“Honey, I am going on a hike.”

These were the seven words uttered by my Dear Husband (DH) the other evening. We were in the living room being lounge lizards. I was playing catch up on back issues of The New Yorker magazine which had begun to pile up in a most annoying way. DH was reclining on the other end of the couch looking at his Kindle. Somehow I can’t imagine the Kindle as actually supporting the task of reading, but, to each their own.

“Okay,” said I. “Have fun. Be back before breakfast.”

I studied the cover of the magazine in my hands. A nun, a girl in a bikini and a woman in what appeared to be traditional Islamic dress with a hijab and long black dress sat staring out at the reader. I noticed that the woman in the Islamic attire was actually similar to the outfit of the nun except that she wore a big ol’ cross on her chest.

I listened to the smooth butterscotch voice of DH as I studied the cover trying to understand what it was the artist was sharing with his art. I traced my hand along the outline of the woman dressed in the bikini. She had on sunglasses and her legs were crossed. I noticed she had on platform shoes that didn’t look very practical for a day at the beach.

“Well, I am not sure yet where the hike will take me,” said DH. “I mean I haven’t exactly decided. It may be Appalachia or it may be Argentina.”

“Well, at least you know which letter of the alphabet you are talking about,” I replied.

I glanced over at my DH looking very comfortable in his perch on the couch. His blue eyes were the color of topaz at dusk and he stared back at me as a rogue lock of sandy blond hair plopped over his left eyebrow. He had on an orange tee-shirt with skeletons dancing across the front of it. ‘Rattle them bones,’ was printed in block letters underneath the skeletons.

“You might want to get a haircut before you go,” I said.

He laughed and began to scroll through the electronic device propped on his lap.

“A hike,” I thought to myself. “I can’t even get him to go on a constitutional around the block and now he wants to go on a hike?”

DH gave me a big smile and a yawn, the wide open mouthed hippo-style yawn that seem to go on forever. That kind of yawn.

“Have you read anything interesting on your Kindle? “I asked my husband who had become way too horizontal on the couch.

I decided to try and get to the bottom of this sudden interest in hiking, and decided that maybe asking questions like Miss Marple – on seemingly unrelated matters might bring me closer to the truth.

“Well, there is a senator from South Carolina who is in a bit of hot water for a vacation he recently took,” DH said in a sleepy voice.

“Indeed,” I replied. “What kind of vacation did he take exactly?”

“Well, it seems that he neglected to tell his wife where he was going – just that he was going on a hike someplace to get away and think for a few days.” I could hear the cracks in my husband’s ankles as he changed his position on the couch.

“So far sounds reasonable,” I said. Being a firm believer in the importance of personal space I support a few days here and there to get re-acquainted with one’s inner self.

“I guess you could say it turned into a little bit more than a commune with nature,” my husband said with a chuckle.

“It turns out that the good senator from the good state of South Carolina decided the scenery was better in Argentina and decided that neither his wife nor his staff needed to know how to get in touch with him. He was spontaneous- like you honey. Except that when he got to Argentina the only hiking he did was with a pretty Latina with whom it turns out he had been having a riveting email relationship.”

I dropped the magazine into my lap and looked over at DH who was grinning- an ear to ear grin that said: “I am a goof.”

“Well dear, if you would like to go on a hike anywhere in the alphabet I am happy to accompany you,” I said in my sweetest candy voice and I winked.

And DH winked back.

Hike indeed.

I wonder who paid the bill for that hike? Come to think about it, I’ll bet the almighty senator will be paying for that hike for a long long time to come.

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It was just a thought that the muse had whispered in my ear and the chance of it flitting away like an air bubble within the next five minutes was highly likely.

I was getting ready to drop the children – yes you read right- children- as in plural – as in more than one – at their summer camp. For the next three weeks my DH, DS and I are part of the goodwill ambassador foundation. We are sharing our house and home and our simple life with a fourteen year-old French boy. Oui- c’est vrais.

I was taking our young Frenchman and DS to their Ocean Camp at the other end of town. Two mop heads poked up from the back seat of the car as I made sure that I had indeed opened the garage door.

Garage doors and I have a somewhat static relationship. I once upon a time backed up a brand new car into the garage door that was coming down and it scalped the back side of the new car’s bumper.

Another time, the same car now that I think about, I decapitated a side mirror. My poor DH….but stories for another day.

This morning I was in mom mode and needed to get my charges to their camp on time. Garage door opened, key in ignition, I was listening to the familiar deep throated growl from my car when the thought hit me. My icon of youth, Michael Jackson, had passed away. He was just a few years older than me. Immortality or lack thereof was sending goose bumps down the back of my neck.

I began backing the car up looking over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t accidently hit a concrete boulder or an unsuspecting neighbor walking the dog. Michael Jackson was still with us. He had just taken on a different form I told myself. His music lives on in the myriad of his LPS, CDs and DVDs I had collected over the years.

I wanted to write this thought down in case it slipped out the back door before I had a chance to at least introduce it to the grey matter of my rather spotty mind.

I stuck my hand into the dark belly of my purse that for some reason seemed endless this morning. I felt around with my fingers and felt the shape of a phone, a wallet and a soft and squishy item that I was not sure about.

Aha! My fingers brushed against a slippery piece of something that crinkled when I tried to grab it. Paper! I pulled the sorry looking scrap out of the purse and stopped the car. On the paper was the following:

turkey meat
small packages of Pringles chips
sun screen
Gatorade large six pack orange/red/yellow
cheese squares
celery
one carton of organic low fat milk
Paul Newman’s lemonade

Riveting I thought to myself. How could I ever find room on this eensy weensy bit of paper to scribble my latest thought?

“Mom, can I have a tissue please?” I heard from the back seat of the car.

“Sure, honey,” I said, reaching into the console and pulling out a wad of the soft white stuff. Handing him the tissue I had an epiphany.

I can write my thoughts on a tissue – albeit unused.

“Thanks Mom,” said my son blowing into his cotton cloud.

“No, it is I who must thank you,” said I. “You helped me to be resourceful in a dire time of need,” I said as I furiously scribbled my thoughts on the soft tissue in my hand before they muse left me.

Desperate times desperate measures.

Thus, I scrambled as quickly as a mom with two legs can: hauling out deli meat, mustard, mayo, cheese, wheat bread, veggies and created a lovely lunch complete with a watermelon appetizer, Sprite and organic cookies.

Emile, our visiting French boy, sat next to my son on the couch. They chuckled and laughed as they watched the antics of a television show about two mop headed boys names Zac and Cody. I gathered from the raucous laughter that the boys on the TV had similar dispositions to that of the two boys sitting in my living room.

“Hey Mom,” said my tow-headed son splayed on the couch.

“Can we have some of the Salt and Vinegar Pringles I bought for Emile and me?”

“Okay,” said I making my way over to the pantry.

Where two of the blue and gold cans had recently stood at attention there was now a big empty space.

I gulped, realizing that these salt and vinegar chips were something the boys looked forward to almost on a daily basis. And it was summer, so I didn’t sweat it too much. However, I began to sweat thinking how was I to break the news of MIA Pringles to the young lads?

I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Hi Mom, I thought I would come over and help you find them,” said Dear Son. Sheesh, he was getting tall, I realized. Now he came up past my shoulder. I shook my head and stepped back while he stuck half his body inside the pantry prowling for the cans.

“They were here yesterday,” he said pointing to the gaping maw of what used to be home to two cans of unopened Pringles.

“Hm,” said I standing there perplexed, as my son’s eyes filled with tears.

Part of me wanted to laugh – after all, we are talking about chips – not even spilled milk- over which the phrase, “crying over spilled milk,” was created. But looking at his pinched face I realized that this was no laughing matter.

“Well, honey,” said I putting on a stiff upper lip. “I am not sure where they went. Perhaps Daddy has been having a midnight snack when we are all snuggled safely in bed. You know how he enjoys a good munch while he is watching a movie or playing WOW.”

DS closed the pantry door with a sigh and a small sob and just stared at me. His eyes were glistening and I knew that I had about three seconds to resolve this situation.

“We bought those chips for Emile and me, Mom” DS moaned.

I rubbed my hand across his cheek, and wiped a lone teardrop slipping forlornly down the left side of his face.

Shaking my hips left to right, I did what I do best, the Mama dance. “I will r-u-n, o-u-t, n-o-wwww,” I crooned to the tune of the Jackson Five’s ABC-123.

“I will be back before you are even half way through your lunch,” said I trying to feel as brave as I sounded. Now I knew how George Washington must have felt before the battle of Brandywine Creek.

I hopped out, ran to the market and picked up two cans of Salt and Vinegar Pringles as well as two bags of Lay’s Salt and Vinegar chips. They were on sale – buy one, get one free.

I flew home, feeling like Glinda the good witch of Oz, except that she had an amazing ability to poof while I had to wait for three lights to change from red to green. Opening the door I found four eyes, four hands and two mouths eagerly awaiting S&V chips, and I delivered. Smiles and a myriad of ‘thank-yous’ greeted my ears.

“You’re the best Mom,” said DS with a mouth stuffed with the salty pleasure.

“Glad to help,” I smiled as I made my way to DH’s cave where I deposited the two-for-one bags of salt and vinegar chips. This way, he could have his own booty without dipping into that of the boys.

Everyone would be happy.

At least this was my hope.

http://blow.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/04/24/two-little-boys/

April 24, 2009, 3:04 pm

Two Little Boys

By Charles M. Blow

On April 6, just before dinner, Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, a Massachusetts boy who had endured relentless homophobic taunts at school, wrapped an extension cord around his tiny neck and hanged himself. He was only 11 years old. His mother had to cut him down.

On April 16, just after school, Jaheem Herrera, a Georgia boy who had also endured relentless homophobic taunts at school, wrapped a fabric belt around his tiny neck and hanged himself as well. He too was only 11 years old. His 10-year-old sister found him.

Two beaming little boys, lost. To intolerance? Too tragic.

The sad ends to their short lives shine a harsh light on the insidious scourge of the homophobic bullying of children.

Children can’t see their budding lives through the long lens of wisdom – the wisdom that benefits from years passed, hurdles overcome, strength summoned, resilience realized, selves discovered and accepted, hearts broken but mended and love experienced in the fullest, truest majesty that the word deserves. For them, the weight of ridicule and ostracism can feel crushing and without the possibility of reprieve. And, in that dark and lonely place, desperate and confused, they can make horrible decisions that can’t be undone.

For as much progress that’s been made on the front of acceptance and tolerance of all people, regardless of our differences, enough hatred remains–tucked in the crags and spread about the surface–to force Carl and Jaheem into the abyss.

We should commit ourselves to ensuring that their deaths are not in vain, that their lives are the last page in this sorry chapter of our development as a people. And, the first step in that direction is to fully understand the scope of the problem.

In short, homophobic bullying is pervasive. It disproportionately affects black and Hispanic kids. A new study suggests an apparent link between bullying and suicide. To wit, black and Hispanic adults who are gay reported higher “serious suicide attempts” than their white counterparts, most of those attempts taking place when they were young.

Let’s look at the data:

According to a 2005 report entitled “From Teasing to Torment: School Climate in America” that was commissioned by the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network, students are more likely to be subjected to homophobic bullying than bullying for most other reasons …

We, as a society, should be ashamed. The bodies of these children lay at our feet. The toxic intolerance of homophobic adults has spilled over into the minds of pre-sexual children, placing undue pressure on the frailest of shoulders. This pressure is particularly acute among young boys who are forced to conform to a perilously narrow concept of masculinity. Or else. My colleague Judith Warner put it best in an online column that she posted after Carl’s death:
“The message to the most vulnerable, the victims of today’s poisonous boy culture, is being heard loud and clear: to be something other than the narrowest, stupidest sort of guy’s guy, is to be unworthy of even being alive.”

Well, no more. All people are worthy just the way they are, the way God and nature made them, the way they see themselves through the truest eye of the soul. We must teach every child, nay every person, that the greatest measure of our own humanity is the degree of human dignity we afford those from whom we are different. A smile, a kind word, a handshake, a hug, understanding and compassion – the simplest acts of goodness can bridge the widest chasms.
These little boys deserved our love. Instead, through the vessels of our children, they were shown our scorn. We failed.

Carl and Jaheem, I will never forget you. I am the father of 11 year-old twins. I will give them extra hugs and kisses tonight in memory of you. I will teach them to be even more tolerant, in memory of you. I will make sure that they know that I am always there if they need an ear or a shoulder, in memory of you. I will let them know, when the waters get choppy, that the storm will always pass, in memory of you. And, I will make sure that they know in no uncertain terms that whomever they grow up to be, I will love them always and forever. This too I will do in memory of you.

We will soldier on in your stead. You rest in ours.

(It should be noted that to my knowledge neither child had self-identified as gay or bisexual at the time of their death, but now it matters not. Whomever they would have been is forever lost to the grave.)

I also invite you to join me on Facebook, follow me on Twitter or e-mail me at chblow@nytimes.com.

Thus, a strong string of rants and groans and grunts ensued from said small person’s mouth. It got me to thinking….what would it be like to find a secure, safe place with three square meals a day where I didn’t have to do laundry, didn’t have to worry about bills, didn’t have to worry about unsolicited telemarketers calling me at inopportune moments..hm…

Wouldn’t have to think about keeping the car maintained- where all of my medical needs would be covered and I would be given a supply of clean clothes – uniforms even – where I wouldn’t need to be concerned about labels and keeping up with the latest fashion trend.

The more I thought about this scenario of another world I got to thinking that maybe just maybe, I could finagle a way into the system of permanent healthcare, food rations, good security and no bothersome phone calls. I might even have access to a library where I would have time time to actually read a book…Heaven….

I wouldn’t have to worry about laundry or feeding other folks and making sure that the refrigerator was stocked. I wouldn’t be expected to plan outings and day trips and provide hot dogs to wayward offspring at inopportune and somewhat late hours.

Nope, the more I thought about this idea the more sane and rationale it is beginning to sound. I think I will place a call to our local branch of the government penitentiary and see what qualifications they need for me to become a member.

“Hello, my name is _______________________, I just turned a ripe ol’ fifty and would like to know if there are any openings in your facility?

I promise I don’t snore. I can keep my room clean and will follow all the rules.

What was that you ask? Am I crazy?

Well, I haven’t been certified but maybe you can help assist with that….”