When I grow up...

What do you want to be when you grow up? The dreaded question you face throughout your childhood. And of course, in my line of work, I’m guilty of putting 12 year-olds on the spot. Even my own daughters have faced my gauntlet: Jadyn wants to be a vet. Makenna wants to be a forensic anthropologist (she’s come a long way since she proudly announced at her kindergarten graduation that she wanted to be a princess when she grows up).

So what did I want to be when I grew up? At 6, I was “Mr. D. Almost”, ornithologist extraordinaire. Somewhere around 14, I wanted to be a photo-journalist. I proclaimed when I was 15, that I was going to be a police officer. When I was 16, I was headed to the PacNW for Navy ROTC and a triple major in political science, international relations and history…I know…specific (I think, looking back, that goal was modeled after Jack Ryan…at least until I blew my knee). During those teenage years I used to get asked: “You going to be a teacher when you grow up?” After all it is the family curse: mom and dad both. I proudly replied, “Nope, I don’t want to have to deal with kids like me.” And of course…what do I do now? I deal with kids like me on a daily basis…I still joke that I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

But when I truly reflect on what I wanted to do (past tense) and want to do (future tense) and where I am now (present tense)…I wouldn’t be who I am now without one childhood dream: Indiana Jones is my hero (right after my dad of course) and I wouldn’t be me without his influence.

I couldn’t tell you how old I was when I first watched an Indiana Jones movie…although I know I covered my eyes at several points (same points I made my daughters close theirs). I remember reading Young Indiana Jones books. I remember desperately wanting Indy’s hat…and getting one close enough to work. I remember making a bull-whip out of landscaping twine…and I remember snapping myself behind my own ear with it. Indiana Jones shaped my childhood and my future more than any other fictional character…

I can’t blame Indy for my passion for history. As a struggling writer, even as early as second grade, I was slogging through an historical fiction manuscript set during the Spanish-American War (NERD ALERT!!!). Side note: Guess what my senior thesis was about? YEP—Spanish-American War. My love of history was innate, even though I think my dad secretly hoped it would be science related. What Indiana Jones offered me was a romanticized picture of what history could be. I wanted to search for treasure and travel to exotic locations.

As my passion for history increased, so did my knowledge base and exposure. When we got cable, my time was split evenly between basketball on ESPN and the History Channel. I admittedly got annoyed when mom and dad would get home and immediately change the channel from my documentary back to Sportscenter…I had already seen today’s highlights. I knew that history was more than a hobby, somehow it was going to be a larger part of who I was to become.

Some point after I blew my knee out and I knew I wasn’t going to join the Navy, I remember refocusing my goals. I was accepted at NNU, and what was my major? History Education. I had my sights set on grad school with the ultimate goal of following Indy into the ranks of collegiate professorship. I’ll never forget the day the Army recruiter called my grandmother’s number instead of mine. She didn’t tell him that I couldn’t join for medical reasons; she proudly announced to him on the phone that I was headed to college in the fall and stated, “we’re going to have a history professor in the family.”

Of course my life has changed…my goals shifted…I am not a history professor. I am proudly an educator; marked with the family curse. But I still hold hope that I will somehow realize my childhood dream of being like Indiana Jones. After all…I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up…and I have a lot of time left before I do…

Lost Lake...

Every year my daughters look forward to our traditional camping trip in June. Prior to the divorce my girls had limited exposure to the great outdoors. And now...each summer we load up the car and head for the hills. I can't imagine a summer without a week on the shores of Lost Valley Reservoir.

I remember little precise details of my own childhood here. Unlike today when my family pulls in RVs and trailers I remember a veritable tent village. Late night campfires with grandma's only rule: no flinging flaming marshmallows. And the occasional ride in Uncle Gary's canoe.

But, of every memory, the one that has never faded is of my cousins and me speeding toward the lake on our bicycles and riding as far into the lake as we could go. Somewhere there are pictures of our daring feats. Probably the ironic thing for me now...is to look at the lake and laugh at how ridiculously simple our fun was.

In my mind, as with many other memories I'm sure, I had created this grandiose image of us flying through the air off of a dock or jump, crashing into water too deep to walk in, saving our bicycles from certain eternal sleep at the bottom of the lake with heroic flare and strength. And all I can do now is shake my head and laugh.

My daughters can touch out to about 20 yards. The floor is so muddy and mucky that my youngest lost a flip flop last year. There is no way that my romantic memories of the great bike adventures can be true. In fact I'm sure the challenge was to see how far into the muck we could peddle before the mud swallowed the tires and completely stopped our momentum.

Tradition was officially passed down from generation to generation this year. I’m sad that I missed it…wish I could say I wasn’t there…I was…sleeping off my cold. I got to see the videos of my daughters and my nephews riding through the camp—straight into the lake. My heart was warmed…

I can’t wait until next year…I just have to remember to load my bike…