Discovering Magic

We piled into my car to go shopping. As a result of my job at Arby's and the fact I was in high school, with almost no bills, I had money burning a hole in my pocket. Remember that feeling of being able to buy stuff just because you wanted it, when your wants were cheaper and the risk of emergencies lower. Anyway, I had the feeling and so did some of my friends. We would hand out as Scott's house later, but for now we packed into the little car and drove to Rider's.

I don't know if any of these stores are still open, but during my teen years Rider's was easily my favorite place to spend money. I would walk through the unassuming glass door, with a fantasy poster on it and enter what seemed to be a cavern of joy. They had the section with RC cars and planes, rockets and trains, but I was never looking at that stuff. I usually went immediately to the shelves of role-playing books. Advanced Dungeons and Dragons second edition had come out, and with it a slew of books. I was always on the lookout for the next Monstrous Compendium, a tome of creatures I could throw up against my unsuspecting party. The passengers of my car, also my players, were there looking for handbooks, these fake leather covered books that would give you more options for fighters and wizards and such.

We walked through the door as we always did. We went to the usual shelf and thumbed through the new books, but Scott, whose home we had come from and would go back to, was at the front grabbing packs of this new game called Magic the Gathering. He had bought a few and understood the game. He showed us, opening the packs he had bought and pulling out the colorful cards, briefly explaining cost and and colors. Black was death and decay, white was holy and healing, and on. He pulled a Sengir Vampire from his new pack and was lost in the card.

We each bought a starter and a couple booster packs, sat on the curb opening them up. We choose colors we liked best and traded cars to get the builds we wanted. We drove back to Scott's house and played for hours with less than 100 cards. Additionally, when you played this game, if you won, you got cards from your opponents deck. So, if you build good enough, you could adjust what you could do as you played.

The next time we went to Rider's I glanced at the book shelf, but Arabian Nights had come out, an expansion to Magic. So, the only discussion I really needed to make was how many basic boosters and how many Arabian Nights boosters to buy. I still get a thrill opening those packs and discovering the new possibilities it gives me.

DIAF CON, set-up

I approach the airport slowing to a speed that will let me read all of the signs of the various terminals. Delta, KLM, Arrivals, Departures. Amy and Steve have landed, but have not yet gotten to their luggage. It occurs to me they have Johanna too. I had cleared a spot for their daughter before leaving the house, but it is still strange to me to imagine their family of three. It is a little overcast and drizzling as I smile at the thought. I see the mark for USAirways and I drastically slow my approach. I'd prefer to pull-up just in time. I linger at a distance beside the sign which tells me no stopping right up until the airport police stop a few cars behind me. I pick up my pace, hoping my phone will buzz, Steve telling me which doorway to find them at. The buzz doesn't come. I pull up, stop and wall in to see where their baggage will arrive. Just a few doors down. I crawl to the spot, minutes to move a foot, until I am there. Not a moment later, Steve runs out of the door, letting me know I have made it and just a few minutes after that we are all loaded into the car.

We drive to my house, which is about halfway between the airport and RIW and visit with my wife for a while. It goes well and if we trade cars, I can leave all of Amy and Steve's stuff in the Flex, but load the Montana with my stuff for the con. Which, after a short visit, I do.

It is too early to drop them off at the hotel, so just Steve and I go to RIW. I'm a little concerned because the opening time of this shop is a little flexible. They say noon, but it could be a little longer. I see the open sign on the storefront just as I realize I am passing it. I always forget how close it it to Middlebelt. With only a light delay, turning around in the neighboring apartment drive, I am n the lot, near where I think the store is. Steve and I walk in and I see Pam, the gruff looking, lounge pants wearing, hardened shop owner who gave is this space for free. She walks us over to the green room, unceremoniously kicks out a few magic players she is not happy to see there and makes sure this will do. Of course it will do. It has six tables of various sizes, is big enough for twenty people to play in and has a huge game closet. As a last step, she gives her my key, letting me a know a murder will happen if it gets lost, I let her know I think my friend James, who is not only my co-host but responsible for getting us this room, would be really good at getting murdered.

It is not long after that James sends me a text letting me know he is home and it will be a little while before he will be there to join us. I have a slight pang of guilt, but not so much to let Pam know she shouldn't murder James.

Once the last magic player finally packs his stuff and leaves, the four of us are left to set-up the room. Steve and I jump into setting up the room. We move a table to the back wall for food. Adjust tables along the wall for demo games for free play. We move chairs and generally try to make the space as play ready as possible. I start bringing my stuff in from the car and Steve is gone when I get back in. He is in the game room, separating out every game he has the slightest interest to play. A dozen, then two dozen. I just carry them to the table as he makes stacks in the room.

I get a call from James and we make some last minute adjustments. He'll pick up Matt and Kevin from the airport, while we continue to set up and check out the store. That works out just fine.

In hour or so, with the room set up and Steve and I trying our first game, Dominion, James, Matt and Kevin arrive. I control myself, but it is electric. We are here, friends from around the country, face to face, to just enjoy. New games, old games, each others company. We are set to begin something special. Something, which still impacts my thoughts today.

Gamer Shame

I was too young to know much about persecution, to know which things it is best to keep to yourself. So, with my church youth group I was not only open but, when challenged, defiantly open about playing Dungeons and Dragons. This was a big part of my life, weekdays of planning, weekends of playing. I was never far from imagining the epic stories of wizards and knights in a magical place. I liked reading, of course, but at the gaming table I got to either tell the story or play the hero.

In high school, late eighties and early nineties, this became the core of my social circle and the Christian press began to produce materials about the evils of D&D. It was 1984 when Jack Chic produced the Dark Dungeons tract talking about how roleplaying is the first step into the occult. From there a series of books seemed to be produced about how it is evil and makes you crazy. Finally, the press started to latch onto kids who did something wrong and immediately tied it to these games, of they have any. Much like they do with video games today. Anyway, this was the stream of information the adults at church were being given while I, the actual player, never got invited into the occult, more did I plan dressing up and attacking my neighbors.

Had I kept quiet, this would have been the end of it, but I wasn't going to do that. I couldn't do that. So, I brought it up and challenged anything they would say against it. Ultimately, this led to a planned show down, a debate. They would give their point of view and evidence and I would do the same.

We pulled tables together so everyone could see. Chris, the leader sat on one end with his books out with highlighted passages. I sat on the other end with a few sloppy, handwritten notes. Between us, around the table sat the youth, a big chuck of which, at this point, was made up of my friends. Friends who came to church with me immediately after we played Dungeons and Dragons and slept over at someone's house. The other portion was mostly girls who couldn't care less. The room was lit by cold fluorescents and smelled a little of the pizza we had eaten earlier. Chris talked about witchcraft and sorcery, about the dangers of allowing anything in which had these theme. I waved my hand around the table and pointed to the people who were even there to here him because of Dungeons and Dragons, of how it could be a witnessing tool. I declared his statements not supported and not connected to what we actually did, he found mine weak because God can work through even evil to bring about good.

It went well, was fun, but at the end there was no winner. We agreed to disagree. But this was really my beginning of an awareness of a new kind of gamer shame. I knew the rule about muggles in school, but it was really more about getting into in depth gaming conversations around those who weren't interested, not that they would think you were evil, just weird. This was, the look over the Sunday School teacher's glasses telling you she couldn't believe you, a deacon's son, would be mixed up such a thing.

Over time it seems the place you don't talk about these things grows. From school to church to finally work. I begin worrying about the impact of what others think, as opposed to if it actually matters.

This weekend I have friends coming in from out of town to play games. All manner of games. We'll play some giant board games, have a magic tournament, stage a Warhammer war and yes, play Dungeons and Dragons. At church, where now I'm the deacon, I have barely mentioned that I would be missing, not wanting at defend a hobby they might not understand or might be associating with Witchcraft. At work today someone asked me what I was doing on the days I was taking off. I told them I have friends coming in from out of town.

Deciding to be a Bronco

Mr. Fazoli's homeroom was a strange place. Even though he looked like a short bodybuilder, he was an art teacher. He would wear button up shirts that never seemed to fit him right. The art he taught was metalworking, so in addition to the teacher that looked out of place, the student in his homeroom looked out of place. We sat around desks as of they were normal desks, not the scarred and burned workbenches they were. You tried to ignore the centrifuge, which was used to push molten silver deep Into a plaster mold of a ring or pendant. So, we sat in this abused workshop just waiting for the bell to ring, signaling we could go.

The class was loud, not because it was not a great group of kids, but also because the acoustics of the room reverberated ever noise. On this day, though, the teacher, whose white T-shirt could be seen in the gaps between his buttons, was strutting back and forth trying to get our attention. In five minutes, he was red faced with frustration, many f the kids were only half aware of what was going on and the bell rung. So, as we walked by to go to our first hours he told us we needed to schedule some time with our councilors. It was to plan what we would do after high school.

I don't remember how the session got planned, probably the councilor chased me down and made me schedule a time. At this time of my life I wasn't proactive about too much of anything. Either way, Mr. Siedleman and I sat in his office, which I remember more like a college professors office, than it actually was. I imagine the piles of books and papers, trophies and family pictures, which may or may not have been there. What I know for sure was there was the two of us, me and the person who knew me as 681646, because I was one of four Jason Smith's, and a stack of college brochures. He asked what I wanted to do, I told him writing, he looked at my grades and asked what kind of writing, I told him novels, and he gave me paperwork for a dozen different schools. He sent me off telling me to get my grades up and fill out those applications sooner, rather than later.

I actually didn't waste a lot of time before filling out the applications, Spring Arbor, Alma, Michigan State, Michigan and Western Michigan University and a handful more I can't think of right now. I read the information I had on them, tried to see what they had going for them and tried to evaluate who would make me the best writer. I looked at the pictures trying to imagine if I could write in a notebooks on the steps of that library, if a building or tree would be inspiring.

I think I got my first acceptance from Spring Arbor, which meant I knew I would be able to go to college. Yes, me grades at the time did make that a question I was asking. Next, I think Alma. Both were good, though both seemed a little small. I wasn't sure about how robust of an experience I would get. Third was Western Michigan University. I had beautiful, inspiring pictures. I remember the fountain in the middle of what seemed to be an endless inspiring place to hang out. I thought about how my Aunt Nancy lived there, so I could save a little money. I saw an article about a few writers who had gotten some fame taught there. I was hooked. So, without checking with my friends or making much more of a plan than that, I decided. I became a Bronco.

Tolerance

Yesterday, my Facebook feed went a little crazy with topics of tolerance and discrimination. In short, someone I consider my friend hurt a group of people who I also consider my friends. There was an, in my opinion, an intolerant response to a perceived intolerance. So, I considered writing about the irony of these things and I considered writing about homosexuality being the new race card, but in the end I didn't think I could bend these articles to be anything other than causing division. So, instead, I settled on tolerance.

In work we talk about tolerance. In high school they talk to the kids about tolerance. On TV, you see hot topics of tolerance, and intolerance. What is it, though? In medicine tolerance is a common topic in pharmaceuticals. In many cases, your body builds up a tolerance to the chemicals it is exposed to. I for example, at this point in my life, has a ridiculous tolerance to caffeine. My body is numb to the stimulating effects of this substance. Many people have to rotate allergy medicine for this same reason, they stop working after a few weeks. In this case tolerance is like a numbness. In engineering, tolerance is a different thing, often used with phrases like acceptable tolerances. In this case tolerance is like a line, the widget is either in the acceptable tolerances, or it is not. If it is not, you throw it out and maybe rework the system. You have these lines, these tolerances, to make sure you have a quality project which meets your customers needs. Part of the function of this tolerance is knowing when you need to discard something. Is this what we want, is this what we want tolerance to be? Do we want to make people numb to the differences between us? Do we want to have a line which we drop people because they no longer fit? Worse, do we want to lack so much conviction that we'll tolerate anything? It seems this very thought, this very word, misses the mark.

I am not like my friends, in some cases I am drastically different. My friend Paul and I could not be more different on our perspective on religion. In fact, in just religious topics, I have an established different point of view than my friends, James, Justin (also my brother), Keith, Matt, Kevin and the list could go on. Politically, I don't think I would be more different than my friends LeeAnn or John. I have friends of varying race and gender and sexuality. I have friends who have varying positions on race and gender and sexuality. If I look hard enough, I will be able to find disagreement with nearly every person I consider a friend.

If they look at me with the same eye, they will see all the differences I present to them. If they do this with tolerance they will either be numb to me, effectively rendering what ever relationship we have useless, or they decide if I am over their line or not. They will distill me down to the one trait we disagree on and if I meet their standard. If I don't meet their tolerance, just like the mechanical process, I am dumped.

Is this what I want them to do? Is this how we are supposed to relate to each other? I don't want to be treated that way. I suspect you don't either. Honestly, I don't think we are meant to relate to each other in tolerance. We should be relating to each other in love. When you love someone, you don't start with a line to make sure someone meets your standards, you don't start by deciding what point of view they might hold which means you disregard them. This is how I want to be treated. I want to have those points of difference to be areas we can discuss, not to defeat each other, but so I can understand you and you will understand me. Then, once we come to that place where we understand each other, but disagree, the love you have for me should outshine any hard feelings you might have because of the tension. Don't tolerate me, I'm not asking you to love everything I do, or even like the positions I take on things, but if you call your self my friend, love me.

I can't make this happen. I can't cause anyone to adopt this point of view on friendship. I can't make anyone move from tolerance to love, except for me. So, let me make this commitment to you. I will not define you by the places we disagree, you are more important to me than the sum of your parts and certainly more important than the items we disagree on. I will not unfriend you because of the things you like, which I don't, nor the things you don't like which I do. I will tell you when I think you are wrong and I would like you to do the same for me. If we can't learn from each other, what is the point? I may not always agree with you, but I will respect you and, as much as I am able, I will ask others to respect you. Additionally, I permit you to make mistakes, say things you don't mean and hurt me when you are thoughtless. You are my friend, so my forgiveness is always at hand. I may break this commitment from time to time, not because I want to, but because I am human and selfish and thoughtless. So, I ask you to do me a favor, when I fail, rather then making it the sum of my parts and walking away from me, tell me I am wrong, help me, so I can do better, we can be better. Lastly, I don't expect you to make this commitment with me. I am OK with that, not that it won't hurt sometimes, but because real love is more about what you do when you are hurt, rather than when everything is going great.

Romney's 47%

Now that the initial splash of this video has died down, now that the right and the left have discussed and dropped this, I'd like to look at this through a more genuine lens.

First, let me say, I don't think we should be too hard on Romney. He was speaking in what he thought was private, to a select audience for a select purpose. Can you imagine if someone recorded you when you were speaking off the cuff to a very particular group of people and then shared it publicly? So, he gets judged by the public with a level of scrutiny they could never endure. This happens in politics, when running for public office, but the rational should see it for what it is.

There is a significant upside to this point, though, which I think is worth discussing. I think 47% is probably the wrong number, but there are definitely a significant number of people who feel entitled. They want a government which pays for their house, buys them groceries, pays for their school and covers their healthcare. I am not talking about the guy who is taking unemployment for the first time because the auto plant he worked in for the last 20 years closed and he hasn't yet found a job, I am talking about the able bodied adult who has been taught how to play the welfare system from a young age and seems perfectly content gather checks from the government which increase as they have children, which, in turn, they are training to do the same thing.

Romney's comment, though, his continuing thought was, he's never going to get the votes of these people. They are never going to want to work, never going to vote for someone who is going to cut their programs. So, he writes those people off and tries to get votes from the Americans that don't have this entitlement mentality. I get his frustration, I get that this is very appealing to the audience he is speaking to, but I believe it is wrong headed.

In the work place you get the same problem, you have employees who look at the company as a vending machine, which is there to give them a paycheck no matter what they produce. They live on the project they launched a dozen years ago, even though no one is quite sure what they do today. We call these people disengaged. They have lost the spark of life you get from a job well done.

As a leader, when you see this, you need to first figure out what the problem is. What is causing the person to be disengaged? Do they need a new job? Are they not getting recognition for the things they are doing? Have they been left adrift, causing them to realize no one knows what they do? Then, once you know, you work to engage them. As a note, you can almost never do this with money alone. If you give them money, it's just a function of the vending machine.

I believe Romney, in fact any leader, needs to start with a similar mindset. You don't start by writing people off, you start be figuring out what is causing the disengagement. Then, you engage them, you work to give them the spark of life you get from a job well done. No one likes loosing free stuff, but it is a much easier pill to swallow if you can layout how you will teach people. How you need them to do their best and how you want them to be part of the team. This doesn't win everyone over, but engagement is a powerful motivator. I refuse to believe that a people who love freedom have no interest in independence.

Separation of Church and State

This thought, "The Separation of Church and State," is not part of the founding documents of the United States. It is not codified into the strict reading of the laws or protected rights in federal law, but it is an old thought, which is tied to the consciousness of the founding fathers. It makes its appearance first in a letter Thomas Jefferson penned to the Danbury Baptists, who were concerned about governmental intrusion. So, to address their concern on New Years Day in 1802 he wrote them a short note, which included the following sentence:

"Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between Man & his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legitimate powers of government reach actions only, & not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should "make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof," thus building a wall of separation between Church & State."

At the time of this writing Thomas Jefferson is no longer in office, but in the time he was in office there were chaplains, reverends, daily prayer and even sermons which took place in federal institutions. He did not protest to any of these things. So, what did he mean? How is this wall different than the way is seems to be cast today?

Jefferson did not have any concern about the power of the church or fear of religion infecting schools, he was concerned about the government dictating to the church. His wall of separation was a defense mechanism and philosophy of non-interference, which was meant to keep the government out of the pulpit, to keep the government from telling people what that can and can't do to worship God. It bothered him not at all that various religious practices took place in the government, that the philosophies of pastors impacted the making laws, what bothered him was the thought of any religion being persecuted by the government.

This Sunday many pastors talked about the abortion issue, preaching the fact that killing a fetus is murder and a sin talked about in the Bible, and some on my Facebook feed have decried this as a violation of the separation of church and state. Given the background I have presented you might be confused, but this letter the the Danbury Baptists is not the separation of church and state people like this understand. Today's separation of church and state is not Jefferson's; it is nothing like the founding fathers envisioned.

Today the phrase "Separation of Church and State" has been used to prohibit prayer in schools, silence pastors on certain topics, have Ten Commandments removed from court rooms and send children home from school for bringing their Bibles. It is the twisted version of the phrase which was used to reduce concern. The wall that was erected to keep the state out of the church has been turned to let them intrude more and more every year. It is as if the government wants to be separated because they now fear the church, take the state out of the church. A government telling me I can't pray or read a Bible is not separation, it is intrusion. A government telling a pastor he can't talk about moral issues makes me wonder about the freedom of speech and what separation really means if they can intrude there.

So, when it was first penned, the wall erected was to keep the government out of the church, but had nothing to do with the church being in the government. Now it is being used to keep the church out of the government, but only lays the groundwork for where the government can begin impacting the church and restricting believers. I don't know about you, but this has me concerned.

Night Light

It was the second time the Main Street Baptist church youth group spent the gift at Real Life farms. I remember a feeling of contentment with how well the night went. We got a few of the younger members, who had never been Boy Scout or Girl Scouts, so they would know better, to go snipe hunting. The combination of the rattling paper bags, plus the fact we were just outside the horse barn caused enough noise the game lasted far longer than it normally does. We had ended the game to gather around the fire Farmer Don had started for us to roast marshmallows and have s'mores. The combination of the cool damp night and heat of the blazing fire relaxed me.

I remember in this contented and relaxed state I talked to the girls, who often made me feel awkward in a way which seemed so normal and casual. I was almost overjoyed just to have this normal, non pressured discussion. It felt so grown up and cool. It was one of those moments when the euphoria of how blessed I was just hit me and I was able to soak in it. No High School, classroom, not in the right crowd pressures existed here.

The fire dwindled and the air cooled as we talked. So, we shifted our gazes from the embers to the stars, as they became more and more visible. Not at first, but very slowly the sky looked strange. We got away from the dwindling fire to see better, to see why it was the sky appeared to be getting lighter.

On the horizon, through the trees and just cresting over them it looked almost as if the sun was coming up again. But the color was wrong, it was a pink and purple twilight. We stared and questioned, but none of us, even the adults, knew what it was we were seeing. We watched as the effect grew. The pinks became darker reds and splashed splashed over the tree tops. They would fade in one place and intensify in another. We stood staring up at an ocean of light. The silent fireworks of God. It swirled and shimmered and streaked the sky. The only sound we made was guttural sounds of amazement. Pinks and reds and purples brought a couple spots of green and orange.

Our senses exploded with delight. Jan mentioned she thought it was the Northern lights, but no one could remember seeking them as far south as we were, Southeast Michigan. I felt small, but chosen staring up at them as they faded. Watching the radiance drip back down over the horizon, In the dark afterwards, as I tried to imagine they were coming back, hoping it would happen again, I wondered on what it was that had just happened. Ii realized, with all these people who had also experienced this for the first time, I didn't know if I would ever see the lights again.

So far, I haven't.

Lost Art

I have no idea why we were friends, but we were. Art was as much my opposite as he could be. He was, what we called in those days, a burn out. He smoked, liked music which wouldn't be allowed in my house and talked about rough things. By the time I met him, all the teachers already knew his name, while nearly none knew mine. He had uncontrolled red hair, which he tried to comb up into cow licks like Wolverine. He even once tried to get us to call him Logan. This could have been a connection for us, but I never had the disposable income to be a regular comic reader. So, I even thought the Wolverine fascination was a bit weird.

What we did have was D&D. I have a gaming group I was always looking to grow and he had played, but didn't have a gaming group he currently played with. So, in spite of my discomfort, probably as a result of his persistence, I invited him to the group. It was an odd mix. He didn't become the piranha in the fish tank, as you might suspect, instead he got harassed and taunted and otherwise, became one of us. When we burned characters because we were so fed up with a poorly run campaign, it was his lighter we used. He was one of the ten of us which squeezed into my tan escort to travel the icy, winter streets to go watch Hook.

I remember the conversation I had with him when he learned his girlfriend was pregnant. It was strange to hear him so panicked and strange to talk to him because I hadn't in a while. As often happens in a gaming group, he had gotten a girlfriend who wasn't a gamer and so it meant he didn't play very often. The high school labels fell away and he wanted advice. What advice could I possible give him? Perhaps he just wanted sympathy. I didn't really know for sure, but it was clear we were not just guys who played D&D.

There was a major gap in our friendship after that point as he was forced into an adult life, while I was looking at mine from a long distance. He married his girlfriend and had a daughter, while I selected Western Michigan University and imagined the life of a novelist. I visited his apartment once and only once after his marriage. It was the bookend.

While in school I learned from people still around that his daughter had died from SIDS and he and his wife divorced. I felt for him, but didn't know what reaching out would accomplish. When I would talk to people from home I often asked about Art, but rarely had anyone seen or heard from him. Tim told me, a few years later, that he was working at Ford. A rumor started that he was a Satanist, but I don't know what to make of that.

Do you have people that you search on Facebook on a regular basis hoping that they have made an account? Perhaps I am the only one, but I have a couple of them. Art is one of them. So far, if he has an account, I've never found it.

Racing paper

Job 9:26 They skim past like boats of papyrus, like eagles swooping down on their prey.

I heard this verse the other day, as I was doing by daily bible listening, the modern way slackers like me read through the Bible. He's using this verse to talk about how fast days are going by. That was not the image in my mind. In my mind, I saw the boy king Tut, as he has been portrayed on the Discovery channel, knocking a scribe out of the way to get to his freshly pounded paper, which he promptly folds into the shape of a boat, a rough beige boat. Then with a flair of gold and blue he launches the new paper craft into the muddy Nile river and watches it speed away. This is not what is being described in Job, who would have known of the actual light boats made of thick rods of papyrus, but I just couldn't shake it.

The bell in the hallway rang, letting us know it was time for recess. I carefully tore a couple sheets of paper from the notebook, grabbed a plastic tape dispenser and headed outside. I had a plan.

I walked out into the sunlight behind Smith Elementary. I could see from just down the step, my destination. The play yard of my school was divided into two. The portion nearest the school started with pavement and basketball hoops and became a grass field with wood and rubber playground equipment. The other portion of the yard was wooded with trails and temporary forts. Between them, though, was a creek, filled with crayfish and water walking bugs, which flowed from the right under the small bridge to the woods and finally turning into a cement culvert, carefully fenced, which diverted it. The start of this creek was where I was headed.

Before I made it to the launch zone, I need to find some place to build. I selected a giant tire, half buried beneath the ground. I sat the tape on the ground and began to fold the first sheet of paper on the marred black tread of the tire. In just a moment, Shawn joined me. He asked what I was doing, so I told him and handed him the other sheet of paper. Together we folded boats, as best as we could. I told him we needed to add a little weight to the bottom, or it would fall over. We taped small, pencil sized sticks to the bottom ridge of our boats. They seemed clunky on the thin vessels, but served the purpose.

We moved to the place where the creek came under the fence, but we would have to throw them quite a ways to get them into the water. This wouldn't do. So we walked looking for the first opportunity to get close to the water. Just a few steps away for the fence, a small sandy bank gave us just the access we needed. With a short countdown, we placed our little boats as close to each other as we could in the current of water. Even before we stood, they began to race away from us.

We stood and ran downsteam trying to get ahead of them, so we could see them coming from a distance, then watch them race by us. We stared with a blend of wonder and trying to determine a winner. They were so close it was hard to tell who would win. We ran and watched, and ran and watched and ran to the final spot. To be honest I don't know who won the race, but I remember the feeling of watching the boat in the stream, how it seemed to have a life of its own, how it sped by. I remember kneeling down by the water on the last spot we could see them, before they would be out of the playground and how the they moved beyond where we could reach, to the other side of the creek. Our grasping hands couldn't reach. Too late I stepped into the water to get mine. It was gone. Taking the rest of the journey, perhaps all the way to Egypt, without me.