollars a year. (I would say millions, but the good journalist in me who values accuracy thinks that might be too low.)

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Piecing together the back-to-school puzzle

Does anybody have any idea how any of this is supposed to go?

You know, back to school. Back to work. Back to the fall routine.

Back to the manic morning shuffle. The back-to-school puzzle. How all the pieces fit together, interlocking in a chaotic ballet of furious activity and utter panic.

When people scream, “Oh, the humanity!”

And someone else screams back, “There’s no time for ‘humanity!’ Forget your shoes and get in the car. Your school will be fine with bare feet.”

Amidst this madness, I often think to myself that this must have been what it was like when the meteor took out the dinosaurs. Only, that was calmer.

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Travel is great, but there’s no place like home

Ah, it’s good to be home.

I love to travel. LOVE to travel.

I love packing a suitcase. I love trip checklists. I love the nervous feeling you get when you head out the door, and the excited feeling you get when you arrive. I love buying coffee in strange places. I love trying to figure out how I’m going to manage to go for a run when I only packed one running shoe. (Good thing I brought the duct tape and my flip-flops!)

But there are few things better about traveling than coming home.

I love to come home.

Maybe the best thing about traveling is appreciating how important home is. How welcoming. How comforting. How reassuring.

This is especially true after spending 13 days on vacation, with the last one stuck in a car for 14 hours on a rainy slog from Virginia on the Friday before the Fourth of July.

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Trials and tribulations on a summer road trip

Ah, the good ‘ole American road trip. Nothing makes you feel more alive and in touch with your roots than cramming more stuff in your car than you could use in a year. You set off down the highway in a vehicle so unbalanced that a ladybug fluttering at you aggressively could tip it over. And before you make it two blocks, you realize you forgot your wallet, your toothbrush and maybe even your child.

Two blocks and you’re already heading back home.

Yes, it’s the greatest of experiences. Your back aches. The coffee is usually bad. Most of the hundreds of miles you see are entirely unremarkable, aside from the occasional billboards for “adult stores” that truckers frequent and you have to explain to your child why people like us don’t go there. Luckily, my child is now 15, which means she has zero interest in looking out the window. She has an iPhone and a Kindle that she watches simultaneously, and I spend most of the trip yelling: “Those are going to rot your brain. Now look out the window and count the garbage!”

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