Just keeping you up to speed. Wife Jeanne and I went white water rafting July 17, 2025, for a couple of hours on the Deerfield river, in Massachusetts. There were four adventurers on the raft - three old fools and Jeanne. Big nice, blue sturdy, inflatable raft that could hold seven. I should point out, however, no seat belts!

Our guide was in the back, probably 60, and tended a paddle like a rudder. He’s been with this company 14 years. This year alone, so far, he’d come down this five mile stretch maybe forty times. He knows every rock, whirlpool and rapids like the back of his hand. We did a couple Class two rapids and one Class three. I kept remembering Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi, in which he discusses how the steamboat captains have to know every bend, sand bar, obstruction, and safe depth, along every inch of the river.

For you who are woefully uninformed about rapids, Class 2 is just functionally like, in snow skiing, one step up above the bunny slope, and then Class 3 is functionally like, in scouting, earning the rank of Tenderfoot. Or at least it seemed that way. This guide was so good. We were never fearful. The more I think about it, I should not be sneezing at a Class 3 rapids. After all, when all was said and done, the score was: Class 3 Rapids - 1; Doug - 0.

The vertical drop was about 430 feet. Great fun, even when I was thrown from the raft and into the midst of the churning of the Class 3. However, I couldn’t get a grip back on the raft fast enough and then the current, which was substantial, took hold and shunted me downstream, sans raft. I can only credit having lived a life of good, clean christian living, plus always being trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and irreverent, for the fact I wasn’t literally smashed on a few of the boulders. Clearly the current could have had its way with me, had it any malice toward me.

When Ms. Jeanne first turned about, happened to notice my empty seat, gazed out upon the churning waters and espied me, she claims I looked fearful. This I deny. That was, in truth and in fact, a look of total bewilderment as I tried to figure out, “Wha just happened?”, “how did I end up in this fine predicament, (Ollie)?” and then tried to assess my next moves and strategy.

Long story short, another raft down-stream got me after I’d only been in the water for maybe 15 seconds. I emerged and clambered onto Raft 2, safe and sound, with nary a scratch or bruise. It may have been almost two minutes later in a raft 2 before I began to appreciate that the outcome could have been much worse. Much, much worse. Before that, as I got seated in Raft 2, but I was still in a state of complete befuddlement - a 'DUH' frame of mind.

Now, I must admit to a sense of disillusionment when Raft 2 offered to get me back to Raft 1 and my beloved wife, Jeanne, only to hear from said raft they didn’t want me back. I'm given to understand that the 'No' vote was unanimous.

We landed shortly thereafter.

Great fun, in all. The white water rafting expedition was my idea, a gift to Jeanne to celebrate her birthday which was coming up in a couple of weeks. She was verrry apprehensive about the rafting, quite conscious that dangers can lurk about in such adventures. Naturally, and I’m afraid characteristically, I poo-poohed her concerns. I mean, 'what bad could possibly happen out on a white water cruise?'

On Saturday, we had just seen, again, Little Big Man (Dustin Hoffman as the 121 year old Indian fighter Jack Crab, narrating how he was the sole survivor of Little Big Horn), and ultimately Jeanne resolved her fears by saying, alá Old Lodge Skins, that, “It’s a good day to die.”

All in all? A good day to live.