Mud don't lie

It was 10:00 Wednesday night when we heard the dispatcher announce that a man had called 911 to report he had been hijacked at gunpoint. Two armed men had flagged him down as he was driving his Penske moving truck near Wolf Creek, Montana. One of them hopped in the Penske while the other followed in a Chevy truck. They drove him up a remote mountain road and eventually got the Penske truck stuck. Somehow, the caller managed to get away from them. Dispatch was pinging his cell phone's GPS and had him on Little Wolf Creek Road, somewhere south of highway 200.

Our sergeant directed us to head north to Wolf Creek from Helena, running code (Spanish for lights and sirens). Get to Wolf Creek and take Little Wolf Creek Road north, heading toward Highway 200. Traffic was light in Helena and drivers pulled over. The roads felt wide open. The F-150 I was driving was not as smooth as the Crown Vics are, and it felt like I was driving a dump truck. Finally on I-15, I was free to really open it up. Of course I'm being a bit sarcastic...it's hard to open anything up with a big truck. We nonetheless carried on Northward, nearly breaking the sound barrier at a whopping 95 miles per hour. We did approach 100, only by virtue of a downhill slope. The best part of our speedy journey was noticing a pair of far-away headlights in the rear view mirror. They were gaining. Big time. A couple hundred yards from us, I saw the overhead emergency lights turn on. One of the Highway Patrol guys in one of their fancy new Dodge Chargers. As he went by it seemed as though we were not moving.

During the sprint to Wolf Creek, dispatch continued to feed us information about the situation that was unfolding to our north. We were still being told that there were two hijackers, one of whom was armed, on the loose somewhere along Little Wolf Creek Road or in the immediate area. The victim was still on foot, stumbling along the road in the dark. There was not much conversation about it over the radio, but everyone listening and moving toward the situation was thinking about the fugitives from Arizona who were confirmed to have been in Montana. Our victim said he was held up by two men, but there was no way to rule out the possibility that one of them may have been the wanted man who has been on the news.

Once in Wolf Creek, the highway patrol trooper fell in behind us. He'd been waiting there for at least five minutes, likely making comments about the slow vehicles from the Sheriff's office. He set up a post where Little Wolf Creek dumps out on to Highway 434 while we headed northwest on the dirt road where we figured the action would be. Several miles along the road, it veered to the right, and straight north. We began to see very fresh tire tracks and broken tree limbs. We were in the right place. Dispatch continued to provide information given by the victim, whom we knew we would find at any time. Turns out the Penske had a rifle and shotgun in it, and the victim did not know if the two men had gotten into the truck at that point.

As we pressed northward on what was a terrible dirt road dotted with creeks we had to cross and large flooded potholes, and as the forest canopy grew tighter and tighter around our truck, it became more and more clear how much of a target we were becoming. Two guys with a rifle and shotgun would have no problem sitting on the side of the road in the dark, waiting for the right vehicle to show up. Suddenly I realized how dry my mouth was. I was nervous. At any moment, around any turn we could have come across a stuck Penske truck and the second vehicle. We could have come face to face with two armed men who may not have had much to lose. The deputy who was with me was thinking the same thing. He warned me that if we came across these guys, I would need to throw the shifter into reverse and get as much space between us and them as possible.

After several more tense minutes and countless sweeps with the mounted spotlight, dispatch called out our number and told us that our victim could see our headlights. Out of the darkness at the edge of where our headlights reached came a young man, running slowly along the road. His cell phone glued to his ear, he looked as though he might collapse. He hung up with dispatch and my partner began talking to him. His hands were shaking. His words were choppy and his voice was lurching in and out of giant sobs. Two men had flagged him down near Wolf Creek. One brandished a large revolver and forced his way into the moving truck. The men were drunk. The one who was driving the Penske put on black gloves. Kept the gun pointed at him. Our guy said he wanted to grab the gun from his captor. Said he should have. The hijacker had laughed as he drove the large vehicle along the dirt road that seemed, at least to me, far too risky a road for a vehicle like that. He was getting divorced, all of this had just happened, and everything in his life seemed to be falling apart. He was, understandably, very upset. My partner and I told him that he did the right thing by not grabbing the gun. We did our best to calm him down.

After a few minutes of question and answer our victim got in the back seat and we continued northward, fully expecting to run into the jerks who had instigated this whole thing. Some moments later we hear the sergeant, who had met up with another deputy, announce over the radio that they had found the Penske truck, stuck in a gully. There was no second vehicle that they could see. But there's lots of forest up there, and plenty of places to hide. The sergeant told us to stop and wait. They had all their lights on the Penske but could not see the cab. Nor could they see whether the cargo door had been breached. Therefore, still no verdict on whether the long guns were in the hands of these morons. The sergeant and his partner told dispatch they were going to leave their vehicle and try to get a better look. Several minutes later they cleared the area. No one at the Penske. Our victim kept asking if the truck had been broken into. We could not tell him. The sergeant announced that the second vehicle did not seem to be around. We were told to drive on. The sheriff, who had been part of the radio conversation for some time, told the sergeant that he had the SWAT team, as well as a Department of Homeland Security helicopter, on standby in order to search the immediate area and highways for the missing truck.

The tension remained. There was some distance between the sergeant and us. We still had a good chance of finding these guys. But we did not. After a short time the sergeant told us to stop where we were. He could see our lights. He wanted my partner up at the scene. He left. I continued talking to the victim, telling him to focus on making it just 6 more minutes until 12:45--to work on remaining calm for just a few more minutes. He did well. Then I told him he needed to make it another 10 minutes. My partner appeared in the headlights. Walked over to my window. Asked me to give him my Miranda card. Something was off.

My partner read our passenger his Miranda rights. The passenger did not like this. He seemed to be confused. He was upset. Wanted to know why he was suddenly being treated like a criminal when he was the victim. My partner told him that he could start over. Come clean. That there was evidence up the road that would disprove his story. The passenger remained upset, sticking to his story. The evidence, it turned out, was that there was no second set of tracks where the Penske was stuck. Little Wolf Creek Road, you see, was wet. The mud showed no second set of tracks. Fifteen minutes later, his story changed. The sergeant told the sheriff to stand everything down--the SWAT team, the feds' helicopter. Everything.

He was cuffed and taken to jail for filing a false police report.

I made it home at 3:15 a.m. Better than two Wednesdays before, when I got home at 5:00 a.m. the following morning. Maybe I will write about that night as well.

The End and The Means

Recent events, local and otherwise, have really shed light on how fragile life is. Here in Helena, we had five teenagers die a couple of weeks ago in an accident that could have been avoided very easily. Their end was quick and tragic. The means to the end of their lives? Poor decision making on many levels. Officers found drug paraphernalia in the vehicle. There was other evidence that alcohol was likely involved as well.

This evening I took the long way home though a cemetery just north of where we live. It's a great place to see birds and other animals. I was trying to get our youngest to sleep. One of the munchkins asked if we could slow down and read the names on the grave markers. Lots of different names. People born in the 1800s. Some of them died very young. Some died at a much older age. I thought about a crude family cemetery I saw in southeastern Kentucky on the side of a dirt road. In the tall grass there were 12 markers. Each marker had a name, the date of birth, and the age at which the individual had passed away. The birth date on each was engraved just after the word "BARNED"--with a backwards capital N. The youngest had been an infant, just days old. The oldest had been a teenager. All were from the same family. It was a very moving thing to see. At age 19, it did not mean nearly what it means to me now. To bury twelve children. What a heart-rending journey.

For the past two years or so I've noticed a chap who takes the same road to work that I take. I see him sometimes in the morning. Sometimes on the way home from work in the early evening. He drives an older Dodge pickup, and he is probably around 55 or so. I likely would not remember him aside from the fact that his behavior is, on its surface, so very puzzling. On his face, snaking their way from the back of his neck into his nostrils, are two clear plastic tubes that some folks use to help them breathe more efficiently. In his right hand, the steering wheel. In his left hand, a smoldering cigarette.

When I first noticed this fellow and his tubes and cigarette, I was amazed. I cast judgment. How ridiculous! I thought. What a moron. How could someone live in such a self-defeating way? And then I began thinking about all the ways I have done the exact same thing to myself. No, I've never tried a cigarette or canned oxygen or owned a Dodge pickup. But what about the times when I've been trying to live a decent, balanced life while not caring about being patient or loving or supportive? Could not the same thing be said about that? Could not someone say, "Look at Greg. He's supposedly got this great air all around him, but he's poisoning it by allowing this fault or that issue to taint it." Kind of like the guy who thinks he's doing X and Y correctly, but does not slow down enough to see that A and B are being neglected.

I don't know if this makes any sense or not. It's one of those things that I think I'm communicating clearly, but really am probably doing a very poor job of conveying.

What will be my end? Will I experience the proverbial untimely accident that could have been avoided? Will I set myself up for failure by taking in pure and poisoned air at the same time, thinking that the smoke really isn't that bad? I'm sure there are things I can improve on. Impurities I can get rid of. Some impatience I could ditch. A little improving here and there. Hopefully the means to my end will be a journey of improvement, and the end will be crossing the right finish line. Not just the one that's closest. But the right one.

The car is upside-down. The wheels are still spinning.

My dad told me a story about a guy he knew either in college or in dental school. The story has never left me. It is indelible.

Decades ago, on a desolate night near Wendover, Utah, this guy my dad knew came upon a single-car accident. The car was on its top. The wheels were still spinning, probably slowly. But the man made a point to tell my dad that the wheels were still spinning.

Picture yourself in that car. You might have been traveling to see relatives. Or to a job interview. Or to your honeymoon. A tire blows. You fight for control. Control does not come. The dotted line is a blur, the steering wheel has a mind of its own, and you are full of panic while your passengers are suddenly awake, screaming at an ear-piercing volume. And suddenly the car tilts and lifts and the steering wheel no longer fights against you. Bangs and metal screeches fill every space inside the car. Shattered glass glistens, suspended in front of you, the light from the speedometer and fuel gauge showing the millions of tiny shards. Your head is knocked from side to side. Your arms will not honor your instincts to bring them in close to your sides, to protect you; they crack and slam against the inside of your door and the car's ceiling. It lasts all too long--the violence of the rolling car. You have no idea how many times it's rolled. You just want it to end.

And then it's over. You're not sure how long the car has been still. There are a few odd noises still, here and there. You can tell you're upside-down. You think of them, the passengers in your vehicle. You think you can hear breathing, but you're not sure. Your ears are ringing. It's dark. No sign of light. It's very late and your thoughts turn to hospitals, nurses, people rushing around in white coats. They would know what you need. They would know what your family or friends need. All you want right now is to hear a siren, to see flashing red light bouncing off your surroundings. You hear something. A car. You don't hear a siren or see any red light, but it's a car. It's slowing down. You feel like the 74 prayers you've said during the past minute--or has it been hours?--have been answered. Someone has found you. You can hear it. The car is slowing. Slowing still.

They see us.

If they were any closer, with the windows down, they could practically hear you whisper a plea for help. The car that slowed down is picking up speed. You can tell because the tires are moving faster on the pavement, making cracking and popping noises as they encounter the small rocks that your accident has spewed across the freeway lane near the shoulder. The only thing worse than your physical pain right now is the confusion and despair that set in.

They saw us. They are gone.

Now I don't know how the accident happened. But I imagine it could have been like that. Perhaps no one survived even the first few seconds of the crash. Maybe they made it. But the end of the story is true. That is what happened. The man my dad knew came upon the upside-down car, its wheels still spinning. And he drove away. Our man did not want to get involved, apparently, for whatever reason.

Last night on patrol we got word of an incident that reminded me of this story. A driver was southbound on the interstate and got a flat tire. A citizen pulled over to help her and noticed she had two children with her. Afterward, the citizen called 9-1-1 to report that during the process of changing the tire, the woman who got the flat tire actually pulled out some pot and started smoking it. After getting back on the road, she was driving a bit recklessly at a very high speed. The citizen-caller tried to follow her while he was on the phone with the emergency dispatcher, but the woman was going too fast and he could not keep tabs on where she was going. Southbound: that was all we knew. Another deputy and a highway patrol trooper started looking for her. Because they got a late start in their pursuit they could not catch up to her.

We headed to the interstate and saw a car heading south at a high speed. We crossed the median and caught up to the car and discovered it had the same plates that the citizen-caller had described. We watched closely for 'probable cause,' driving behavior that would warrant pulling someone over and testing for DUI. The driver noticed us and began to slow down. We followed until she went past the county line. We only had a few miles of jurisdiction, and the driving behavior was not quite erratic enough. We were done. The highway patrol trooper had to take over from that point. The driver pulled off the freeway because our pursuit was obvious, and headed straight to a motel. And that's the last I know of it.

The unfortunate thing was that we could have pulled the driver over instantly if the citizen-caller had been willing to sign a document detailing what he had seen when she allegedly smoked marijuana, got back into a car with two kids in it and drove recklessly down the interstate. But he would not. I guess he did not want to get involved beyond making a phone call.

The disappointment was not that we did not get to pull her over, or arrest her for DUI. The issue was the kids in the car. And the kids and people in the cars around her on the freeway. That was the point.

I don't know that I'd be comfortable with myself ever again if I'd been the one who drove away from that accident near Wendover. And if that driver from last night had crashed, or caused someone else to crash, I wonder what that citizen-caller would have thought if he'd known that we could have stopped her instantly if he'd been willing to get more involved by signing a complaint.

It's not always going to be comfortable to do the right thing. But what about the comfort that comes after you do the right thing?

Decisions

How many times have I done something that, afterward, I have completely regretted? I think most people would do at least a few things differently if they could go back in time.

We have a kid here in Helena who just turned 18. When he was 17, back in late Spring or early Summer, he was at a party. He was drinking. Something happened with some text messages, I think, and he ended up picking a fight with some kids. He met them near a neighborhood in town, telling them he was not going to "fight fair." Then he pulled out a handgun and shot all three of them. He killed one of them and severely wounded the other two.

So this kid entered a plea a few days ago. He pleaded guilty in a courtroom where his family, as well as the families of his victims, watched and listened. Wearing the token orange jumpsuit, he sat at a table with two attorneys. He looked young. His brown hair was short and neat. He seemed like a regular, decent teenager. His glasses made him look smart, which, according to how his friends have described him, is very much the case. His friends also said some things about him that are quite unfortunate. Whenever he drank, they said, he became "a different person." He did not act like himself. On one occasion, prior to the shooting, he allegedly pointed a gun at someone after having had some alcohol.

There he sat in the courtroom. The judge asked him for his plea to each charge, from murder to attempted murder. "Guilty," he said. The judge, having been prodded by the prosecutor, asked young Sebastian what his intention was when he shot at all three victims. "To kill them," he said. It was difficult to watch. Not because gruesome details were discussed, but because it's hard to see such a young kid, who has probably lived many more good days than he has bad ones, talk about such horrific things. All because of some irrational decision he made in such a short instant. The judge asked him why he did it. "I don't know why," he said. He's been sitting in the Lewis & Clark County Jail for months. How many mornings do you think he has woken up in his cell, wondering if what he did really happened? Oh, no, please tell me I'm not waking up here again. I can't have done that. Did that really happen? Did I really kill that kid? Wasn't it just a dream?

I'm a member of Lewis & Clark County Sheriff's Reserves Class 16. Our most recent class was Evidence Handling and Crime Scene Investigation and Processing. Pictures? Yes. Stories? You bet. The most fascinating comment, however, was not related to a specific story, but to law enforcement work in general. The detective teaching the class said, "If it weren't for booze, we wouldn't have jobs, guys." In the context of what has happened in Sebastian Olivares-Coster's case, and in countless others, alcohol was involved. People really need to stop and think.

4 Guys Who Nearly Made Me Wet Myself

It can take a lot for a person to intimidate me. Part of it has to do with my size, I think. People generally leave me alone, even in situations where others might not be left alone. Believe it or not, my most dangerous moments thus far in life have come when I was a bouncer at Subway--yes, as in the sandwich shop Subway--on Halloween in Chico, California. I did that gig two years in a row. For those of you who don't know, downtown Chico on Halloween used to be pretty rowdy. All the downtown business snobs slithered away while Chico State students came out to flaunt their costumes. Oh, and they were drunk as skunks. And stupid. It never got too crazy while I was there. I only had to man-handle two guys. But the potential was there.

There's another kind of intimidation. I've worked for people who, in their devotion to the bureaucratic model, have truly lived in silent awe of organization directors and upper management. I've attended meetings with them, and with all kinds of people. I've never been one to feel like I need to sit back and let the big dogs bask in some kind of angelic light that shines only upon the high and mighty. We're all people, after all, and everyone snores, wakes up, showers, drives to work and gets hungry at lunch time. Just because someone gets paid more to do something than I do does not mean he or she is more important than I am. Nor am I more important than the people whose work I manage.

But today, everything changed. I came across some guys who stared me down so hard, so thoroughly that I felt that they could see every part of me. From the time I peed my pants in Mr. Persky's fifth-grade classroom while I waited for the final bell to ring, to the moments when my kids have told me that I'm fat, I felt completely open and exposed. I wanted to apologize to them. I wanted to say: "I'm sorry for being a sissy moron, Sirs. Please don't kick my can around the block." The worst part of it? I did not even meet them in person. They glared at me from the cover of a magazine. Imagine, if you can, the sight of four men so focused, fit and scary that all you can think about is running away before your pants become wet in all the wrong places. Yeah. That was me. Today. I had to put the magazine down and run to the little boys' room.

These guys were bad. Apparently they are the four biggest studs in the American Bowling Association. I've never seen them before. But there they were on the cover of the ABA's magazine with their huge balls. They were trying to look like four prison thugs locked away for something horrible. The four toughest bowlers I have ever seen. In fact, if I ever saw them at a bowling alley, I imagine I would not be able to bowl just then. At least not in the lane next to them. I'd be afraid they might come over and make fun of me. "Hey, pal," they'd say, "nice gutter ball. Why don't you get out of here before we throw our stale bowling alley beer at you." Perhaps one of them would want to arm wrestle me with his strong bowling arm. Or dare me to an eating contest to see how much bowling-alley-snack-bar food I could eat without getting indigestion. I'd be dead in the water.

And worst of all, I bet my wife would be there. Man, how could I compete with that? One look at their bowling shirts, and she'd be like, "Greg, I'm sorry, but those guys are so hot that I don't care which one I go home with to his trailer, as long as one of them will have me." Then I'd be forced to finish my game, bowling gutter ball after gutter ball while my wife was sitting on the lap of Doug, Chet, Dave, or Bob, running her fingers through his Pert Plus hair. They've got to be using Pert Plus. Have you seen how their mullets sway just right as they release their grip on their bowling balls?

And then there's the romanticism of conquering an enemy. We've all seen boxers strut to the center of the ring, only to stare each other down while the referee reviews the rules of the bout. Or the four captains of an NFL team walking deliberately to the middle of the football field like they own the joint. What gives? I'm sorry, but a professional linebacker sprinting in stealth to deliver a monster hit on a running back has nothing on a chubby white guy who rolls a ball at some stationary pins. Nor does the boxer who spends 26 hours a day jumping rope at the speed of nano-light. If I were a professional bowler, I'm sure my mantra would be the same as the one all the others chant as they bend over to heft their huge ball: "OK, pins, don't even think about moving. It's not going to matter. You could slide a millimeter to the right or the left, but I'm going to get you nonetheless."

I know--why don't we set up a staring contest between these guys and the top four chess players in the world? I bet we could sell tickets.

Give me a break. I've seen scarier two-year-olds. I'm sorry, but if you want to be an intimidating sports figure, don't go into bowling.

Wanderlust & The Next C.O.

I listened to the voice of a dead man yesterday at work. His wife, a new widow, called our client helpline to ask some questions. I took the call. She told me she had some questions about a bill she was getting for her late husband. In the health care industry, consumers call helplines to get answers. Sometimes their circumstances are not great. Sometimes they are very fragile. The really hard ones are the moms who have lost newborns and those who have lost spouses.

I needed to research the issue about which she called. I asked her for her phone number and told her I'd get back to her shortly. After getting the information I needed, I dialed her number. The next thing I heard was her husband's voice, explaining that they were not able to take my call, and that if I would leave my name and number, they would get back to me. He sounded happy enough, like a pretty regular guy. I thought about how hard it would be for that man's mother (he was only in his early fifties) or son or neighbor to hear the familiar voice, and how it mocked reality by providing a hollow, bogus return to the recent days when that return call just might come from him. I thought about life and circumstances and fortune. Luck. Dreams. And wishes. And then I remembered something I had learned several years ago about wishing for things to be different.

My first real job out of graduate school was as a trainer for a large county agency in Central California. It was my privilege to work with a chap who was, and remains, wise, funny, caring and very experienced. The Chief (he spent at least 30 years in our beloved U.S. Navy and had retired as a Command Master Chief--never mind his two master's degrees) taught me a valuable lesson during our time together. He talked about C.O.s (commanding officers) he'd had in the service. Some of them were good. Some of them weren't as good. He explained to me that no matter how bad someone thought his C.O. was, it was risky to look forward to the day when that C.O. was to be replaced. The reason? Perhaps the new C.O. would actually be worse than the one who was replaced.

So........life. I can't say just how many times I've wished I had a different job. That whole thought pattern goes all the way back to my days at KFC as a gourmet chef. I think what it has come down to has been a mindset that tends to look at negatives around me rather than positives. I bet there are negatives to most jobs. Just as there are negatives to many places one could live. I have heard it called wanderlust. It's a condition typically found in men. Hey, there's land in .... who knows where for really cheap. Hey, there are lots of government jobs in Wisconsin. Hey, I hear that such and such is a really nice place to live.

Any of this sound familiar? I know that the men in my family are guilty. Guilty! And the women I know--my wife, my mom, my sister, my brother's wife--seem a bit more grounded and less likely to cave to wanderlust. I think men are restless, generally speaking. I've been working on becoming more grounded. More content with things the way they are. That way, I don't spend my life thinking about what another job would be like. What another place of residence would be like. It's not a really productive way to live. Plus you miss out on so much that is happening around you. And like wishing for a new commanding officer, how can it be guaranteed that the new situation will, in fact, be better than what is there already?

I hope that when my bell tolls, when it's my turn to take the big exit, I will have been living a content life instead of having been preoccupied with wanderlust. If my voice is the one someone hears on the voicemail greeting when they call my home after I'm gone, I will sound happy. That's the plan.

Dad as Sucker

Is there anything better than having your presence celebrated? The two-year-old gets pretty excited when I get home from work. This evening she jumped up and down as I walked by her room on my way to mine, announcing, "My daddy's home! Yay! Yeah!"

It doesn't seem too long ago that I looked forward to the hour between 5:00 and 6:00, when my own dad would return home from work. He often came inside the house and went straight to work, either by helping to get dinner ready or by getting started on the dishes.

I don't know what it is about a dad's arrival home from work that can make kids giddy. After all, dads aren't that cool. They're tired. They're cranky. They don't think straight when they first walk in the door. They sometimes smell bad. Dads are famous for telling really stupid jokes. They are also known to get upset about messes and kids who back-talk to their mothers. Dads might leave their socks on the living room floor--accidentally, I'm sure. There are other things, of course, about dads, and our list could go on. Especially if we ask the moms out there for comments.

Sometimes people do things before Dad gets home to effect some kind of mood-changing miracle. For example, a plate of cookies strategically placed so it is seen upon entering the house might make the news of a speeding ticket easier to take. Or maybe Dad will walk through a spruced-up garage, completely oblivious to the fact that his brain is being magically programmed to tell his mouth to say, "Yes," when his son asks for a new pair of shoes. Such Jedi mind tricks are commonplace in homes where dads come home from work day in and day out. Other times it's only for the sake of getting a laugh.

I recall one particular day when I had a stroke of pure, unadulterated genius. Our cat, Sophie, about whose fate I may write at a future time, had killed a mouse. She would not eat it, however. The carcass just lay on the back patio. It had died for Sophie's entertainment. And what's up with cats, anyway? Why do they batter a mouse to death, only to walk away from it? I digress. So there lay the dead mouse. I thought about the mouse. And then it hit me. I decided I had to act. Never before had any opportunity like this been placed before me. It was perfect. And I did not have much time. It would not be long before my dad would be home. I grabbed some string. Scribbled a tiny note. Set everything up.

I watched secretly from inside the back door, waiting for my dad's car to appear in the driveway. I looked over at the garage door, through which he would enter the house. The mouse was positioned perfectly. I grew very excited. I considered the idea that what I had done was twisted and insensitive. I did not care. This was right up my dad's alley. As in a perfect strike. As in I'd be bowling a 300. That's how good this was. So the car appeared. My dad got out. Walked through the garage toward the door. He began to slow as he saw the mouse. It was hanging, by its neck, from the rafter right in front of the door, on a long piece of string. He stopped. Bent a bit to look at the mouse, to read the note tied around its neck. I just can't take it anymore.

The discovery lasted only seconds. It seemed like hours. I felt like a comic trying out a joke for the first time on stage. The second, or two seconds, between punchline and audience reaction must seem eternal. Will they like it? Will he think the mouse is funny? And then payoff. The smile. The laughing. I couldn't hear it. I was standing inside the house. But I could see it. The shoulders moving up and down with laughter. Score one for the mouse. And Sophie.

And so I reckon there will be days when I come home to messes. Days when I come home to some cooked up scheme that will cause me to agree to some crazy kid-request to which I would normally say No. "What's that, son, you want me to buy you a BB gun for, for, for, well, it's not your birthday, now is it? I really want to say, 'No,' son, but these cookies are so good that my brain is telling me that I should say, 'Yes.' I don't know why I'd say, 'Yes,' but I'm going to. You see, I really don't understand it, but I'm going to say, 'Yes.'"

For now, I'll settle for the two-year-old's daily celebration. In fact I'll look forward to it. I'll relish it. I'll deal with the Jedi mind tricks later. Hopefully there will be more funny discoveries than tricks.