There I was, on vacation, down at the lake with some high school classmates, watching the sunset and catching up on 30+ years of life. I was slugging down diet Mountain Dews while they drank Bud. Being 12 years sober, I was (and always am) the designated driver.

But after two Mountain Dews I could not drive. The 23-year-old Saab convertible I was driving would not start. Apparently, I left something on – probably the stereo. I stood silent on the dirt road as one classmate – now a prominent lawyer – and another classmate – a successful business owner – tried to jump the damn thing.

Seeing as how I was the only sober member of the Class of 77 trying to start the damn thing, I though about offering to RTFM (Read The Freakin’ Manual) and do it myself. However, I have spent enough time around men and beer to know when to shut up.

I’m not sure I know what any of this means or if it means anything at all.

I am on vacation. I am back home – a home where I have not lived for decades. Still, it feels more like home than any other place I have ever lived. It’s in southwest Michigan, about 30 minutes from “The Big Lake” – Lake Michigan.

There are memories here. Some good. Some very bad. Many, many memories – I am sure. I am trying very hard to remember. For some reason – and my therapist has many – I have very, very little memory of my childhood. Many of the memories I still have stir up “icky” feelings. That’s the best way to describe them. Icky.

I have nothing against oily pelicans or dead turtles. My heart breaks for them. I wince when I see their photos and I applaud the remarkable rescuers who care for and clean them.

We all want to run out and by a bottle of Dawn and start washing birds. But can we please pay as much attention to the humans devastated by the BP oil spill disaster? What have we done to help the people along the gulf?