When was the last time you received an apology that really hit home? A few weeks ago, I think I did. Dad was over for another session of foam rolling, still holding the title of tightest man alive. Surprised he hasn't imploded, I actually found myself enjoying the company, basking in an opportunity to stroke my inner child and show Dad how smart I am.

The topic changed to my brother and his recent employment issues working the front desk at a gym they both are belong to. He was reprimanded for the third time about his sugar going low, a constant issue for him, and in a preemptive strike, he quit.

I asked Dad, "What does he intend to do when he graduates?" To which he replied, "Go for a Master's degree, I think, although I think he'll have trouble getting a job with his insulin problems."

"Never mind that, he won't even get a second interview with his felonies."

"Yeah, you mentioned how hard it's been for you." His facial expression goes from blank to grimace as he rolls his IT band.

"Hard? Try damn near impossible. I can't even get in the door for a counseling job. They wouldn't even let me sweep the floors of a rehab. And he wants to work in healthcare? Good luck."

By now he's moved onto his thoracic and looks like an ironing board trying to balance on the roller, "Hold on, Dad, I need to modify this," I grab a towel, roll it up, and exchange it for the roller. All conversation ceases while the tries to bend his spine over the cushy towel.

"I'm getting nauseous," he says, rolling onto his side. Usually my clients go pale on me but Dad's Twilight complexion makes it hard to tell.

"Just take it slow."

He tries again with the same result, "Nope, I think I have to stop."

"Okay. I've never seen a thoracic so tight before. Next time we'll see how tight those rotator cuffs are. I'm betting they're like drums." I say, walking into the kitchen.

"Well, I appreciate you showing me this, son, got time for lunch?" he asks.

I check the clock, "Sure."

"Then I can drive you into work." he offers.

"Sounds great."

"You really think it's going to be that hard for him to find a job?" he asks somberly.

"Next to impossible, I'm afraid."

Like a thunderbolt hand delivered by Zeus, he says, "Geez, I'm sorry, Bry, this is all my fault."

"What is?" I ask, taken totally off guard while I fish through the cabinet for my keys.

"The robberies, they were all my fault."

I close the cabinet door as if to capture the reverberations and maybe play them later for Rachel. I pretend the admission doesn't knock the giant chip off my shoulder. I quell the desire to leap, jig, or otherwise break down, grab a rolling pin, and knock him senseless for taking twelve years to own up.

We go to lunch and talk, like a father and son.

Later, working out between clients, I text Rach, knowing she'll calculate the magnitude. I go to contacts in my cell and press the appropriate letter to bring up Damdams (One of many aliases I have for her including but not limited to: poodams, poodamacious knid, and our personal fav---rara). I texted: "Dad said sorry for the robberies and said it was all his fault," and sent it off.

A few seconds later, Darth Vader's labored breathing (Dad's ringtone) sings through my cell. Instantly, I realized my faux pas. My Freudian slip complete, I sent the text to the wrong contact. Instead of Damdams, my brain selected Dad. Panicked, I start pacing the gym floor. I couldn't recall the text, nor could I ignore the call. I dialed him back.

"Sent the text to the wrong person, ey son?" He asks.

"Dad, you have no idea how long I've waited for you to say that."

"Why?"

"Obvious reasons."

"Well, I'm glad I did the right thing."

"Me too."

Life Lessons

Few other jobs lend themselves to bouts of self righteousness the way personal training did to me. I'd been in gyms most of my adolescent and adult life and got certified as a trainer because it complimented my schedule as a full time student.

I started out at The Evil Empire: Bally's, in my hometown of Peabody, and like many newly certified trainers, I was stricken with an obnoxious self righteousness. I became unteachable, insufferable. In short, a fool who spoke more than listened. Unhappy with their policies and sub par trainers, I started looking for another job.

I applied to The Sports Club LA and during the initial interview, a sharply dressed woman led me to a walk-in closet and handed me a stack of paper. One was an application. The other, an anatomical map with lines pointing to the muscles they wanted me to name. I failed not only the test but also the chance to realize that wisdom doesn't come from what you know, it spawns from the humility of knowing that you don't know.

On my way home I read an ad in the paper for Gold's Gym and went straight from the train to drop off a resume. The woman at the desk interviewed me on the spot and said she'd like me to meet the owners.

I met with them the next day and they offered me a position as an assistant manager. One Saturday after closing I took one last walk on the floor. To my surprise, I found a member standing on the cardio deck, between machines, walking in place while staring at her feet.

I asked, "Did you know that we closed about fifteen minutes ago?"

No answer.

I moved closer and spoke louder, "Excuse me, Miss, are you okay?"

She looked at me and said, "Yes, I'm fine."

I asked her again if she knew we were closed. She said, "Oh, no I didn't."

I wanted to run and call an ambulance but was worried she'd pass out, so I asked, "Do you know where you are?"

She pondered, then said, "No."

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Monday?" she replied.

"Close. Do you know what year it is?" I asked.

"No."

"How about the president, do you know who the president is?" I asked, trying to keep her talking.

"Johnson?"

I ran for the phone, called 911, and dropped the receiver knowing they'd come. I made a beeline for the vending machine that spit out my sugary selection. Still conscious, she took the drink and sipped hesitantly.

"How do you feel?" I asked.

"Funny."

"Do you know what city you're in?"

"No."

The ambulance showed. She started answering some of the questions correctly but still got obvious ones wrong. They took her to the hospital and kept her for observation, discovering that her electrolytes were dangerously low. Life presented a chance to familiarize me with its fragility, but instead I walked away thinking the woman was an idiot.

Not long afterward, I received a call from an elderly man looking for a personal trainer who could come to his apartment. He wanted me to train his wife, who was experiencing periodic losses of balance and consequently had suffered devastating falls. When I met her, she had a shiner that covered half of her face.

She was 95, frail, and could barely walk without a walker. He had suffered his second heart attack and was worried that he wouldn't be able to help her if she fell again. We used the equipment in the apartment building's basement.

She admitted to me while looking out the window into the courtyard, "I'm ready."

"To be done?" I asked, thinking I worked her too hard.

Her eyes glossed over, "To go," she said, "I've lived a full life. I've traveled, raised a wonderful daughter, had a successful marriage. Look at me. I can barely walk. I've become a burden. It's time for me to go. If it wasn't for Joe, I'd go now," she said, as if she could flick a switch. It was an example of how to face death with integrity, but instead I still obsess over death's inevitability.

I walked into Equinox last summer, humbled not by the prospect of working with the cream of the crop, but more by its location, knowing what passed for excellence in Boston far exceeded anything in the suburbs. In the classes Equinox paid me to attend, I faded, listening to less than half of what some of the greatest minds in fitness were trying to teach.

With lagging sales and dismal paychecks, I started looking for a different job, thinking yet again of a geographical cure for ignorance. Instead, I laid down my arms, picked up a foam roller, then bought a few sessions from the best selling trainer in the company, hoping to learn from his knowledge and experience. Maybe after forty years I'm learning to listen, instead of lusting after the sound of my own voice.

German Potato Bread

4 cups of flour
4 cups of potato
1 tablespoon of salt
2 tablespoons of dry yeast
1 egg
1/2 cup of hot water

Peel and slice potatoes and place in a heavy saucepan covered with salted water. Bring to a boil and simmer for ten minutes or until the potatoes are soft. Set aside to cool. Combine flour, salt, and yeast in a bowl. (You can activate the yeast by putting it in a half cup of heated water 115-125 degrees. I tried this and think my yeast was bad, but the bread still came out awesome).

Place potatoes in a ricer. (It makes them more blendable than mashing). Mix potatoes, flour, and egg and let sit for 30 minutes. On a well floured surface, mix the dough one more time by hand, shape onto a baking sheet. Preheat oven to 450. Place bread on center rack and spray oven with water before closing (this gives the bread a nice crunchy crust). Move bread to bottom rack for another 30 minutes. Enjoy...

Supah Soakah

Mom mounted bird feeders along the rail just outside the French doors so she could watch them feed. With each passerby, seeds fell to the ground, "They do that on purpose, for the ground feeders, so they can eat too."

"Why can't they just go to the feeder?" I asked. The question revealed my feelings on bird feeders, they were stupid, so I resumed watching MTV's Real World.

Another time she screeched, "Oh my god, there's one right there, Bryan look!" waking me from a midday nap.

Pissed the house wasn't ablaze, I snapped, "What is it?!"

"Its an Icterus galbula, a Baltimore Oriole, they only come around once a year and its extremely hard to get them to come to feed." She was beaming, fishing through the basket next to her barcalounger for the binoculars. She could sit reclined for hours, sipping Folgers and smoking while leafing through The Audubon Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America.

"Yeah, Ma, that's great, let me know if any pterodactyls show up to feed, I'll let the cat in," I said, rolling over.

She spent countless hours in the yard, tending to the ducks, feeding the bunnies, and weeding the herb garden our cat Dizzy spent most of his time in because of the fresh catnip. At any given time neighborhood felines could be seen lounging there, pie eyed.

Mom wanted me to share in what her new home allowed her that our city home didn't. Plus, drunk half the time, she had little time to enjoy these trivial luxuries. Squirrels were the bane of her existence. They'd climb down from their perch, high in the trees, enact a move known only to gymnasts and contortionists, and feed, upside down, on birdseed. This made Mom furious, and me giggle, for it was then her anger would spew in an array of profanity the likes I've never heard.

"You God damn, mother fucking, shit bag, diseased vermin, get the fuck off my porch!" she'd scream as she marched toward the porch, sending the rodents scattering, along with anything else within earshot.

One day she noticed my super soaker, one of the few things left after I sold all my possessions to coke dealers. "Does that thing shoot far?" she asked. I knew instantly her intentions. "Mum, seriously, you're starting to scare me," I said.

My brother and I stole the super soaker from Toys-R-Us and used it to soak the unsuspecting drivers we sat next to at traffic lights. Kev pulled up, I soaked them, and we'd watch as they stuck their hand out to see if it was raining.

Her search for better pest protection came after she wrote multiple letters to the bird feeder company that claimed their product was Squirrel Proof. In response, they sent her the: VARI-CRAFTS VCSBF1 Bouncer, a feeder that resembled a tiny Fort Knox, designed to shake off squirrels so that lighter, winged creatures could feast without interruption. It failed. The VCSBF1 bouncer was no match for hungry squirrels. To his credit, Dizzy tried to catch them but ultimately failed. His depth perception may have been impaired--the squirrels easily traversed the frail branches, but Dizzy went plummeting toward the ground.

Mom used the soaker to scare off rodents. Our screen door was constantly soaked where she'd blast "those God damn squirrels" with hot water. It wasn't long before an air pumped BB gun showed up, the origin of which I chose not to ask about. But lest she fancy BB sized holes in her screen, she had to open it before firing. The noise alerted the squirrels, who were always faster than she. So, as with any creature hell bent on survival, she learned to live with them.

One day, as I sat watching Danger Mouse on Nickelodeon, something caught my eye. It looked like a dragonfly buzzing around one of Mom's feeders...until I realized it was a hummingbird. (dragonflies don't move like harrier jets). It zigged left, rose high above the feeder, then zagged like, 'A bat outta hell,' as Mom would say. I scrambled for the binoculars and waited with baited breath. A few minutes later it returned. I froze, scared to move for fear it would spell out 'haha' in jagged movements and blast off. But it stayed and fed and was beautiful.

From that point on, one of us called to the other, "Come quick! There's a Red-winged Blackbird outside on the feeder." The overpriced $80 feeder we'd been suckered into buying had worked, magnifying our excitement.

She instilled in me a greater appreciation for the finer things in life that don't necessarily sparkle, but that leave an indelible mark nonetheless.