You almost died. Shouldn't you be crying?

It happened exactly thirty years ago—Saturday morning, February 27, 1982, sometime between 7:30 and 8:00.

I'm going to tell you a story, but the thing is, I'm not sure it really is a story.

Stories generally have a beginning, middle and ending—this one has no ending and the climax occurred at the beginning.

Stories usually proceed along an ordered series of occurrences—in this case, each event spewed sloppily from a tangled mass of chaos and splattered, exposed on the slowly thawing asphalt.

My two college roommates and I shared a few traits back then, the most glaring of which was our communal naivete. Three worldly nineteen-year-olds, having never skied, had convinced ourselves of an exceptional aptitude to learn in the course of a few runs down the bunny hill and quickly advance to the more difficult challenges.

Whether the product of sound reasoning or youthful folly, we'd never find out.

Having opted to rent our equipment Friday night in Seattle rather than the more expensive ski fare at the resort area, we hurried back to the dorm room to try on our toys. Gary was first to cinch on his boots, surprised and amused at his lack of mobility when circling the small living room.

Mike briefly left and returned barefoot, clutching a roll of wool socks to achieve a more realistic feel for his dry run.

As our planet is divided between those who employ the "sock-shoe, sock-shoe" method and the others who roll with the "sock-sock, shoe-shoe routine," Mike revealed his preference, propping one fully socked and booted foot onto a chair as his other naked foot chilled below.

Shifting most of his weight onto his booted foot to wrench the buckles, the plastic shoe slid with a shuddering spasm off the chair and planted its heel into his exposed big toe nail.

Mike howled as crimson filled the underside of the nail and swelled the surrounding flesh. He hopped and swore, executing a highly-choreographed river dance of profanity.

His injury, necessitating an emergency treatment at University Hospital not uncommon to medieval barbers, had scratched Mike from our inaugural ski trip even before he could model that second boot. Trying his best to assuage our guilt through the fog of pain medication, he prodded us to embark without him.

And so we did. Early the following morning, Gary and I schlepped our rented skis, boots and tire chains to his Mustang which sat frozen in the parking lot down the hill from our high rise dormitory. The car fishtailed slightly as we accelerated onto the interstate and ascended the Cascade foothills into the mountains.

The sun projected a crystalline sparkle onto the lightly traveled road, buoying our spirits as we approached the ski area. Looming high above the tall snow drifts which obscured the shoulder and rendering any distinction between road and non-road impossible, an electronic sign proclaimed chains mandatory.

Gary pulled the Mustang as far off the freeway as he could. We exited the car and assessed our proximity to passing traffic which was uncomfortably close due to the snowdrift-clogged shoulders. We decided that Gary should pull forward about twenty feet to a slightly wider off-road space.

Remaining outside while Gary maneuvered forward, I noted a small, maroon pickup truck pulling off into our previous position. Gary crouched with the chains at the rear driver's side tire while I gazed down.

The last thing I remember before it happened was how cold the pavement smelled.

And the sound of a horn, low and close.

I looked up and absorbed it with calm clarity—no panic, not even an adrenaline boost.

The pickup driver was standing behind his door. He was looking right at me when the school bus hit him. But it looked like a light tap in the back. He'll be okay.

Gary and I pressed against the side of our car as the bus approached us; no escape. The huge vehicle skidded to a stop, pinning us against the car. My hands rested on the coach's grill, its driver gazing down upon me with a dreamy glaze.

So calm for a moment.

And then the screams. From Gary. From the kids in the bus. Oh my God, someone else was in the pickup and she's holding a little dog. She's screaming, too. Why is everyone screaming?

I looked down again. The man whom I believed the bus had barely nudged lay behind our bumper, next to the bus's front tire, his head flattened and bloody. His body formed a triangle with the bus and the car, enclosing Gary and me as if we were huddling for a touch football game.

Further mayhem. People. Everywhere. A man attempted CPR on the lifeless body, finally rising up, his blood-caked face betraying a mask of horror and heroism.

At length, my paralysis subsided and I extracted myself from the triangle, walking alone down the side of the freeway. I stared up at the brilliant blue morning sky and gazed directly into the sun.

You can go blind. I don't care.

You almost died.

If you hadn't moved the car, you'd be dead and not that guy with the girl with the dog.

You're only nineteen. You can't die. Oh, yeah? You almost did, you idiot.

Should you be crying? Should you be screaming? Should you be freaking out like everyone else is?

I don't know.

What if Mike hadn't hurt his toe? Would he have been killed?

I don't know. I'll never know.

You almost died. Did God have something to do with this? I don't know. Why would he kill that guy and not you? I don't know. Maybe he likes you better. Why should he?

It was thirty years ago. The last thing I remember is looking at the dead man's glasses. They were embedded into a pink slush which seeped out from the triangle as the morning temperature rose. It looked like a cherry Slurpee.

Like I said, this story has no ending.

Did Joan Collins watch CHIPs? Probably.

Over this past Easter weekend, a couple of occurrences threw my almost-50-year-old tukus into the wayback machine (And just as a side-note, my nine-year-old daughter told me, "Dad, you have the legs of a teenager, but your body looks super old.").

Actor John Forsythe passed away Thursday at the age of 92. Most of us remember him for his role as the sleazy oil tycoon, Blake Carrington, in the series, Dynasty, from 1981 until 1989. Dynasty was one of many highly successful nighttime soap operas which followed the exploits of the rich, famous and underhanded in their quests for even greater wealth and power. 1980s prime time television thrived on these dramas, which also included Dallas, Falcon Crest and Knots Landing. The scripts were...well... scripted, and didn't employ any sort of real-life dialogue. But then again, that was the point—no one cared to watch a "real-life" situation.

We wanted fantasy, which is why shows like Fantasy Island, Love Boat and The Six Million Dollar Man were so popular. We thirsted for Vaudevillian variety formats, and hence programs like The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour, The Carol Burnett Show, Tony Orlando and Dawn and The Donny and Marie Show exploded onto the scene during the 1970s and 80s.

Naturally, cop shows have thrived throughout television history, but today's offerings seem to be more about initials, like CSI, SVU, and NCIS. They project onto our screens like music videos, with deep, brooding blue shadows and beautiful, scowling, well dressed detectives. Shock value is a major ingredient, and no investigation is complete without the corpse of a splayed out ex-stripper on the autopsy table for all to examine.

Police dramas didn't formerly portray all of that realism. TJ Hooker, played by one of my favorites, William Shatner, was more interested in writing some babe a speeding ticket and then collecting the fine in his bachelor pad. The two guys on CHIPs wore their motorcycle cop pants so tight that Eric Estrada could've steered his bike and used his radar gun at the same time, if you know what I mean.

Something else I saw this weekend made me even more nostalgic then any of the aforementioned formats. My family and I have been bellying up to the Life series on the Discovery Channel every Sunday night. These shows are spectacular; each episode devotes itself to a different classification of wildlife, from birds to cats to fish to reptiles. It's narrated by Oprah Winfrey, and spans the globe to document some of the most breathtaking natural environments and animal behaviors.

Watching this series, I could only hearken back to another Sunday night nature show during the 1960s and 70s, Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, hosted by a kindly, grandfatherly man named Marlin Perkins. Mr. Perkins opened each program in his studio, pointing to a globe and describing the adventure we were about to witness. At this point, we were whisked off to the location, usually somewhere in Africa, as Marlin and his assistant, Jim, traversed a dusty savanna in a jeep as several bushmen jogged alongside. I'm still not sure why they weren't allowed to ride in the jeep as well. We'd usually cut ahead in time, as Jim wrestled some sort of large reptile in a muddy swamp, while Marlin assessed and described the situation from the safety of the jeep. Eventually, Jim would shoot the beast with a tranquilizer dart, the bushmen would load it onto the vehicle and they would drive off to...somewhere else. Then Marlin would try to talk our parents into purchasing Mutual of Omaha insurance. Come on, Jim had it and look how he spent his time.

Wild Kingdom didn't possess all of the majestic cinematography that today's shows on the Discovery Channel or Animal Planet so vividly do, but it gave us suburban kids a look at regions of the earth  outside of the Seattle/Tacoma/Tukwila region.

We still may not have known where Botswana was on a map, but we could successfully load and fire a tranquilizer rifle.

Anatomy of a blogger: break it down

Over my past 92 posts to Reflections of a shallow pond, I've deciphered a few patterns in the topics I expound upon. The reason I started writing this manifesto in the first place was to document the escapades of my family, especially the kids. How often do we parents hear, "Oh, you need to write that down. If you don't, you'll forget about the time your daughter made a twelve-room castle out of cardboard and duct tape, or how the other daughter longed to drink a 'crappuccino'?"

I didn't expect to burst at the seams with ideas, to be giddy about writing this life log, but it's really turned into a fun outlet. And even though I had no pre-meditated format, the themes can be narrowed down to:

1) Family and kids.
2) Recollections of my youth.
3) Stories of everyday experiences.
4) Opinions about social issues and pop culture.

I think we all reach a time in our lives when our concept of the future begins to narrow and the past bursts wide open. I feel like I've been driving through the industrial area of my life and stumbled upon a massive warehouse, containing pallets of experiences and anecdotes. And here's the best part—someone just taught me how to drive the forklift.

I'm 47 years old. When I hear myself talk, I hear the voice of a twenty-year-old, warming up in the on-deck circle for life. Then I gaze upon my gray-whiskered face in the mirror, and wonder, "Why is the Quaker Oats guy staring back at me?" I'll see a picture of a criminal or celebrity in the newspaper and think, "He's got to be at least ten years older than I am." As it turns out he's three years younger.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself here. Oh, no. In fact, it's quite the opposite. This blog has been a cathartic, personal journey. It has illuminated the true richness of life. Thanks for listening.