friends, MS

She Rides With MS



When we picked up our race packets for the 50-mile Bike MS ride, a very mannered young man, probably no more than twelve, was there to greet us. “What name is the registration under?” he asked. “Erin Vore,” Erin said. The boy scrolled through the list, located Erin’s name, and then said, “Erin Vore! It’s Erin Vore everyone!” At this, everyone — which was three other people working the table — promptly came over and shook Erin’s hand. “You were one of our top fundraisers!” the director, a man by the name of Steve, said. Another man, just a volunteer, was content simply to shake Erin’s hand. “You’re an all-star,” he said. The twelve-year-old, who may have actually been a forty-year-old trapped in a pre-teen’s body, said things like, “You did an exemplary job fundraising,” and kept checking items off a list to give to us: a standard-issue Bike MS t-shirt; a Bike MS windbreaker; a Top Banana riding jersey (appropriately colored yellow), given to those who raise at least $1200. (It speaks to the generosity of our friends that Erin raised nearly $2800.)

“How many years have you been riding?” Steve asked.

“Well, this is my first,” Erin said. “I was diagnosed last December, and this was one of the first things we both agreed we wanted to do.”

“You have MS too!” Steve said.

“That means you get an ‘I Ride with MS’ jersey,” the twelve-year-old said, promptly taking one off the table. Erin was now holding four articles of clothing.

We felt like celebrities. And that, admittedly, is a nice feeling to have, and one unlike most of the feelings we’ve had since Erin’s diagnosis eight months ago. That feeling helped compensate for the fact that we had done absolutely no — as in zero — training for our fifty miles leading up to race day.

But you can get a lot of mileage off the generosity and support of your friends — both those who supported us (financially and otherwise) before the race, and those who showed up at the UDF on the corner of Remington and Loveland-Madeira … the only people we saw, anywhere on the route, who comprised a cheering section for anyone on a bicycle.

Processed with VSCOcam with m5 preset The people not in bike jerseys are definitely faking how much fun it                                       appears to be watching a bike race.


There were a few people on the ride who also had “I Ride With MS” jerseys, but the majority of riders were people who knew someone with MS; just wanted to support the cause; or were simply happy to raise at least $300 to take a spin from Bellevue, Kentucky, up to Camp Kern in Ohio.

What got us through the last fifteen miles — besides low gears and a lot of Powerade — was the knowledge that we have great friends and supportive family; that we are not embarking on the journey of life with MS alone; and that there were other riders out there with us — not just those whizzing (or plodding) by the cornfields of Lebanon, but also those like our friend Katie, who did the Denver MS ride, and others all around the country. One rider had a “We Bike The U.S. For MS” jersey full of signatures. His body was a testament to the names of those with the disease, his presence a reminder that while things like MS can isolate and frighten us, they can also be turned outward, pointing us toward community, interdependence, and hope. So we ride on.


UPDATE!: We have somehow graced the front page of the Ohio Valley Bike MS recap. As our friend (and Bike MS PR person/live-tweeter) Andrew Cashmere would say, “Boom.”

friends, marriage, things to love about Ohio

Scenes From An Ohio Road Trip

Moments after dropping Sam and Leo off with Erin’s parents, as we pulled out of the neighborhood and considered that we would now have the next twenty-eight hours without kids, Ben turned to Erin and said, “To quote Dr. Leo Marvin in What About Bob?: Free.”



“So how do you pronounce his name?” Erin asked, holding Ben’s copy of Between the World and Me.

“It’s Tah-Nuh-HA-see Coates. The ‘Hi’ sounds like a ‘Ha,'” Ben said. “Wait, are you going to read my book before I do?”

“Sure. You’re driving.”

“But I get to read it tonight when we get to the hotel.”

“No. Because I’ll be reading it.”

“But it’s my book. I just bought it.”

“And I’m reading it.”

“This is the, what — fourth book you’ve stolen from me?”

“Oh, that’s not true. Name them.”

“Meghan Daum’s book.”

“OK, that’s one.”

The Dark Path.”


“Oh, The Lifeboat, last summer.”

“No, you stole that from me.”

We passed the newly reconstructed “Touchdown Jesus” off I-75. It was not looking so touchdowny anymore.

“I can’t remember the last visitation I went to,” Erin said.

“I think mine was my Uncle Bud,” Ben said. “I still remember how he looked in the coffin. It was him, but it wasn’t, you know?”

“Where did our summer go? And why did we each bring four books? By the time we get to the hotel it’ll be at least ten o’clock.”

“And there’ll be HGTV.”

“Right. Who were we kidding?”

There was construction outside Dayton and we missed our exit. When we arrived at the funeral home, our friend Scott was there to greet us. Meghan, his wife, was feeding their five-month-old. Life goes on even in tragedy.

More of our friends arrived, and each new arrival made Meghan smile and then cry. We stood around in a circle, witnesses to a passing.


“We’re going to get in late, aren’t we?” Erin said back in the car. “Also, I’m so hungry I’m going to start gnawing on the upholstery.”

“It’s all right,” Ben said. “It’s a road trip. We’ll get there before ‘Property Brothers.'”

“But where are we going to eat?”

“Anywhere. You pick.”

“Have you ever been to Yellow Springs?”

“No. Let’s do it. Tell me where to go.”

“Take this exit. It’s twelve miles on Dayton-Yellow Springs Road.”

As we drove, Erin mentioned that her last meal in Yellow Springs had been with an old boyfriend, but that it was a very nice meal.

“So you’re saying I need to prove myself tonight?” Ben responded. “On our anniversary dinner?”

“I’m saying this is a chance for me to redeem my Yellow Springs experience.”

The main drag in Yellow Springs is Xenia Avenue, and assorted hipsters and hippies occupied the streets as we drove through. It seemed as though everyone was walking a dog.

We parked and walked around before stopping in the Winds Cafe. We looked at a sample menu while the maître d’ waited. “Plenty of tables tonight,” he said.

“I get worried when they don’t list the prices,” Erin whispered.

“Oh, let me get you a real menu!” the maÎtre d’ said.

We considered. It was getting late, and a meal there would taken at least an hour, putting us in Mansfield at close to eleven.

“Let’s do it,” Erin finally said.

“Oh good!” The maÎtre d’ snapped to action, getting us two more menus before realizing we already had two. He sat us by the window.

“Are you going to be Whole30 tonight?” Erin asked as we looked over the menu.

Ben hemmed and hawed. It was day twenty-one of a very loose Whole30.

“Maybe. Probably. Maybe.”

“C’mon,” Erin said. “Live a little.” She reminded him of the numerous lapses he had already suffered over the past three weeks. “But if you tempt me when I do mine,” she added, drawing a line across her throat.

The waiter arrived. We ordered the Provençal Whole Branzini. Ben ordered a Rhinegeist on tap.

“Good for you,” Erin said. “Let’s document this.”

She took a picture and, before uploading it to Instagram, pondered a good hashtag before settling on “#Neurohiogetaway.”

When the fish arrived, it was the whole Branzini — head and eyes and all.

“We have to eat the cheek meat,” Erin said. “You know the Amy Tan essay, right? ‘Fish Cheeks’?”

“I do not.”

“The best meat is in the cheeks. Let’s save it for last.”

A man walked by the window and saw our meal. He stopped, pointed at the fish, then at us, grinning like an idiot. We smiled and waved. He kept pointing and grinning.

“Yes, it’s a fish,” Ben said.

He nodded and finally kept walking.

While we celebrated our anniversary meal (a week early), the ladies two tables over were sharing their divorce stories. We were the only ones in the room, so their conversation filtered over to us easily. We talked so we wouldn’t feel like eavesdroppers.

“Does this cleanse the ex palate?” Ben asked. “Have we redeemed Yellow Springs for you?”

“Actually, I think this was the same restaurant,” Erin said. “But it was a different name then.”

“Well, we made the right choice then.”

It was nine when we finished. The Branzini was all spindly bone and head (minus the cheeks) when the waiter took it. We ordered decafs to go. The waiter returned with two decafs in mugs. “We didn’t have any travel cups left, but I figured you still wanted these,” he said.

The coffee was tepid. “We give our kids warmer baths than this,” Erin said.

The waiter returned and offered to brew us a new pot. We declined, and he took it off the check.

We left the restaurant as dusk was settling. “That was the kind of meal that’s really good but still leaves you hungry,” Ben said. We had Whole30-friendly banana chips and cashews in the car; most would be gone over the next two hours. “Mansfield or bust,” Erin said, and we were off.



We arrived at the hotel at 11:37. A man came out of his room as we tried to get our key to work. “You brought a box fan to a hotel!” he said. “Who brings a box fan to a hotel?”

“Apparently we do,” Erin said. We exchanged looks. Drunk? Serial killer?

He was approaching us as if our arrival was exactly what he’d been waiting for. “Apparently! I can’t get over that. What do you need a fan for?” He was closing on us.

“We like the white noise,” Erin said. The key was still not working. The moment was slowly turning into that movie scene when the good guy fumbles with the car keys as a deranged killer pursues.

“There’s an app for that!” he said. He was ten feet away.

The door opened. We were in. “Oh, really?” Erin said, sliding in and beginning to shut the door.

“Yeah!” he said, finally at our door. It was still open, and he was standing right in front of it. “Like three of them!”

“Well, we’ll have to check that out,” Erin said.

“You do that! Nice rooms, huh?”

“Very nice!” Erin said. “Good night!” She closed the door.

“Mansfield’s … friendly,” she said, recovering herself.

“But not lethal!” Ben said.

We found HGTV. Jonathan was giving Shannon and Darl the bad news that there was asbestos in the walls of their fixer-upper. Soon he would tell them they needed to get rid of a beloved clawfoot bathtub as well. Also that the HVAC needed to be replaced. Neither Shannon nor Darl was thrilled to get this news.

“What’s his name?” Erin asked. “Darr?”

“I think it’s ‘Darl,'” Ben said. “Like in Faulkner.”

“Darl,” Erin said. “That’s unfortunate.”

“They’re so weird-looking.”

“Shannon and Darl?”

“No, what’s-their-faces.”

“Jonathan and Drew.”

“Yes, they are.”

After the show, Erin took out A Farewell To Arms.

“You’re going to start your summer reading now, at midnight, in Mansfield, Ohio?” Ben asked.

“Yeah, who am I kidding,” Erin said, throwing the book on the floor.

“Show the kids the clip where Bradley Cooper throws the book out the window,” Ben said. “That’ll be their favorite part of class discussion.”

“Noted,” Erin said. She turned off the lights. We slept terribly.



Erin punched in the address for the Cleveland Clinic as soon as we get in our car. Siri chirped back, “Starting route to Mellen Center for Multiple Sclerosis,” as we pulled back onto I-71 North.

“Thanks, Siri,” Erin said. She mimicked Siri’s voice. “Starting route to Mellen Center for Multiple Sclerosis, an auto-immune disease which occasionally causes you to go blind in your left eye.”

Ben chimed in. “Starting route to Mellen Center for Multiple Sclerosis, which you still have and can only get worse by the time you arrive.”

“Starting route to Mellen Center for Multiple Sclerosis,” Erin said, “which just all around really sucks for you.”

We arrived at the Cleveland Clinic an hour before our appointment. The waiting room had a clean, sleek, professional appearance, its inhabitants the usual snapshot of humanity caught in medical limbo. Two boys who did not appear to have parents were sitting side-by-side playing on iPads. The only magazines available for browsing were Fortune and Bloomberg Businessweek, two of the least browsable magazines ever printed.

They ran a tight ship at the Mellen Center for Multiple Sclerosis. A nurse, Georgia, ran vitals on Erin and logged her medications, then asked her to complete a timed test that involved moving pegs in and out of a square wood block. She then took us back to the waiting room, but it was less than five minutes before Dr. Cohen himself came out to greet us. He was polite, efficient, calm and reassuring. He agreed with the diagnosis, and talked about the growing number of MS medications. “Overall, I think you’re doing incredibly well given everything I’ve seen today,” he said — which was worth the drive itself, just to hear those words.

In the waiting room, we scheduled our follow-up appointment for February. Because of concerns for privacy, each scheduler is separated by a partition, and the next in line must wait outside behind a glass door. Nevertheless, we could still hear the woman on the other side of the partition very clearly when she said, upon being asked how her day was going, “Fine, except for the open sore on my butt.”



We stopped for lunch at the Chipotle in Middleburg Heights. The line was out the door. We watched as two parents tried desperately to corral their kids into finishing their meals. Eventually the father simply picked up the younger boy, who looked to be Leo’s age, and carried him out like a sack of mulch, if the sack was also squirming and screaming bloody murder.

Despite this scene, we both commented that we really missed our boys.

Back on I-71, Ben asked, “Have you ever been to the Ohio State Reformatory before?”

“Are you asking if I’ve done prison time?” Erin responded.

“It’s where they shot Shawshank Redemption. Should we stop?”

“Sure. It’s a road trip.”

We pulled up to the now-defunct prison, the music from that famous tracking shot playing in our heads. “Will they have a bathroom?” Erin asked. “Oh, I think those are still in operation,” Ben replied. Inside we took the Shawshank tour. Red was our tour guide.




“Funny how you can drive seven hours to Missouri but you need a break from Cleveland to Cincinnati,” Erin said. We had traded places after gassing up outside Grove City.

“What are you implying, exactly?”

“That you don’t want me to finish my book,” Erin said, gesturing toward Between the World and Me.

My book, thank you,” Ben replied.

“This has been a strange trip,” Erin said. “We bookended an anniversary getaway with a visitation and a neurology appointment.”

“Then went to a prison,” Ben added.

It was raining when we made it back to Cincinnati. Everyone — Sam, Leo, Nana, Papa — were sitting peacefully on the couch when we arrived to pick them up. Either the scene had been staged for us to suggest the last twenty-eight hours had been an idyllic time on the homefront, or it was just another instance of grandparenting magic. “They were great,” Erin’s parents said. We found that hard to believe, but we were grateful.

The trip marked the end of summer for us. The beginning of the school year is like reaching the peak of a roller coaster, right before it makes its first stomach-twisting drop. Once the ride starts, there’s no getting off until June. In six months, we’ll make the trek back up I-71, by which point, hopefully, Erin will be stabilized on Copaxone, with no additional relapses; both of us will be settled into new teaching gigs at new schools; Sam will be, in small but significant ways, on his way to being more mature and ready for kindergarten next fall; and Leo will be doing what Leo does, which is generally regarding everything around him with the two-year-old amazement of seeing it all for the first time. Until then, we await the start of another school year with both excitement and unease, anticipation and anxiety. And, of course, the hope none of us come down with open sores on our butt.

books, ReLit

ReLit: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Go West, young man.


Part of our summer vacation was spent on the banks of the Huzzah (pronounced “HOO-zah”) River in Steelville, Missouri, site of many a Beers family camping expedition back in the day. We waded. We fished. We threw rocks. We caught tadpoles. Erin caught a softshell turtle. If none of this sounds exotic to you, you are not a five-year-old boy.

One hundred fifty miles north of Steelville is Hannibal, Missouri — hometown to Samuel Langhorne Clemens, better known as Mark Twain. A much larger river runs past Hannibal: the Mississippi. Twain said of that river that it was like a book with “a new story to tell every day.” His most famous book, set on that very river, is of course Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. And as I (Ben) sat on the banks of the Huzzah in June, beholding its presence and witness to its slow, steady glide through time, I remembered a line Huck says about there being “no home like a raft,” because “other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.”

No book was harder for me to teach this year than Huck Finn. No book seemed to have changed so much since I last read it twenty years ago. I do not know if I taught it well. If success is measured by how much students “like” a book, then (with one or two exceptions) I did not. But I wondered, as I stumbled through teaching it, how much Huck Finn is a book that — despite its permanent fixture in the American canon (“all modern literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn,” said Ernest Hemingway) — really wants to be liked. Like its author, Huck Finn is an ornery, subversive beast, punching up and down. It’s also really funny, although my students seriously questioned the integrity of my sense of humor. Nonetheless, let’s begin.

What You Probably Remember About Huck Finn From High School: A young boy and a black man on a river. And that Tom Sawyer is in it. Tom and Huck’s stories overlap, but it’s important to keep them separate as well. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (written first, nine years earlier) is the one where Tom and Huck discover the treasure in the cave. It’s also the one when Tom whitewashes the fence (or, more accurately, bribes other kids to paint it for him) and appears at his own funeral. He shows up early in Huck Finn to serve as a foil for Huck (Tom is the hopeless romantic; Huck is more pragmatic), then returns late in the novel to hijack the story, both in plot (he gets shot “rescuing” Jim) and theme (though we’d argue that this is intentional on Twain’s part, but no less problematic).

You might remember — especially if you hated English class and thought your teacher was a pedantic bore for insisting there was hidden symbolism (usually involving sex) behind everything — the delightful “Notice” that prefaces the novel, which we will include here in its entirety:

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be executed; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

You may have read that and thought, “Mark Twain — my man!”, and assumed because your English teacher went on and on about what a satirical, troublemaking genius Mark Twain was, that said English teacher would, you know, take Twain at his word and not waste everyone’s time dwelling on motives and morals and plots and all that.

What a naive fool you were then.

You might remember, more than the actual plot of Huck Finn, all the controversy. Specifically that the n-word is used two hundred and nineteen times. Censorship has always swirled around Huck Finn; it most recently resurfaced in 2011 when the publisher NewSouth came out with an edition that replaced “nigger” with “slave.” One of the arguments NewSouth made was that this actually helped Huck Finn attain a broader readership, since squeamish school boards could theoretically substitute a version that would be less offensive. (As Toni Morrison said of such efforts, “It struck me as a purist yet elementary kind of censorship designed to appease adults rather than educate children.”) Never mind that changing the words also changes the meaning, since meaning derives itself from language; that edition was largely ridiculed, notably by Larry Wilmore, back when he was the “Senior Black Correspondent” on “The Daily Show”:

Mark Twain put that word in for a reason … and [“slave” is] not even accurate. In the book, Jim is no longer a slave. He ran away. Twain’s point is he can’t run away from being a nigger.

Indeed, the word has different meanings — depending on who’s using it, how it’s being used, when it’s being used. Twain knew this; an astute reader knows this. For its boy adventure stylings and comical overtones, Huck Finn is anything but light. It demands an astute reader.

Finally, you might remember your teacher droning on about how Huck Finn is a splendid example of regionalism and dialect, how it captures in its language the time, place, and people of the Antebellum South, and how it turns ordinary speech into an elevated art form. You might also recall writing an essay at one in the morning about the symbolism of the Mississippi River and thinking it was pretty brilliant — how the river was life and change and freedom, man — until your shiftless, forever-making-excuses teacher took three months to grade it, giving it to you the day before school ended, at which point Mark Twain was dead to you and you were big time into the Predator movie franchise and having deep, philosophical arguments with Chuck Brainerd about who would win in an Aliens vs. Predator death match. If so, you were wrong. Aliens would crush Predator any day of the week and thrice on Sunday.
No contest.

Let’s move on.

What We Got From Huck Finn The Second Time Around: A lot. For one, simple geography. It was lost on me the first time that Huck and Jim were floating down the Mississippi River — i.e., straight into the heart of the deep South. (They are aiming for the Ohio River, but miss the entrance on a foggy night when they get separated.) What they thought was the route to freedom was really a float trip into enemy territory. It was also, ironically, the same route Jim would’ve traveled had he been sold into slavery (in New Orleans).
I also picked up more of the novel’s abiding skepticism toward formal education. Huck’s caretaker, Widow Douglas, is out to “sivilize” him — clean him up, get him an education, make him a proper boy. Huck wants nothing to do with this:

The widow Douglas, she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn’t stand it no longer, I lit out.

Huck is perpetually trying to escape: from Widow Douglas, his father, the authorities. Basically, almost every adult in the novel. Huck Finn is a picaresque, a meandering, often implausible story of a roguish hero set against the social order. One of the many disquieting things suggested by the ending, called by some the saddest happiest ending in all of literature (Huck lights out for the territories — i.e., Oklahoma, Indian country — with Tom but without Jim), is that Huck will never escape the corrupt social structures which any group of humans, gathered any place in the world, will inevitably build, riddled as they are with prejudice, violence, selfishness, cruelty, and all sort of conflicted morality. What use, Twain suggests, is being “sivilized” by a culture such as this? And yet, what other alternative is there?
One of the ways the novel punches up is in its deeply skeptical stance on religion. When Huck meets his new friend Buck Grangerford in chapter 18, Buck takes him to church. Keep in mind that the Shepherdsons, the Grangerford’s bitter rivals, attend the same church:
Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The Shepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching — all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith, and good works, and free grace, and preforeordestination, and I don’t know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.
A sermon on “brotherly love,” delivered to two families who commend its power and then turn around and kill one another. When Huck finds Buck’s dead body after the feud, he tugs it ashore: “I cried a little when I was covering up Buck’s face, for he was mighty good to me.” Such is the fruit of religion for Huck. (Huck also turns his back on religion — indeed, on what he suspects to be his eternal salvation — in the book’s climactic moment when he rips up the note to Miss Watson that would reveal Jim’s whereabouts and reenslave him; “All right, then, I’ll go to hell,” he says.)
In college, my professor spent a lot of time stressing how the book laid bare our own racial prejudices. I, and many of my classmates, being enlightened and open-minded twenty-somethings, took umbrage to this. We’re not racists! we all argued. If anyone is, it’s this Twain guy! Isn’t Jim a minstrel stereotype himself? Too bad Twain wasn’t alive now in such a racially enlightened era. We’d teach him a thing or two about race!
It’s all too easy to pat oneself on the back when reading literature from an earlier, less progressive era. And high school students love to do it. But a good English teacher should force them to deal with the text on its own terms — to read it with 21st century eyes but also ones aware of (and sympathetic to) the time and place from which it originated.
Re-reading and teaching Huck Finn, I learned that you can fail a text (and your students) when you don’t give it room to breathe. I thought we needed to address the race question, because isn’t that what everyone does with Huck Finn? As a novice teacher, I was afraid of not meeting this issue head on, resulting in what I’m now sure were heavy-handed attempts to inject race into the conversation, such that it quickly became a conversation no one besides myself wanted to have. (This meme probably best captures what my students felt like during this stretch.)
But during the seminar discussion day, when I was silent and the students talked, it was not race they wanted to discuss; it was Huck. Specifically, that he was just a kid, and that there was something in this novel that touched on childhood in a profound, unsettling way. Andrew Levy articulates this in Huck Finn’s America when he writes,

There is a shimmer to Twain’s portrait of white childhood in the antebellum era. But there are also murders, suicidal ideation, child abuse, and a profound satire on standardized education, and the ambivalent ways American parents both protect their children from, and provide them uncritical access to, popular culture. Huck Finn is a book about the disconnection between our children’s inner lives and our ways of raising and teaching them — a disconnection so intimidating that, naturally, we placed this tribute to children’s alienation at the center of public school curricula.

Levy argues that race is not, in fact, the central theme of the novel (though he argues it’s still quite integral), but rather that childhood is. Like many modern readers, I read Huck Finn a long time ago and then my memory began to soften all its hard edges. I remembered it as a comical escapade of an unlikely friendship, an ode to a simple, adventurous, but ultimately “happy” childhood. (I suspect I’m not the only one who conflates Huck’s story with Tom’s, as if all childhood stories are alike.)
I forgot, until rereading Huck Finn, just how unsafe and despairing (in chapter one Huck says bluntly, “I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead”) it is. Huck’s racist father Pap, one of literature’s most vile characters, beats him. Huck fakes his own death (by killing a pig and smearing its blood everywhere) to escape. Thirteen people die. One of them, Pap, floats by Huck on the river, though Huck doesn’t know it because Jim, in a gesture of mercy, spares him the truth until the very end. Not exactly Norman Rockwell stuff.

Why We Think You Should Give Huck Finn A Reread: At its simplest, Huck Finn is the story of a boy who comes to see the worth in a man that the rest of society tells him is worthless. That’s a story that still resonates today.

“The brilliance of Huckleberry Finn is that it is the argument it raises,” Morrison said. This is another way of saying that returning to Huck Finn will both reassure and unsettle, both challenge and reward you. It will also make you laugh. (The Shakespearean word salad in chapter 21 is a highlight, especially if you’re an English teacher.)

Levy argues that “Huck Finn is the great book about American forgetfulness” — and added, in an interview, that “we, as Americans, are too easily convinced that we are moving forward when sometimes we are moving in circles.” Rereading Huck Finn forced me to consider how far we’ve come since 1885 but also, sadly, how much we’re still stuck in the same place.

Finally, if for nothing else, rereading Huck Finn will remind you just how much since owes some debt to it. And it made me appreciate, again, one of my favorite Bloom County strips of all time:


For Toni Morrison’s full introduction to “this amazing, troubling book,” see here.

faith, marriage, parenthood

Big Paws For Doing Big Things

When I (Erin) think of things I’m afraid of, I think of Big Things: America’s troublesome food system. Money crap. Racism and Bullying.  The fact that I’ve switched jobs twice in two years. How my kids will end up in therapy and resent me. When my Multiple Sclerosis will strike again. Why chin hairs keep growing and multiplying. Why I can’t get more than 20 likes on any single Instagram post (follow me! @erinvore). Whether or not I smell better when I use my husband’s deodorant.

Like I said, big things.

I’m also afraid of a blank page. I’ve always loved to write, always dreamed of writing Big Things. Like Pickles in Esther Averill’s The Fire Cat, one of my boys’ favorite books, I have Big Paws and am meant to do Big Things.

We are all Pickles.


I’m just afraid my Big Things aren’t worth saying. I’ve spent so much time not writing the right things because I’m so worried I’m not writing the right things. It’s a terrible, vicious cycle.


I just finished reading Glennon Doyle Melton’s fiercely good book of essays, Carry On, Warrior. GDM is one messed up lady. She admits freely, and without shame, how messed up she is: former longtime bulimic, boozer, drug-user, casual sex doer. Those rhyme. Kind of cute until you think about what all of those things mean.

She also knows, though, that those things, those dark spots — skeletons in the closet, things that can suck the life out of you because of fear and worry and shame (not to mention real, tangible consequences like pregnancy and disease) — are not her because she is made new in Christ. She is loved the heck out of by Jesus. In fact, He’s thrilled to call her daughter, to be in love with this messed up lady He’s created.

I had a more than a couple light bulbs go off while reading her memoir:

  1. I am a messed up lady too. I spend a lot of my time making sure people don’t know I am messed up or know that I USED to be messed up, but now I go to church and host small group and read my Bible almost every morning, and am doing the best I can with my two, crazy boys, and eat as cleanly as I can (except for wine and night-time snacks), and buy organic milk and eggs, and am quick to forgive, and exercise moderately, and take my medicine diligently, and try to send belated birthday cards because I almost always never remember special days on the actual day. But, like I said, I am messed up. I’ve done things — Big Things — I’m not proud of, and it got me thinking how much I really believe, like deep down believe, that I really am redeemed. I think my thought life often doesn’t match up with my out loud life. Out loud, I proclaim (such a religious verb) that I am reborn, a new creation, made new in Christ, but my insides still feel shame, sadness, regret. Melton says more than once that she thinks God basically digs her. On the one hand, really? Like, really digs you? Digs me? Isn’t that a little cocky? But I think she’s right. He made me and he digs me and it’s high time I start believing it, not just saying it to the right people at the right time. She said that “the during is just as holy as the after.” I need to stop waiting for the after to know and believe I’m holy and good and loved. It will always be during.
  2. I want to be honest. I want to start writing True Things. I want to stop pretending I need to write one way to represent me and my family well. I want to be a truth teller and wild lover of things God wants me to love, which, you know, is a LOT of things.
  3. I’ve spent a lot of my life comparing myself to women instead of working together with women. GDM operates in the latter. I want to as well. No more comparison. No more shame. Shame, go away. Let us be gifts to one another.
  4. I want to write. I am in love with good books and I am constantly wishing I could write something like those people, those lucky few, can write. News flash: I can! Stop waiting until something amazing happens or I have an amazing story to tell to give myself permission to write and just do it! So I am. Here I go. No stoppin’ me now. And I do have amazing stories, like the fact that I am married to an incredible man who is bursting with creativity and wisdom and integrity, or the fact that Sam drew a dinosaur this morning and then said, “Look, Mommy, he’s eating a chicken stick and going poo poo and pee.” A T-Rex eating chicken and defecating and urinating at the same time? Sounds amazing to me.

Or the fact that I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis a week before Christmas and haven’t completely crumbled yet! (Also, bonus, I can see out of my left eye again, a miracle I daily consider.)

At this point I should probably admit that I’ve checked my phone about four times to see if anyone’s liked my latest Instagram post. And I have not one, but two journals on my table at the coffee shop and I haven’t opened either one. Failings continue. So this is probably a good time to start listing everything I hate about myself so I can repent of that and move on to love. Put on my love glasses, so to speak.

  1. I don’t like that my face is asymmetrical. I think the left side of my face is prettier than the right side. That’s messed up. The asymmetry (trust me, I’ve spent a LOT of time studying my facial asymmetry) makes it difficult for me to wear aviators because one of my ears is slightly above the other ear. Glasses look a little crooked on me.
  2. I walk into a store and I want to buy the whole store. Ben and I are taking Financial Peace University right now, which has us saying repeatedly on Thursday evenings that we wish we would’ve taken it when we were in our teens, or twenties, or before any time but Right Now. Better late than never. Anyway, FPU has me thinking about money and I actually get a little buzz by not buying shit right now, by saving it all and carefully pulling out real cash when I need to buy things we need like milk, chicken sticks, and diapers (though we’re toying with potty training Leo to save on this one). But then it’s Sam’s birthday and I walk into Kohl’s because maybe they’ll have a cheaper Eeyore than the Disney store (they don’t), and I see all of the stuff I don’t have in my house and I. Want. It. All. All of a sudden, contentment disappears and greed and desire and coolness trickles in. I want it. I want to buy it. I want a lot of crap. I don’t like that.
  3. HGTV practically ruins me. We don’t have cable (or even Netflix — Dave Ramsey made us cancel it), but when I go to the dentist or to Pennsylvania to visit my in-laws, we watch HGTV. If watching HGTV could produce intoxication in people, I would be fall-down drunk every time I get my teeth cleaned or go to the Keystone state. I especially love “Fixer Upper.” So good. And I go home from the dentist or PA and walk in our house and start mentally demolishing and redesigning with imaginary money we don’t have and the discontentment begins again. I really don’t like that.
  4. I don’t like that sometimes I hear one of my kids needing me and I pretend not to so that Ben will take care of getting milk for Leo, wiping Sam, making eggs for everyone, cleaning up a spill. I despise that in myself.
  5. And there’s this one time at a Starbucks while talking to someone I love that I just totally lost my shit at that person because I was hurting and sad and couldn’t see past my own hurt and sadness. I hate that I did that.

There’s more, but I think I’ll save those things for more truth telling later.  I’m excited that, at the very least, I believe a little more deeply that God digs me.

This summer has been magical and wonderful for a couple mighty reasons — we’re all home as a family, our boys are finally playing together and are so much fun when they’re sweet, and good, and fun. We’ve been dreaming of great and wonderful things we might do together and feel God’s blessing about. We’re excited for new things on the horizon with the upcoming school year as English teachers in new schools. We’re excited to create. And right now I need to go to other big things like thank Ben for giving me the morning off to read and write and compulsively check my Instagram account, and play Legos with Sam, and renovate more rooms of our house in my head, and tuck in tiny Leo feet for naptime.

Those Big Things are the best things.

movies, Scooter Thomas

Scenes From A Rejected Jurassic World Script Featuring A Terrifying New Dinosaur: The Scootersaurus Rex


Coming to a multiplex near you.

I s

Scene: Dr. HENRY WU, chief scientist at InGen, is hunched over a microscope. He is working in his lab while VIC HOSKINS, head of InGen security, hovers over his shoulder. Vials and test tubes cover Wu’s desk. Next to them is a copy of the book The Grumpy Guide To Life.

WU: We’ve isolated the most fearsome traits from several different species in order to create this new hybrid.

HOSKINS: Excellent. I can’t wait to weaponize it and wipe out despotic regimes like the North Koreans and Cincinnati Bell. Tell me — what can it do? Run up to 50 mph? Camouflage itself in the wild? Incapacitate sauropods with its razor-sharp sickle claw?

WU: Well, no. It actually can’t do any of those things.

HOSKINS: It can’t? What can it do then?

WU: It can nap for extended periods of time — in some cases up to twenty-two hours of day.


WU: It has a voracious appetite, compounded by a new wrinkle I just threw in, a variation on the hyperthyroid disease, which allows it to consume massive amounts of food, drink several bowls of water a day, promptly vomit all of that in any location it so chooses, and still manage to leave behind some really foul-smelling excrement that not even Fresh Step Lasting Power litter — you know, the one that clumps and activates carbon to eliminate odor? — can handle.

HOSKINS [sweating]: Dear God.

WU: That’s not all. We dug up Marcel Proust’s grave and extracted his genetic material, then spliced his DNA into this hybrid to create the most erudite, French, condescending creature one could possibly imagine.

HOSKINS: In other words, a monster.

WU: Of the highest order.

HOSKINS: And what are you calling it?

WU: We call it … the Scootersaurus Rex.

HOSKINS soils himself and passes out.


Scene: Dashing animal trainer OWEN GRADY and buttoned-up but plucky female CLAIRE DEARING are alone in Jurassic World, where a Scootersaurus Rex is on the loose. They are walking through a forest. The trainer is holding a gun.

GRADY: What kind of creature did you create that could hide itself from thermal recognition sensors?

DEARING: We used cuttlefish DNA so that it could camouflage itself from its prey, but it’s the tree frog DNA specifically which allows it to remove its own thermal signature. That’s why you were, uh, left for dead back in its holding pen.

GRADY: Yeah, we’ll talk about that later.

DEARING: What do you think our odds are of catching it?

GRADY: Depends. The more I know about how it was made, the better our chances. What else can you tell me about it?

DEARING: Well, it approaches its prey by assuming a supremely condescending pose … tilting its head back, staring down at you through its nose, so to speak. Sometimes holding a snifter of brandy and a cigarillo. Making offhand remarks like, “What did you think of that Economist article about street theater in Bogotá? Oh, that’s right — you subscribe to US Weekly and are still broken up about Bennifer, you intellectual midget.”

GRADY: Sounds like a real menace.

DEARING: You have no idea.

GRADY: So … help me with this part. What I still don’t get is that the park wants to drum up business and increase traffic, so they come up with a brand new attraction — this Scootersaurus Rex, right? But … what exactly is the draw again?

DEARING: Listen, to be honest, something went wrong in the lab. The creature is a complete disaster. If it’s not constantly napping in its pen, it’s regurgitating its food everywhere. I mean everywhere. And its feces could kill a Futalognkosaurus. Which, as you know, are quite large.

GRADY: No wonder this franchise is floundering.


Scene: Night. Two brothers are alone in the woods with the park on shutdown. Scootersaurus Rex could be anywhere. 

OLDER BROTHER: It’s getting late. No search parties will find us now. Let’s set up camp by this stream and pray we see the sun rise tomorrow.

YOUNGER BROTHER: I’m glad this near-death experience has afforded us the opportunity to bond in ways we never did before!


Boys lay down on the ground and close their eyes just as a terrible wailing pierces the night air.

YOUNGER BROTHER: What was that?

OLDER BROTHER: The plaintive cry of the Scootersaurus Rex. It’s like a mournful warble. It’d be almost sad if… if…

YOUNGER BROTHER: …if it wasn’t the most ear-splittingly pathetic sound you’ve ever heard in your life and you were just on the verge of sleep?

OLDER BROTHER: Yes. Exactly.

YOUNGER BROTHER: Too bad we can’t lock him in the basement!

OLDER BROTHER: I hope they don’t put this on the soundtrack, otherwise ear drums will bleed.


Scene: The climactic moment when the Tyrannosaurs Rex and Scootersaurus Rex are doing battle. Four puny, non-CGI humans — GRADY, DEARING, and the BROTHERS — are running about like idiots in what appears to be a sincere effort to get trampled to death. 


SCOOTERSAURUS REX: [looks bemused, licks himself]


SCOOTERSAURUS REX: [lays down, yawns]

DEARING: What will happen?! The suspense is killing me!

GRADY: I’m calling my agent after this shot to remind me why I signed up for this movie. I better be getting serious jack for this.

YOUNGER BROTHER: Will you both be my new parents?


TYRANNOSAURUS REX [confused, looking off-camera for cues]: Um … ROAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRR!

SCOOTERSAURUS REX: [begins gagging, then barfs out a large clump of semi-digested dry cat food]

DEARING: This is terrifying!

SCOOTERSAURUS REX eats her, then puts on his reading spectacles and begins smoking a pipe while perusing a copy of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. TYRANNOSAURS REX throws his twig arms up in disbelief and storms off the set.

YOUNGER BROTHER: We’ll live! Let’s hug!

MOSASAURUS jumps out of the water and devours him. 


books, ReLit

ReLit: Lord of the Flies

This will not end well.


We had some friends over for dinner the other night, and at one point the four adults were upstairs in the kitchen and the four kids, ages two through four, were downstairs in the basement. There was screaming, pounding, and possibly the sound of a power saw being turned on. The adults looked at one another, swirling our glasses of wine and posing in the manner of debonair sophisticates, and said, “Sounds like Lord of the Flies down there,” before returning to a spirited conversation about Freud’s theory of the uncanny. (This last part is not true: Someone did say, “Sounds like Lord of the Flies down there,” then we hurried downstairs, praying we would not see a child tied to a spit and rotating above a makeshift fire with Legos as kindling.)

Such is the hold of William Golding’s 1954 novel upon our collective imagination. (Full disclaimer: Three of the four adults were/are English teachers, but we contend that a remark such as the one above could’ve just as easily been made in an entirely English teacher-free group of adults.) What’s startling about Lord of the Flies when you read it as a parent is that you begin to wonder how your children would fare on that island. Would our boys be a Ralph (oh please oh please)? A Simon? (Gulp.) Anything but a Jack. Or Roger, that cruel blunt instrument of a human being. (Roger, not Jack, is the one who pushes the boulder over the hill that kills Piggy and — symbolism alert! — shatters the conch.) Or that poor nameless littlun with the mulberry scar who we meet early in the novel but who mysteriously wanders off and never appears again.

So why reread a book about kids killing kids … especially if you have kids now yourself? Let’s consider this closely.

What You Probably Remember About Lord of the Flies From High School: When we read Golding’s novel in the early 90s, Battle Royale and The Hunger Games were not on the scene yet, and there was still something a bit shocking about children dying at one another’s hands. (Though we’re fans of The Hunger Games — or at least were up until the dismal conclusion — there’s something far more sinister about kids killing one another in the complete absence of adult supervision. Katniss and her ilk killed because they were driven to it by adults; the boys on the island kill for no reason other than power and cruelty, the breakdown of civilization.)

If you remember any of the kids in particular, our guess is that you remember not the leader of the island — “the boy with fair hair” (Ralph), as the first words of the novel tell us — but rather the boy pictured above: Piggy. (The still is taken from Peter Brook’s 1963 adaptation, a subtle and disturbing little film.) You might remember that Piggy isn’t even his real name — we never find that out. (He is “the fat boy” in the novel’s first pages.) Piggy was what the boys at school used to call him, in his life before the crash; when Ralph accidentally repeats it at an assembly, the nickname sticks.

The truth is, when you think back on high school, we remember the Piggys of the world long after the Ralphs have faded from our memories. There’s something sad, pitiful, but also noble about young Piggy, who is twelve-going-on-forty. He is whiny, yes — but also logical, intelligent, honest and — we know this from the minute we meet him — doomed. A fat kid with glasses and an asthma problem? (“Sucks to your ass-mar!” the other boys taunt him about his condition; the way they speak to one another rings true of pre-adolescent boys, and no doubt Golding’s experience as a teacher helped fine tune his ear.) Nuh-uh, not going to make it.

You may also recall that the boys learn to hunt, and kill a pig (more on this in a second); that there’s one other boy they kill along the way, the Christ-like Simon; that a dead parachutist lands on the island, and the boys mistake him for a “beast”; and that the boys are rescued by a naval officer, who sees them dressed like savages, done up in war paint, running around with a stick sharpened on both ends, and assumes they’ve been engaged in harmless child’s play … despite the fact the island is going up in flames. “Jolly good show. Like the Coral Island,” he says, at which point Ralph breaks down in front of him and the officer realizes something unimaginable has taken place. The novel ends with him looking away, a bit embarrassed, “to give [the boys] time to pull themselves together.”

You might also remember your teacher droning on about how Ralph and Jack embody competing ideas of civilization — democracy vs. totalitarianism, or order vs. chaos, or good vs. evil — and maybe you recall writing an essay at one in the morning about the symbolism of the conch and thinking it was pretty brilliant, until your vindictive, spiteful teacher gave it back to you with her petty red pen marks like death scribbles on your very soul. If so, our deepest sympathies. We are that soulless teacher now, and we say to you: nothing gives us greater pleasure than marking the world in red pen. Nothing.

What We Got From Lord of the Flies The Second Time Around: This is not the same book when you read it in parenthood. The boys are no longer just characters on the page; they have faces and names and personalities, and you cannot help but see your own kids in them, or imagine your child hovering on the fringes of the island assemblies where the firelight is just faint enough to capture his face. Chances are you also have a greater understanding now than you did as a teenager of your own capacity for cruelty, and of human capacity for evil. It’s on the local news every night at eleven.

We also got a fuller understanding of the darkness of Golding’s vision. When that naval officer alludes to “Coral Island,” he’s referencing an 1858 book by R.M. Ballantyne, a Robinson Crusoe-esque adventure about three boys — whose names, Ralph, Jack, and Peterkin, will strike a bell — on a Pacific island. Golding read The Coral Island as a child — indeed, many Brits did, as it was a juvenile classic and appeared on required reading lists. Whereas Ballantyne’s vision was benign, though, Golding’s turns the other way. Golding is not interested in evil from without; in the wake of World War II (Golding fought in the Royal Navy), he explores the evil within. Two examples will suffice:

  1. When Jack and the boys kill the pig, they don’t simply cut its throat or spear it in the belly. They sodomize it (“Right up her ass!”), a point your English teacher was probably happy not to emphasize in class discussions. The violence on the island is more than just physical; it is sexual, mental, spiritual; it is, in other words, total. We’ll refrain from quoting the specific scene here, but read it again and it’s obvious what Golding is doing: he’s writing a rape scene. The boys aren’t just killing this pig for its meat; they’re killing it because of bloodlust, because they want to assert their power.
  2. The pig was a sow. She was a nursing female. So the boys, orphans on this island, have now orphaned native creatures on the island. Lord of the Flies suggests that it’s not just that evil happens to us (a war is taking place in the world beyond the island, and that’s surely why the boy’s plane crashed); it is also that evil happens because of us.

The other white meat.


Then there’s Simon, our Christ-like figure. Any time you’ve got a character wandering off into an Edenic jungle spot to be alone, spouting off about the true nature of the beast (“maybe it’s only us”), and then — this is the key part — getting himself killed as a sacrifice, your Christ Parallel Radar should be going nuts. That’s not too hard to figure out. But what’s most intriguing are the ways Simon is not like Christ. His discovery that “the beast” is actually a dead parachutist — a discovery which has the potential to enlighten the boys and dispel their irrational fears — is his alone; he is killed before he can relay this to the others. Furthermore, his death brings about no atonement or sacrifice. Lord of the Flies offers no easy redemption; Simon is not the way, the truth and the life … he is simply a dead boy, washed out to sea.

Why We Think You Should Give Lord of the Flies A Reread: Because it’s better than its dystopian imitators (we’re thinking The Hunger Games, specifically, but that has its own inferior imitators). Because Stephen King called it “the first book with hands – strong ones that reached out of the pages and seized me by the throat. It said to me, ‘This is not just entertainment; it’s life-or-death.’” Because you miss “Lost” but don’t want to go back and watch all 121 episodes again. Because Lord of the Flies is actually a brisk, straightforward read — written sharply, filled with imagery and symbolism that’s not too complicated nor too simplistic. And so that you can continue making witty references to other parents during playdates, but realize, thankfully, that your basement is actually quite unlike Lord of the Flies.


Tribute To A Father Who Has Forgotten


The man in the photograph above is sixty-seven years old. The boy has just turned three. They are in Bar Harbor, Maine, at the rock beach next to the pier off Agamont Park. It is low tide. One of the things the boy loves about the man is that he can throw rocks — big ones — into the Atlantic Ocean, and he asks him to do this. Repeatedly. Whenever the boy sees a rock of significant size — the bigger the better, be it a boulder or slab of decorative stone on one of the carriage paths in Acadia National Park — he will ask, hypothetically, if the man is capable of throwing it into the ocean, even if the ocean or another body of water is nowhere in sight. The boy mimics the man, throwing rocks of all shapes and sizes into the water. They may have been at this for ten minutes when the picture was taken. They may have been at it for an hour. It is August, 2013, not quite two years ago. It was one of the last moments the man will recognize that he is the boy’s grandfather.

The man is my (Ben’s) father. He is sixty-nine now. Eight years ago, he was in a car accident on his way to work. As a pediatrician, he often drove to work at the wee hours, especially if he was on call. In his early years beginning a new practice, when he was one of just two doctors, he was frequently on call — every other weekend — and sleep for him was a luxury. But on the morning of his accident, he was not on call, nor was he unusually tired. He just blacked out at the wheel. He did not hit anyone else; he simply ran into a telephone pole going about twenty miles an hour. My father, for whom any public attention or recognition was a discomforting thing, was largely embarrassed by this incident. He insisted he was fine. After the accident was the first time he saw a neurologist, and the first identification of gaps in his memory, though they were then short-term, just blips on the radar.

I go back and reread the previous paragraph and see how I refer to my father in the past tense: “My father, for whom any public attention or recognition was a discomforting thing.” That “was” should be an “is,” because that statement is still true. But it’s also not true, in the sense that I can’t say with any certainty if my father is aware anymore when he’s receiving public attention — or even if there’s ever a time when my dad isn’t uncomfortable nowadays, trying to find his way through a landscape where no one’s face (even his wife’s now) is always recognizable, where no place (even his home of thirty-six years) feels comfortable, familiar. In other words, like home.

This is why I catch myself sometimes, when I think or talk about my father as though he is no longer living. In some very practical sense, he is not. When I call to wish him a happy Father’s Day later today, he will not immediately know that I am his son, or why I am calling. My mother, God bless her, will prompt him, and he will figure out how to play along, echoing what she says: an act that used to bother me but which I now understand and accept. She will hold the phone up so he can see my face, but he will not look directly at me — will not understand, even, what the phone is, how I am able to see him and he me on it, and this will make him uncomfortable and cause him to look away, usually down at the ground, speaking to someone he thinks is in the room with him.

At some point during the last few years, I said goodbye to the father who knew me as his son, who had a shared past that included hiking, wiffle ball, watching “The Simpsons” together, bicycling the Beartooth Highway, going to Pirates games and attending my graduation. All those things still happened. I remember them. But he does not.


In the years following his accident, my father began to forget things. He began repeating himself. Though it seemed impossible to me and my brother, who were used to his meticulously planned vacation itineraries which included rising as a family at six a.m. to ascend some peak or bike some trail, he began slowing down. I remember discussing with my mother at some point — this would have been 2009 or 2010 — whether it was safe for him to continue practicing medicine. She worked with him, as a pediatric nurse, and could keep close tabs on him throughout the day. He’s still very sharp, she said. Though he gets tired quicker, she added. Again, this seemed impossible to me … that my father, who biked across the country when I was in ninth grade, dipping his rear tire in the Pacific and, two months later, his front tire in the Atlantic — who was forever a couple steps or paces ahead of me, so that I always seemed to be staring at his back — could run out of steam.

He was still sharp, yes, but nonetheless, he moved retirement up a year. Then things deteriorated quickly. There was another car accident — this one more serious, involving another driver, with my father at fault — and he stopped driving. He got lost, wandering away from our home until he turned up hours later a couple miles down the road, or in the passenger seat of a police car which had picked him up. He stopped bicycling, the thing I was certain he would never stop doing. He became sedentary. He could no longer finish books. Whenever he cannot recall a name, he sticks his tongue out and touches it to the side of his mouth — a tic he can no longer control. He put dish soap in the refrigerator and forgot to wear a shirt underneath his jacket one day to church. When my mother began to help him take his jacket off, she saw his bare chest and said, “Steve, where’s your shirt?” He shrugged. They laughed. (“If you can’t laugh about it, you’ll cry,” she says.) It was Easter.

My father has never been officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. There are many subtle variations of dementia (a catch-all term for a wide variety of symptoms including memory loss and behavioral changes) and it’s hard to pin down what, exactly, my father has. I latch on to Alzheimer’s, if only because it gives me something to call it by; naming it gives me some power over it, when really I know that I have no power over something which has wiped my father’s mind clean, and which may be lurking somewhere in my own genetic make-up, waiting for its time. This is my greatest fear. That one day I will be throwing rocks into the ocean beside a boy who is my grandson, and that may be the last moment I am fully aware of that fact. That Sam or Leo will be watching that scene from afar, wondering what happened to their dad, asking how it came to be that he got erased.


Stephen King was once asked by Terry Gross what scared him. He responded “the supernatural stuff doesn’t get to me anymore,” then described a movie scene which haunted him:

KING: The movie opens with a woman in late middle-age, sitting at a table and writing a story. And the story goes something like, then the branches creaked in the – and she stops, and she says to her husband: What are those things? I can’t think of them. They’re in the backyard, and they’re very tall, and birds land on the branches. And he says, why, Iris, those are trees. And she says, yes, how silly of me. And she writes the word, and the movie starts. That’s Iris Murdoch, and she’s suffering the onset of Alzheimer’s disease.

GROSS: Yeah.

KING: That’s the boogeyman in the closet now.

GROSS: Why is that the thing you’re most afraid of?

KING: I’m afraid of losing my mind.

GROSS: Losing your memory?

KING: Mm-hmm. Well, you don’t just lose your memory. You lose your mind, basically.

GROSS: Yeah.

KING: You lose your identity, your sense of who you are, where you are. If you’re a block away from the house, you may forget how to get home. I think I could put up with a lot of things and a lot of pain. I have put up with a lot of pain. I got hit by a car in 1999 and got most of the bones on the right side of my body broken, and I bore up under that and I got better. But you can’t get better if your mind is stolen away from you.


I am learning to talk to my dad all over again. It used to be that I needed him to understand what I was saying to him. When he stopped understanding, I felt uncomfortable in his presence — a guilty witness to his disease. Over time, I’m learning how to be around him, which is to say I’m learning to be less self-conscious. I am learning that just because he may not understand me doesn’t mean I should stop saying the things a son should say to his father. So moments like this can still happen:

My father and I are playing with Sam and Leo in the driveway. This was the last time my parents came to visit. He becomes flustered by too much busyness and activity; sometimes being around his grandchildren is taxing. But being outside helps everyone. I am struck by how much his illness has made him childlike. Helping him navigate the world is not that different than helping a toddler. A little fussy and agitated? Let’s go outside!

Sam zips around on his bike. He learned on a Strider balance bike. Once he mastered that, it took less than an hour to adjust to a bike with pedals. Although my dad cannot appreciate how Sam’s newfound skill is a sign that he is his grandfather’s son, I appreciate for him. I see three generations of Vores standing together, and I know that while my dad isn’t fully present, he is still physically here.

“Sam loves to bike,” I say. “Just like his Papaw.”

“Oh, is that right? We were just talking about what was going on over there.” He has a number of stock phrases he goes to which bear only a tangential relationship to what’s going on in the moment. He often talks about the weather, traffic, his brother Eric.

“You were a great biker. You bicycled across the country when I was in high school, remember?”

“Oh, sure. Uh-huh. Now that you mention it…”

“I biked with you for two days in Ohio. Had a hard time keeping up, but I did. I still remember that.”

Sam zips by again. He takes one hand off the handlebars at a time, testing his limits.

“I loved biking with you, dad. I was really proud of you.”

“Well, we all did what we could and, you know, I’m not really sure where we’ll be going from here…” He’s talking about going back home to Pennsylvania, although sometimes what he says carries a double meaning. I’m not really sure where we’ll be going from here either, Dad.

Sam passes again, this time with his legs kicked out, feet off the pedals. He’s grinning. I’m grateful, for the moment, that we’re all here together. I am lucky. I still have a dad I can talk to.