Flipper

On my recent trip to the Bay Area, I stayed with my new friend Emily in Bel Marin Keys, an area I had never been to before in the town of Novato (Marin County). The development of 700 homes consists of waterways and open space, bounded by tidal wetlands. One might have guessed they were in Florida rather than the Golden State--everything said lagoons, the tropics, the Caribbean to me...

The view from my friend's deck brought back great memories of one of my most favorite TV shows: Flipper. I kept expecting to see Sandy and Bud on the dock in front of the house, throwing fish to their beloved dolphin friend Flipper. And Porter Ricks showing up soon after in his Boston Whaler type skiff...If you are nostalgic and loved the TV series as much as me and my sister Judy did, have a look at a few of these episodes and tell me about it in the comments...

Sailor Bud Episode

The White Dolphin

What Happened to the Cast

Touching Story About Forgiveness

Found this story on facebook in several feeds. It is long but if you take the time, I guarantee it will touch you. It had me crying in the middle of my JetBlue flight back to Boston but in a good way because in the end, in the light of unbelievable tragedy and pain, it all comes down to forgiveness…

Today, that biker rolled up again—the one who sent my boy to the ICU—and for a split second, murder crossed my mind..Forty-seven days. Forty-seven days since Jake, my twelve-year-old boy, got hit crossing the street. Forty-seven days in a coma. And for forty-seven days, this biker—this stranger who destroyed my life—sat in that hospital room chair like he had any right to be there.

I didn't know his name for the first week. The police told me a motorcycle struck my son. They told me the rider stayed at the scene, called 911, did CPR until the ambulance arrived. They told me he wasn't speeding, wasn't drunk, that Jake ran into the street chasing a basketball.

But I didn't care about any of that. Someone on a motorcycle hit my boy, and my boy wasn't waking up.

The doctors said Jake's brain was swelling. They said we had to wait. They said coma patients sometimes hear everything around them, that we should talk to him, play his favorite music, remind him why he needed to come back.

I couldn't do it. Every time I looked at Jake with those tubes and machines, I broke down.

But this biker—this man I'd never met—he talked to my son every single day.

I first saw him on day three. I walked into Jake's room and found this huge bearded guy in a leather vest sitting next to my son's bed. He was reading out loud from a book. Harry Potter. Jake's favorite.

"Who the hell are you?" I'd demanded.
The man stood up slowly. He was maybe fifty-five, sixty. Big guy, probably 6'2", patches all over his vest. "My name is Marcus," he said quietly. "I'm the one who hit your son."

I lunged at him. I don't even remember doing it. Hospital security pulled me off before I could land more than one punch.

"You need to leave," the head nurse told him. "Right now. We'll call the police if you come back."

But he did come back. The next day. And the day after that.

The hospital couldn't legally ban him from the building. And my wife—God help me—my wife Sarah told them to let him stay. "He wants to be here," she said. "And Jake needs all the support he can get."

I couldn't believe she was defending him. "He PUT Jake in that coma!"

"It was an accident," she said, crying. "The police report said so. Jake ran into the street. Marcus did everything right. He stayed. He helped. He's been visiting every day because he cares."

I didn't want to hear it. As far as I was concerned, Marcus being there was torture. Every time I saw him, I saw the moment my son's life got destroyed. Finally one day, I decided to finish him and pulled out my .. gun from my jacket pocket. My hands were shaking, my vision blurred with rage. Marcus was there again, hunched over Jake's bed, his deep voice murmuring the words of *Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire*. He didn't see me at first, didn't notice the way I stepped closer, finger hovering over the trigger.

But then Sarah walked in. She froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. "No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, no. Not like this."

Her words hit me like a splash of cold water. I looked at Jake—my boy, so small and fragile amid the beeps and whirs of the machines. What was I doing? If I pulled that trigger, I'd be the one destroying everything. I'd lose Sarah, lose myself, and Jake... Jake would wake up to a world without his dad.

I lowered the gun, stuffing it back into my pocket before anyone else could see. Marcus turned then, his eyes meeting mine. There was no fear in them, just a deep, weary sadness. "I get it," he said softly. "If it were my kid, I'd feel the same. But I swear to you, I never meant for this to happen."

I sank into the chair across from him, my legs giving out. For the first time, I really looked at him—not as the monster I'd built in my head, but as a man. His vest had patches from veteran groups, a faded American flag, and one that said "Ride Safe." His hands, rough and scarred, held the book like it was something precious.

"Why do you keep coming back?" I asked, my voice raw.

Marcus closed the book gently. "Thirty years ago, I lost my own boy. Drunk driver hit us on the highway. I was riding with him on the back of my bike. He didn't make it. I did. Been carrying that guilt ever since." He paused, swallowing hard. "When I saw Jake lying there in the street, it was like seeing my son all over again. I couldn't just walk away. I had to try to make it right, even if it meant facing you every day."

I didn't know what to say. All those weeks, I'd seen him as the enemy, but he was just another father haunted by what-ifs. Sarah came over, placing a hand on my shoulder, and we sat there in silence for a while, the three of us united in our vigil.

That night, something shifted. I started talking to Jake myself, sharing stories from his Little League games, promising we'd go to the Grand Canyon like we'd always talked about. Marcus joined in, telling tales of his road trips, the places he'd seen on his bike. Sarah played Jake's favorite playlist—Queen, The Beatles, even some silly kids' songs that made us all chuckle through the tears.

On day fifty-two, Jake's eyes fluttered open. Just like that. The doctors called it a miracle, but I knew better. It was the voices, the stories, the love that pulled him back. He was weak, confused at first, but when he saw us—me, Sarah, and yes, Marcus—his face lit up. "Dad? Mom? Who's the big guy?"

We laughed, really laughed, for the first time in months. Marcus knelt down, eye-level with Jake. "I'm Marcus, kid. The one who helped you out when you chased that ball. Glad you're back."

Jake recovered slowly but surely. Physical therapy, check-ups, the works. And Marcus? He became part of the family. Turned out he was a retired mechanic, so he fixed up Jake's bike (the pedal kind) and taught him some basic road safety—stuff every kid should know. I even went on a ride with him once, wind in my face, feeling a bit of the freedom he talked about.

The biker who put my son in the hospital showed up again today, but this time, it was for Jake's thirteenth birthday party. He brought a cake shaped like a motorcycle and a stack of new Harry Potter books. And me? I didn't want to kill him. I wanted to thank him—for staying, for caring, for reminding me that accidents don't define us, but what we do after them does.

Life's too short for grudges. We've got a lot of road ahead, and now, we're riding it together.

Carl Sandburg Poem
Oz Pearlman

A FATHER TO HIS SON
by Carl Sandburg

A father sees his son nearing manhood.
 What shall he tell that son?
 "Life is hard; be steel; be a rock."
 And this might stand him for the storms
 and serve him for humdrum monotony
 and guide him among sudden betrayals
 and tighten him for slack moments.
 "Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy."
 And this too might serve him.
 Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
 The growth of a frail flower in a path up
 has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
 A tough will counts. So does desire.
 So does a rich soft wanting.
 Without rich wanting nothing arrives
 Tell him too much money has killed men
 and left them dead years before burial:
 the quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
 has twisted good enough men
 sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
 Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
 Tell him to be a fool every so often
 and to have no shame over having been a fool
 yet learning something out of every folly
 hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
 thus arriving at intimate understanding
 of a world numbering many fools.
 Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
 and above all tell himself no lies about himself
 whatever the white lies and protective fronts
 he may use against other people.
 Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
 and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
 Tell him to be different from other people
 if it comes natural and easy being different.
 Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
 Let him seek deep for where he is born natural.
 Then he may understand Shakespeare
 and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
 Michael Faraday and free imaginations
 Bringing changes into a world resenting change.
 He will be lonely enough
 to have time for the work
 he knows as his own.
Courtesy Family Friend Poems

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About The Author

New York City based contemporary artist, Pam Smilow, began writing the creative lifestyle blog “things we love” in an effort to foster a sense of community during times of isolation and reflection. To read more about her and her art, visit her website and check out the essay written by Frank Matheis entitled The Sophisticated Innocence of Pam Smilow.