I'm back. At least temporarily.

As I wrote in my last blog, I'm running out of good stories from my life and career. But I'm still going to write when and if my lapsing memory comes to life. And that is exactly what has happened.

In the fall of 2000, Judy's mother and aunt were both in crisis mode.

Her mom, mid-80's and attempting to recover from head injuries suffered in an automobile accident, was in a suburban rehab facility north of Chicago. Judy's Aunt Irene, then 92, still sharp mentally, was dealing with the ravages of age on her body and was in a rehab hospital on the north side of Chicago, about 20 miles away.

Although both were in recovery mode, it was apparent that neither of them was going to be able to move back to their apartments and live by themselves.

Judy and I made an executive decision to bring them to North Carolina, where we were living, and find a suitable assisted living home for the two of them.

We had been trying for years to get one or both of them to move near us - or even move in with us. But neither Mom nor Aunt Rene, as she was known to us, wanted to leave Chicago and their independent way of life. Now, they really had no choice.

The logistics were formidable, but I had five weeks of vacation coming and the racing season was about to end, giving us a window to close down their Chicago apartments and get the ladies moved to Raleigh.

We informed Mom and Aunt Rene or our plans and, surprisingly, neither raised any objections. It was clear to them that this was the right way to go at this point.

Immediately after the NASCAR banquet in New York City the first week of December, we flew to Chicago and began the arduous task of getting them moved.

The logistics were formidable.

Each day, we would drive between the two rehabs, visiting the ladies and letting them know what we were accomplishing. Making things more difficult than the hour-long drive in Chicago traffic was the weather. The last month of 2000 turned out to the snowiest December on record and also one of the coldest.

Mom's apartment was pretty easy to close down. She was a meticulous person and the place was pristine. The furniture she was not taking, we sold or gave away. And we culled through the clothes and knickknacks, keeping only what we thought was important.

Aunt Rene's apartment was a different story. At 92, her eyesight was about shot and her legs were giving out on her. She never had been much of a housekeeper - working for years as a book keeper and marrying Uncle Irv late in life.

Her apartment, in a high-rise building on the north side of Chicago, was a disaster. One drawer in the kitchen was filled with odds and ends and cockroaches. A lot had to be simply thrown away.

What could be salvaged of clothes, kitchen gadgets and furniture was to be given to the Salvation Army. We set up an appointment to have it picked up. 

The truck arrived and the guy came to the door of Aunt Rene's apartment. He looked around with a jaundiced eye and said, "Nope, we don't take most of this stuff. You'll have to get rid of it somewhere else."

Judy and I just looked at each other in shock as the guy turned heel and headed for the elevator.

I called the Salvation Army office and talked to a supervisor, who said they were using ex-cons to help the drivers load and unload their trucks and that some of them didn't really want to work. He sent them back and, this time, the first guy and the driver of the truck grudgingly and with dirty looks took away everything.

To keep from being overwhelmed by the job we had taken on, Judy and I decided to try to eat a different ethnic meal each night, taking advantage of Chicago's wonderful array of neighborhood restaurants. We ate Chinese, Mexican, Italian, Mediterranean, Thai, Filipino, Indian and more. It was a highlight of a very difficult time.

We had been in Chicago about 10 days when I got an unexpected call that almost changed our lives completely.

I answered the phone and the voice on the other end said, "Hey, Mike. This is Jim Hunter. How would you like to come work for NASCAR?"

The stock car organization, based in Daytona Beach, FL, had been suffering some pr setbacks and was dealing with an often adversarial relationship with some of the writers and broadcasters who regularly covered the races.

"We're looking for a fresh perspective and somebody who can better relate to the media," said Hunter, the head of the pr department. "Somebody like Mike Harris."

I was flattered, of course. At that point, I had been with The AP for 32 years and had just assumed I would remain in that job until retirement. But, despite the difficult situation in Chicago and my comfort with my AP job, I was intrigued.

Hunter's boss was George Pine, NASCAR's senior vice president who worked out of the company's Charlotte office. I was invited to meet with them in Charlotte later that week to discuss the possibilities.

So, in the middle of the madness we were dealing with in Chicago, I left Judy at her mother's apartment and flew to North Carolina.

The meeting went well. I told them some of my ideas for dealing with the media in a more direct and friendly way, discussed salary _ quite a bit more than I was making at AP _ and timing. They agreed that I would start the week before the Daytona 500 in February.

It not only meant Judy and me moving to Daytona, but also finding a facility for Mom and Aunt Rene. Hunter and Pine even agreed to pay some of the moving costs for the ladies.

It was a big move for me. And I was more than a little conflicted when I called my boss at AP, sports editor Terry Taylor, to tell her I was leaving. She sounded disappointed, but didn't try to talk me out of it.

I flew back to Chicago the same night and got back into the effort to move Mom and Aunt Rene.

In the meantime, I also wrote up a "white paper," detailing the changes that I would like to make to the pr department and the way NASCAR deals with the media. I sent it off to Hunter, thinking hard about how I would initiate the changes.

A few days later, Hunter called. He and Pine had read my "white paper" and thought it might be "a little too radical."

I was already having second thoughts about the move, but I quickly found out that I would have no autonomy in the new job and that they really didn't want any big changes - just a new face.

I called Terry Taylor and said, "Terry, I'm having second thoughts about leaving. If the AP can sweeten the pot a bit, I'd like to stay."

To her great credit, and my relief, she said, "I'll talk to the folks on the seventh (corportate) floor and see what I can do."

She called the next day to say that the powers that be had authorized a pay raise if I stayed. I immediately called Hunter to tell him I was not taking the NASCAR job. He seemed relieved. I know I was.

Judy said, "They wanted someone like Mike Harris, who got along with everyone. They just didn't want Mike Harris." Made sense to me.

Staying at AP turned out to be the best decision I could have made. I would have been way over my head when Dale Earnhardt was killed in the 2001 Daytona 500. Instead of trying to deal with that as a pr person, I got to write the story.

My coverage of Dale's death got me awards for the best AP story of the year and the best deadline writing of 2001. It was bittersweet, but a big moment in my career.

We finally got both apartments cleaned out, got the paperwork done for the ladies to move into a brand new assisted living facility 15 minutes from our house in Wake Forest and made the arrangements to move the ladies out of their respective rehabs.

The furniture we were keeping was to be picked up from both apartments the day before we were scheduled to fly to Raleigh with Mom and Aunt Rene.

It was been snowing nearly nonstop the whole month we were in Chicago and the street in front of Mom's apartment was piled high with the white stuff. The moving company informed us they couldn't get their big truck to the building and would have to ferry the furniture from the building to the truck, parked on a main street a block away, in smaller vans. We would have to pay the extra cost.

We really had no choice.

Aunt Rene's place was on Sheridan Drive, a main drag on Chicago's north side. So no problem with that.

The building manager for Aunt Rene's apartment had been kind enough to let us use a parking space in the lot, although it turned out to be the spot where the plows deposited the snow. The space kept getting smaller and smaller, but I managed to squeeze in.

That last day, as we closed up the apartment and turned in the key, I had turned in the rental car I had used all month and picked up a Lincoln Town Car so that we would have room for us, the ladies and all of the luggage on the way to the airport.

I pulled the big car into the narrow space, with the driver's side hard up against an icy wall of snow. I slid across the seat, got out the passenger side and went to finish our work.

When we were done, relieved that the big job was almost finished, we walked out to the car and found the doors locked. No problem, except the rental company had told me the fob was lost, so I only had a key. And the only keyhole on the four car doors was on the driver's door, which was hidden, inches from a wall of ice.

We were tired and frustrated and about beside ourselves as we stood in the cold, with more snow coming down and no apparent way to get into the car. I thought about calling AAA to tow the car out of the parking spot. But we decided to try a hail mary.

Since my arm was likely too big to fit into the opening between the snow and the car, Judy crawled across the hood and scrambled up onto the six-foot wall of snow and ice. She found her arm just fit between the snow and car door. With great difficulty - and worrying she would drop the key - (and with me holding my breath) - she was able to reach down, insert the key in the lock and get the door open.

It was a relief and we were both laughing hysterically as we drove away.

We picked up Aunt Rene from the rehab in Chicago. As we were grabbing the few things she had with her, a nurse came up and handed Judy a large bag of medicine bottles.

Judy said, "How do we know what she should take and when?" The nurse replied, "It's written on the bottles."

A quick look through the bag and it was obvious it was like a maze and would be about impossible to decipher. Judy went to the nursing supervisor and told her we needed a written list of the medications and directions for using them. She got a nasty look in response. But, after insisting that we wouldn't sign the release form for Irene without a written list, the task was assigned to one of the nurses.

It took her over an hour to get it done.

We then took Aunt Rene to visit her sister in Deerfield before we checked into a hotel.

The hotel stay turned out to be another adventure.

The three of us stayed in a junior suite, with a bedroom and a pullout couch in the living room. Irene insisted we take the bedroom, but the problem was that the only bathroom was through bedroom.

We told Irene to feel free to just walk to the bathroom any time and we all went to bed.

During the night, Irene got up to use the bathroom and, instead of walking into the bedroom, somehow found herself out in the hallway of the hotel. The door swung shut behind her and she was locked out. She didn't want to wake us and didn't know what to do.

At that moment, a hotel employee, delivering newspapers, came down the hall. He saw a 92-year-old woman in a nightgown wandering the hallway. He didn't want to just let her into the room. Finally, he called.

We were startled and scared when the phone rang at 4 a.m., immediately thinking something had happened to Judy's mom or one of our kids. But the voice said, "This is hotel security. We have a woman out here who says she is with you."

We opened the door and let in a relieved Aunt Rene. It was hard getting back to sleep.

The next morning we picked up Mom from her rehab and headed for the airport. We had arranged for wheel chairs for the ladies and I dropped them off and went to turn in the car.

They were nowhere to be found when I got to the gate. But I found out there was a hospitality area where they had been taken. I found the three women there, with the two older ladies hunkered down in wheel chairs and Judy looked like the cat that ate the canary.

It turns out that the two women who were pushing the wheel chairs tried to get Mom and Aunt Rene to give up the chairs after getting to the hospitality area. Judy asked them how they would then get to the gate when it was time and the two workers had no answer.

Judy turned to the ladies and said, "You just stay seated."

Finally, the two workers simply left.

The flight to Raleigh was uneventful and the very tired ladies' introduction to their new home was also uneventful.

It was a relief for Judy and me to get back home and know Mom and Aunt Rene were safe and ready to settle into their new home. It was a good end to a difficult and fulfilling adventure.

The Detroit Pistons won the NBA championship in 1989. That fact had very little to do with me - except that the aftermath caused me a very uncomfortable night on the streets of the Motor City.

My colleagues and I were in town for the Detroit Grand Prix, featuring IndyCars racing on a street course built around the downtown Renaissance Center, one of the landmarks of the city.

Most of us were paying little if any attention to the NBA championship battle between the Pistons and the Los Angeles Lakers.

The Pistons finished off the Lakers on Wednesday night in Los Angeles and, of course, the Detroit papers were awash in stories about the team and the championship series, relegating the race to second-class status for at least one day.

But a victory parade was scheduled for Thursday evening.

A few of my colleagues joined  me for dinner that night at a restaurant near the downtown area, just off Jefferson Avenue, one of the main streets in Detroit. We weren't thinking about basketball or the victory celebration until we left the restaurant, drove onto Jefferson Avenue and attempted to get back to our hotel in the Renaissance Center.

It seemed the whole city was celebrating by driving around, honking horns and shouting. It caused a massive traffic jam.

I was driving the rental car and tried to find an alternate route. It worked to a point, but, no matter how much I was able to avoid the jam-up by taking side streets, I still had to cross Jefferson at some point.

I pulled up to a stop sign at a cross street and watched a long line of cars slowly passing by on Jefferson with no end in sight. There was a policeman standing near the intersection, but he was simply observing and offered no help for us.

In the car, we were all just cussing and looking at each other helplessly, thinking we might get back to the hotel in time to get up for the start of practice the next morning. Finally, one of my passengers _ I'm not sure which one _ got out of the car, walked up the policeman and explained our plight.

He said, "Look, if you can just help us get across the street, we can find a back way to our hotel."

Amazingly, the cop shrugged and walked out into the street, holding up his hands for the oncoming cars to stop at the edge of the intersection. We then waited until the intersection was clear and slowly crossed the street, shouting our thanks to the smiling cop.

Once we got to the other side of Jefferson, I realized I wasn't sure there was any way to reach the Renaissance Center without getting back on the main street.

I wove along, taking rights and lefts and trying to keep heading toward downtown. Finally, I came to a fenced in area that had a closed but not locked construction gate. One of my passengers opened the gate, I drove through and found myself on the race track.

I knew security would be on us quickly, so I sped up and raced toward the pit area, right behind the hotel.

Security caught up to us there and I was able to explain to the officers what had happened and how we had gotten there. Luckily, we all had our credentials with us.They looked bewildered, but allowed us to drive on and we eventually got to the parking garage entrance.

Then the night got even more surreal. In my hotel room on the 28th floor, I heard the sound of gunshots and multiple helicopters. I went to the window, overlooking Jefferson Avenue and part of downtown and realized there were two police helicopters hovering outside at eye level and the sound of almost continuous gunfire.

There was also plenty of smoke visible, rising from fires that had been started by revelers. That's when I realized we were lucky to have made it back to the hotel unscathed.

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Mario Andretti's final season as a race driver in 1994 was dubbed "The Arrivederci Tour."

It was a bittersweet year for me since I counted Mario as a friend and also loved watching him race. And, of course, it was the end of an era.

The organizers of the retirement tour scheduled a celebratory dinner at a downtown Indy theater during the week leading up to Mario's final drive in the Indianapolis 500.

It was a gala affair, with lots of celebrities. Fans were also allowed to buy tickets to the event and it quickly sold out.

A dozen or so writers were invited to be part of the evening and I wound up at a table with several other journalists, including Los Angeles Times sports columnist Jim Murray. Also seated at that table actor was James Garner, a longtime friend of the Andretti family and a racing enthusiast who drove the ceremonial Indy pace car several times.

I loved knowing Jim Garner and relished hearing his stories about Hollywood and about racing and the people he knew. But I was far more thrilled to get to sit next to Jim Murray, one of my biggest heroes in journalism.

Grantland Rice, Paul Gallico, Red Smith and Jim Murray were my "Four Horsemen" of sports writing.

Rice and Gallico were gone long before my time, and I did get to spend one memorable evening hearing Smith tell stories about the greats of New York baseball. But here was my chance to have a real conversation with Jim Murray, a man who had chronicled nearly every great sporting event for more than two decades.

Before the dinner even began, Murray asked Garner about his first experience at Indy.

"I was asked if I wanted to take a pace car ride with Indy veteran Jim Rathmann, the 1960 Indy winner. It was great.

"We were in a convertible on a beautiful day and I was riding around the Indy track at high speed. It was exhilarating," Garner said. "I was sitting, sprawled back in the seat with my arm on the window frame on the passenger side, totally relaxed. After all, I was riding with Jim Rathmann. He wasn't about to crash.

"The first time coming out of Turn 4 we were maybe 10 feet from the outer wall and I was smiling like the cat who ate the canary. Rathmann looked over at me and said, 'Having fun?' I nodded.

"The next time we came out of Turn 4, the speed had picked up and we were maybe five feet from the wall. I was still comfortable and happy. Rathmann glanced over and smiled," Garner continued.

"Finally, on our third lap, we came out of the fourth turn very fast and within maybe two feet of the wall and I sat up straight and pulled in my arm. Rathmann looked over at me and, grinning, said, 'I wondered how close I would have to get to the wall to get your attention."

Everyone at the table laughed and Murray looked at me and said, "How about you. What was your first experience at Indy?"

I related the story of how J.C. Agajanian, a longtime car owner and a man I had never met, had taken me under his wing and helped me get an interview with Indy icon A.J. Foyt on my first day at the track, shocking the man who had given me the assignment to haze the Indy rookie.

"You don't get very far at that place without some help," I said. "Especially when you first arrive."

That year was my 25th anniversary at Indy and Murray said, "Well, I read a lot of your stories and it looks like you know your way around now."

Coming from one of my idols, that made my evening and my year.

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For everyone who has become a regular reader of this blog, I want to let you know that the well is running dry. After 85 blogs, dating back to April of 2021, I am running out of stories that I believe most people would find interesting.

In the future, I will only write more blogs when and if more good stories come to mind. In the meantime, thanks very much for reading my words and thanks even more for the many positive comments along the way.

The Champion Spark Plug hospitality room under the main straight grandstand at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway was an oasis of calm amid the uproar at the track during most of the month of May.

When I was first fortunate enough to be invited to the Champion Room, as it was called by everyone, it was run by former race driver and broadcaster Freddie Agabashion.

Freddie was a wonderful person and told some of the most colorful and fascinating stories about his years of racing at the Brickyard.

He started from the pole in 1952, but dropped out after 71 laps because of an engine problem. His best finish was fourth the next year. But that was also his best story.

"I was running so good that year I thought I had a real chance of winning the race," he told me during one of the many lunch hours in the Champion Room. "Then, with the extreme heat that day, I started to feel like I was melting.

"It got so I couldn't take it any more and I had to get out of that car. Paul Russo relieved me and I was in the (track) hospital cooling off when he finished the race in fourth. It was a tough day, but I was proud of the effort."

After Freddie retired, the stewardship of the Champion Room was taken over by another former driver, Jerry Grant.

Jerry was also a personable guy, but he was far different from the quiet, conservative Freddie. Jerry was a joker who loved nothing more than to shake things up.

He was first of several former drivers who thought it was fun to throw a car's gearshift lever into park while riding down the road with someone else at the wheel.

That devilish streak did not keep us from becoming fast friends. And Jerry's wonderful wife, Sandy, hit it off with Judy, too. The four of us often got together for dinner during the month of May.

There was also the time when Jerry almost got a group of us arrested for gun running.

We were in Detroit for the Grand Prix when Jerry invited me and several other writers out for dinner. He decided to take us to Pearls, a great Chinese restaurant across the river in Windsor, Ontario, Canada.

When we got to the Immigration booth at the downtown tunnel between the US and Canada, the officer asked Jerry if he had anything to declare. It was a routine question in those days, with people going back and forth between the two countries on a regular basis.

But wise guy Jerry said, "Yeah, I've got a trunk full of guns."

He started to laugh, but the officer didn't think it was amusing. The next thing we knew, the car was directed to a parking area and we were asked to get out of the car and stand with our hands on the roof while the trunk was searched. It was empty, of course, but we were all _ not just Jerry _ told we were lucky not to be in a jail cell and to think twice about saying something like that again.

We went on to eat in Windsor and, instead of being sheepish or apologetic, it was all Jerry could do to contain himself, laughing and giggling throughout the meal.

During the years when NASCAR held its awards banquet at the Waldorf in New York City, Sandy and Jerry usually attended. It became an annual thing that they invited Judy and me out to a fancy dinner a couple of nights before the banquet.

We loved the company but, after a few years of being treated, Judy and I both felt it was our turn to pick up the tab.

I called Jerry at his California home and said I would not take no for an answer. It was our turn to take them out for dinner.

I made a reservation at the Four Seasons in midtown Manhattan, one of the finest restaurants in the world, for eight people, including longtime buddy Lewis and several other local friends. And I specifically asked to be seated in the Fountain Room, an iconic, beautifully appointed dining area with, as you would suspect from the name, a fancy fountain in the center.

A few days before the dinner, I got a call at home confirming the reservation.

On the appointed night, Judy and I showed up early for the 8 p.m. reservation. I walked up to the dais to let them know we had arrived and would be in the bar. Sandy and Jerry arrived moments later.

I was standing in the loud, crowded bar talking with Jerry when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the manager of the restaurant, who asked me to come with him.

"We can't find your reservation, Mr. Harris. Are you sure it was for tonight?" he asked.

I was adamant, saying, "I even got a call confirming the reservation earlier this week."

"Well, we're fully booked, but we'll see what we can do to help you out," he said. "Just wait in the bar and I'll let you know what we can do."

I went back to the bar and told Judy what was going on. She shrugged and said, "This is New York City. I'm sure we can find some place to eat if they can't take care of us."

I couldn't believe how cool and calm she was. I was not cool and calm.

About 20 agonizing minutes went by before the manager came back and again pulled me to side.

"Mr. Harris, we found your reservation. It's for next Saturday night," he said. He was grinning and I wondered if he was taking pleasure in my discomfort.

"But, don't worry," he added quickly. "We're going to accommodate you."

I took a deep breath and asked, "How soon. We're all very hungry."

"We can't seat you in the Fountain Room because it's completely booked. But, if it's okay with you, we'll set up a table in the bar area and we'll seat your right away. I promise we'll take good care of you."

What choice did I have. I thanked him and said, "That will be fine."

As promised, a table was seat up in the bar area, which was actually very nice. The manager furnished two waiters and a bus boy to serve our table and sent over a bottle of wine, on the house. It could hardly have been a nicer meal - and none of us missed the fountain.

Another memorable dinner took place during one of my years covering the Toyota Grand Prix of Long Beach.

I was in the pit lane prior to the opening practice, talking with old friend Shav Glick, the highly respected auto racing writer for the Los Angeles Times and one of the nicest people I ever knew, when we were approached by Paul Newman, 

It was unusual for Paul to initiate a conversation with members of the press, so we were both surprised and delighted.

"Listen guys, we're having a dinner party tonight at Spago in Hollywood to raise money for a children's charity," Newman said earnestly. "Any chance you two could come and give us a little publicity, maybe write something in the next day or two?"

I drove, and knowing the traffic between Long Beach and Hollywood, we left the track as soon as our stories were filed. Amazingly, especially for a Friday night, the traffic was generally light and we made the 30-mile drive in record time.

In fact, we arrived about an hour before the scheduled start of the party.

We parked in the almost empty lot behind the iconic Wolfgang Puck restaurant and decided to wait in the car until we saw other people arriving. Finally, cars began filling up the lot and we decided it was time to go in.

That's when we noticed a gaggle of paparazzi, cameras at the ready, near the front door of the restaurant. Shav got an impish look on his face and said, "Let's have some fun. Keep your sunglasses on and follow my lead."

I had no idea what he had in mind, but I said, "Sure."

As we neared the front door, Shav, in a rather loud voice, looked over at me and said, "I'am  not giving Newman more than one point on this project. I don't care what his agent says."

I got the gist and said, "But we need Newman and Woodward for this project. Do you think we can get him for one point?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several of the paparazzi taking pictures of us and several other looking frantically through some file photographs, trying to figure out who the hell we were.

Once inside the door, we broke down laughing. When we told Newman what we had done, he laughed out loud.

"Serves them right," he said. "They'll be trying to figure it out for the rest of the night."

The party was exactly what you might expect, great finger foods, an open bar and lots of celebrities. Shav and I both had a great time and both of us wound up writing a story about the party the next day. We even got written thank yous from Newman.

Since this is the week that the 105th Indianapolis 500 is being run, I thought it was appropriate to tell a couple of stories from my 47 years covering the world's greatest auto race.

During my first few years covering Indy I had a difficult time dealing with Al Bloemker, the longtime public relations director at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Al was a stickler for the rules and a bit on the stodgy side.

Fortunately, I didn't have too many dealings with him. But, every now and then, I had no choice.

For many years, the infield media center was a spare wooden building just outside the garage area. When I first came to Indy in 1970, the AP worked in a corner of the big main room. There was no privacy. Anyone in the vicinity could hear the conversations and look over your shoulder to see what you were writing on your typewriter.

Race day at Indy.

There were a few private offices, but those were being used by the two local papers, the Indianapolis Star and the Indianapolis News, and by the Telex service. When the media began sending their stories via Xerox, then from their own modems, Telex vacated its office.

I immediately went to Mr. Bloemker to ask if AP could take over the vacant office. Much to my surprise, he agreed.

It was great to have our own space. It was quieter and certainly more private. But the one drawback was that, to get into the main room of the media center to get information, ask questions of the speedway media staff or use the bathroom, you had to go out the front door, walk about five feet, show your credential to the door guard and enter the main room of the media center through its outside door.

I got the bright idea of putting a door in the wall that joined our office to the media center. I asked Joe McGowan, the Indianapolis Bureau Chief, and Wick Temple, the AP's General Sports Editor, if they would okay paying for putting in a door. Both agreed it would be worth it.

Then I approached Mr. Bloemker. He looked at me like I was a total fool and said, "You can't do that. There would be no security."

I said, "But Al, we all have badges. How would that affect security?"

"Somebody could walk through your office and enter the media center without proper credentials," he said.

"But, why would anybody want to do that?" I asked.

His look told me that the matter was closed.

That's the way it remained for another year or two before Al finally decided to retire.

He was replaced by a longtime newspaper reporter, Bob Walters, who was also a friend.

I quickly approached Bob about putting in the door, telling him that AP was more than willing to pay for the installation.

He said, "I think we can handle that."

The next day, the doorway was cut into the wall and a door was installed. But it wasn't just any door. This was a dutch door, with a split that allowed you to open the top half or the bottom half.

We often left the top half open so that we could hear what was going on next door. The down side was that everyone in the world seemed to get a kick out of walking up to the open top half of the door, putting down an elbow and saying something like, "I'll have two double cheeseburgers and a coke."

We dutifully laughed every time, just glad to have our door.

Of all the celebrities who came to Indy or hung around the place in May, the nicest and friendliest was James Garner.

The star of numerous movies and the TV series "The Rockford Files," loved auto racing and especially loved the speedway.

I met him one May morning in the early 70's when I dropped into the Speedway Motel restaurant to have some breakfast. I saw Mario and his oldest son, Michael, at one of the tables and stopped to say hello.

There was another man sitting at the table and Mario said, "Mike, do you know Jim Garner?"

I was a bit star struck and babbled a bit. But Jim just smiled and shook my hand.

They invited me to join them for breakfast and, by the time we were done eating, I had acquired a new friend.

It was not unusual for Jim to stop by the AP office and hang out with us for an hour or two, usually around lunch time, so we could all walk across to the grandstand and eat our lunch in the friendly confines of the Champion Spark Plug room, where former driver and host Freddie Agabashian held court.

In those days, if there was an accident on the track, a claxon in the media center would sound and whoever wanted to ride in one of the media vans out to the site of the crash would race out to the south end of pit road where the vans were parked.

Jim often joined us on those sprints to the vans.

One day, he showed up just as a practice was starting and longtime Indianapolis News reporter Dick Mittman and I were walking toward the viewing area in the grass near the first turn. Other than the pits, it was the closest you could get to the track when the cars were running.

That area was fenced in. Behind the fence was the famed and infamous "Snake Pit," an area where in the old days at Indy it was like the wild west. It was much more tame by the 70's, but the area still attracted the great unwashed.

As Dick and I and Jim strolled onto the grassy area, a high-pitched female voice could be hear shouting, "Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy!"

We looked to see who was calling and it turned out to be a particularly buxom woman in short shorts and a tank top with piles of flaming red hair and a big toothy smile.

It was obvious she was calling to Jim Garner and he acknowledged her, waving and shouting, "Hi, honey!"

That didn't satisfy her. As we turned toward the track and the cars roaring past, over the sound of the engines, we heard, "Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy!"

Again he turned toward her with a wave and a smile. This time, she rewarded his attention by lifting her tank top and showing off her rather impressive assets. Jim said, "Very nice, honey!"

But this young lady could not be deterred. She wanted more attention from the Hollywood star.

Again we heard, "Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy!"

Jim was getting a bit peeved. He wanted to watch practice in peace.

Again he turned to look toward her. And again she raised her top. This time, he said, "Honey, I've seen better" and turned back to the action on the track.

There was a chorus of laughter from both sides of the fence and we heard no more from the young lady.

One of the grand old men of Indycar was Jim Chapman, who oversaw then-series sponsor PPG's program.

Jim was a dapper man, always dressed immaculately. One time, many of the Indycar folks were staying at a Holiday Inn in Mansfield, Ohio,  not far from the Mid-Ohio Sports Car Course. The fire alarm went off around 3 a.m. and everyone was asked to leave their rooms until the place was checked out.

People in pajamas and robes and half-dressed were all gathered in the lobby to await word on the situation. Suddenly, the elevator doors opened and out walked Mr. Chapman, wearing a suit and tie and looking like a model in GQ.

It turned out to be a false alarm. But everyone was impressed by Mr. Chapman's aplomb and fashion statement.

One of the biggest perks anyone in the media or in public relations could get at the speedway was an invitation to the PPG hospitality bus, overseen by Mr. Chapman.

Not only did I have an open invitation to the bus, often eating my lunch there, I was a founding member of Mr. Chapman's "Brownie Tasting Team."

He insisted on having brownies on the bus at all times and those of us on the "team" were asked to eat and evaluate those brownies as often as possible. I took the task very seriously.

More important, the bus was a meeting place for drivers, track officials, celebrities and members of the media. More than one story idea was conjured or came to fruition board the PPG bus, all thanks to Jim Chapman.

I've been retired for more than a decade and May is the only time of the year that I miss my job. Covering Indy had its emotional high and lows, but it was a signature part of my career and I truly loved my time at the track.

During my AP career, my travels took me all over North America and gave me the opportunity to see a wide variety of family and friends.

I always enjoyed having them join me at events even though I couldn't always spend much time with them while I was working. Things didn't always go as planned.

One year, while covering the Toyota Grand Prix of Long Beach, one of my favorite events, I invited a cousin and her husband, who lived in the Los Angeles area, to join me for a day at the track. I was able to arrange credentials for them and also invited them to meet me for lunch at one of the hospitality tents at the track.

After some pleasant conversation, I excused myself to go back to work and told my visitors to wander around and enjoy the sights and sounds of the track on what was a beautiful Southern California day.

We made arrangements to meet again for dinner at a nearby restaurant after my work was done.

An hour or so later, while working in the media center, I heard a report that one of the pace cars, driven by former Indianapolis 500 winner Parnelli Jones, had crashed and that Jones and a passenger had been transported to a nearby hospital for examination and evaluation, although their injuries were not serious.

The crash happened during a down time on the track while the pace cars were being used to give rides to guests of the various sponsors. The passenger was not identified but I wrote a short blurb about the crash for the wire.

Minutes later, my phone rang. The caller was my cousin letting me know that her husband "was just fine" after being checked out at the track hospital. I immediately assumed he had fallen ill. But she went on to say "I told him not to go on that ride."

It turns out that while strolling around the track after lunch, the husband had spotted several people waiting in line for pace car rides and decided, uninvited, to join them. He was in line, so it was assumed he belonged there.

Parnelli thought he was done for the day until one of the sponsor reps said they had one more guest to take for a trip around the street course.

The husband was buckled in and Parnelli hit the gas. The car was traveling close to 100 mph when it reached the end of the pit road. Parnelli touched the brake to slow the car enough to make the turn onto the track and nothing happened. He pushed hard on the brake and, again, nothing happened.

At that point, he told his passenger, "Hang on. This might hurt."

With no brakes, the car crashed hard into one of the concrete barriers. Both passengers, bruised and breathless, were able to get out of the wrecked car on their own.

I was scared to death that he would sue the track, the car manufacturer or anybody else, bringing my name into it as the person who got him into the event to begin with. 

To my great surprise, the cousin and her husband showed up for dinner. He was walking gingerly, noting that he had smashed both of his knees into the dash of the car. But he also had a huge smile on his face, saying, "That was the coolest thing ever. How many people can say that they were in a crash with Parnelli Jones at the wheel?"

We had several neighbors who were openly gay during the years we lived in Indianapolis. Unfortunately, this was during the height of the AIDS epidemic.

One of the neighbors _ I'll just call him Bob - had become a very good friend to Judy, who, with a newborn, was spending all her time at home.

When Bob contracted AIDS, it was very sad. But Judy remained good friends with him and spent as much time as she could helping him through the ordeal. As the illness progressed, Bob lost a good part of his eyesight, able only to see shadows and colors.

One day, Judy and I and Bob were sitting in the courtyard of our apartment complex. It was May and I had just gotten home from a day at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Bob, who was a lifelong Indy resident, said, "You know, it's funny, but I've never been to the track."

Judy and I exchanged glances and I said, "Would you like to go?"

He said, "Well, I won't see much. I'm not sure it's worth it."

But Judy and I convinced him, adding lunch at the Speedway Motel, as an enticement.

A few days later, I met Judy and Bob at the motel restaurant, where we had a very pleasant lunch. Several racing people, including Johnny Rutherford, stopped by our table to say hi to Judy and were introduced to our friend. He was smiling and enjoying himself.

Judy, who drove Bob's car to the track, followed me into the track infield, where I had them park in the lot nearest the first turn. Close by was a small bleacher from which you could see the first and second turns. But, more important, the sound of the cars roaring by was amplified.

It was perfect.

Bob was able to soak up the sounds and see the movement of the colorful cars as they sped past.

They only stayed for a short time because Bob became tired, but he kept thanking me every time I saw him for weeks after. It warmed my heart that I was able to do something to make his life a little better despite the agony he was going through.

Several months later, he was gone.

On a more cheerful note, thanks to my job, I got to give two of my nephews, Bret and Boyd, a real treat when they were young teenagers.

In those days, the Meadowlands Grand Prix was run every year about a 30-minute drive from our home in Westfield, NJ. There was always a media day preceding the first day of practice and, since my sister Judy and her family were visiting, I asked if I could take the boys with me.

They got a kick out of walking around and looking at the Indycars. And I introduced them to as many of the famous people as I could.

At lunch in the hospitality tent, we all sat at the same table with Danny Sullivan, who had won the 1985 Indy 500 with his "spin and win" move.

The boys got into a fun conversation with Danny, one of the nicest guys in the sport, and he suddenly said, "Would you guys like to take a pace car ride?"

What a silly question to ask teenage boys.

The pace car rides for VIPs had ended earlier in the day, before we arrived at the track. But Danny went to the track officials and got permission to take the boys out on the fast, windy temporary road course.

Danny wasn't satisfied just to speed around the track. He wanted to entertain the boys.

So, as they sped down the main straightaway after the second lap around the track,Danny hit the hand brake and did a bootlegger's turn, spinning the car halfway around and heading back to the pits the wrong way.

You couldn't wipe the smile off those kids' faces for days and I've owed Danny ever since.

 Early in my marriage, my new wife caught me looking at a pretty woman walking past us. I was a bit embarrassed, but Judy said, "Don't worry about it. You're married, not dead."

I found out pretty fast that the love of my life really was not into jealousy, despite the fact that my job often put me close to bevies of beautiful and sexy women.

It was not uncommon for me to phone home after a nice evening in which I had dined with a group of racing people, often including lovely, young public relations women.

At some point, I asked Judy if it bothered her that I was around these women all the time. Her reply, "I have no problem with you going out with them, just don't tell me what you ate."

We've been married almost 53 years now and her trust in me and mine in her remains solidly intact.

But I still like to look.

Over the years, I've had the opportunity to spend a little time with some of the most beautiful women in the world. Three in particular come to mind.

I was in Montreal early in my racing career for the Canadian Grand Prix when I was introduced to an aspiring young driver named Olivier Chandon. He was set to race in one of the preliminaries, but was considered a possible future Formula One driver.

He was also an heir to the French Moët et Chandon champagne fortune.

I started to ask him questions, but his pr person interrupted and said Olivier had to get ready for a practice session. The youngster suggested we continue the interview the next morning at breakfast, since we were staying at the same downtown hotel.

I was already sitting at the table when Olivier walked in with one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.

He introduced me to his girlfriend, super model Christie Brinkley, and sat down. It was one of the most difficult interviews I had ever done, since I had trouble concentrating on my questions while trying not to stare at the lovely Christie, who seemed unaffected by the whole thing.

Olivier, who had been educated in both France and the U.S., was a lively, fun interview. And he tried to keep Christie involved by asking her to tell me what it was like to be with a race driver.

Her answer: "It's scary as hell, but he's cute."

I was still hoping to run into Olivier at other events in the future. But, very sadly, the young man was killed in a crash the next year while testing his car at a Florida track.

My next meeting with one of the world's great beauties was a complete coincidence.

I was flying from Newark to Daytona Beach for a NASCAR race early one morning. The trip included a change of planes in Atlanta.

In those days, I was flying so much that it was not uncommon, thanks to the frequent flyer programs, for me to get an upgrade to first class.

On that particular trip, I was given an aisle bulkhead seat at the front of the plane. It was early and I was still sleepy as I tried to concentrate on a crossword puzzle in the Newark Star-Ledger to keep me awake until we got off the ground.

Moments before the door was closed, a slim young women in jeans and a drab sweatshirt, wearing a baseball cap with her pony tail hanging out the back, slipped into the plane, excused herself and sat down in the window seat next to me.

I wasn't paying much attention until the flight attendant came by the ask if we wanted a drink after takeoff.

"I need coffee, badly," I said to the young lady.

My seatmate said, "Oh, me too."

That was when I looked over and saw the lovely face of Kim Bassinger looking back at me with a smile.

This was shortly after she had been in the news for buying the town of Braselton, GA, which she planned to turn into a theme park and movie studio. That plan never worked out and she wound up declaring bankruptcy. But, since the Road Atlanta track was just outside Braselton, it gave me an opening to begin a conversation.

She was happy to chat and, after we got our coffee, the talk turned to what it was like to be a sports writer covering auto racing.

"Isn't it just too noisy?" she asked. "I told her that I tried to stay away from the garages and the track when the cars were running, spending most of that time in the press box or infield media center.

She also asked the usual question: "Isn't it boring just watching the cars go round and round?"

When I explained some of the strategy involved in racing, some of things that made the sport most interesting and fun, she actually seemed to take interest.

As we gathered up our bags after landing in Atlanta, she said, "Maybe I'll get to a race one of these days. It was fun talking to you."

I gave her my card and told her I'd be glad to show her around. Unfortunately, I never heard from her again.

Another beauty I got to spend a bit of time with was Emily Procter, one of the stars of the long-running CSI Miami television show.

Emily was entered in the annual Toyota Pro/Celebrity event at the Long Beach Grand Prix., pitting professional drivers against celebrities in a 10-lap race.

Each year, I would approach the Toyota pr people to set up an interview with one of their celebrity drivers during the race weekend. Over the years I got to sit down with Sir Patrick Stewart, Jay Leno, George Lucas, Gene Hackman, Donny Osmond, Ricky Schroeder and many others.

But, unquestionably the most memorable was my sit-down with Ms. Procter.

She was funny and engaging, with a soft southern accent, and quickly established that her knowledge of racing was mostly from watching NASCAR during her upbringing in North Carolina.

She also revealed that most of the time, CSI Miami was actually filmed in the Los Angeles area and that she often drove past the Long Beach Arena, where we were doing the interview, on her way to work.

Once she found out I was living in Raleigh, NC, her hometown, the talk turned away from racing to more about favorite restaurants and other places in Raleigh.

Most memorable for me, though, was the end of the interview. As we said goodbye, this lovely lady gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, the only time in my more than 40 years in journalism that an interviewee had kissed me goodbye.

After each of these meetings with gorgeous women, I told Judy, who is the least star struck person I know, about them in great detail. In each case, she smiled and said, "I'm happy for you."

Trust is a wonderful thing.

My last blog about an incident on a family trip triggered a few more memories of adventures from my youth.

My parents were raised in Cleveland, Ohio and, besides having lots of family _ grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins _ there, dad worked for more than 40 years for Campus Sportswear, a mens and boys clothing manufacturer based in Cleveland.

Twice a year, dad would head for Cleveland to attend a series of meetings that introduced the new clothing lines and to pick up the samples he would use to take orders throughout his territory in Wisconsin and Illinois.

We moved to Madison, WI after dad was given that territory in 1950. In fact, we made the move from Cleveland to Madison on my seventh birthday, June 16, 1950.

My brother, Rich, two years younger, and I had quite a few friends in the neighborhood in Cleveland and we decided, without consulting mom and dad, to invite all of them to a birthday party at our house the day before the move. Of course, the parents came along to say goodbye.

It was quite a surprise to our harried and exhausted parents when people began arriving, presents in hand.

Dad quickly dashed out to get cake and ice cream and mom grabbed a table back off the rented U-Haul truck to put things on.

I thought I was in real trouble, but it turned out to be such a nice sendoff that all was forgiven _ although with the warning never to do that again.

Once we lived in Madison, there were one or two and sometimes three trips to Cleveland a year. That included going with dad, quite often, for his sales meetings and also lots of family occasions - bar mitzvahs, weddings and, sadly, funerals.

The Interstate system was still under construction and the 500-mile driving trips from Madison to Cleveland began with a long stretch on two-lane U.S. 12, which wound through numerous small Wisconsin and Illinois towns.

On one trip when I was around 14, meaning Bob, the youngest of my four siblings, was 4, we were stopped at a speed trap in Dodgeville, WI. Dad was clocked doing 35 in a 25 mph zone that began suddenly, just yards from the 65 mph highway speed.

The car that pulled us over was unmarked but had a bulbous light on top and a big spotlight on the driver's side. I remember it being covered with mud and dirt.

There were two men in the car, wearing drab brown uniforms and no hats. As they stepped out of the car, both unbuckled their side arms and began to walk slowly to both sides of the car, as if the mom and dad and five young children in the car were about to attack.

Dad had a very quick temper and both mom and I tried to keep him calm. But he flared as one of the cops came to his window, saying, "What the hell do you think you're doing drawing guns on us? Do you think my kids are criminals?"

The cop didn't blink, telling dad he had to pay the fine (I think it was $20) in cash or follow them to the courthouse. He grumbled, but paid, much to our relief. The rest of the trip was uneventful and I think, after getting through Chicago, we were able to use the Indiana Toll Road, which had just opened. The Ohio Turnpike was one of the first to open and we had driven it several times by then.

A couple of years later, we drove to Miami during spring break. As usual, dad drove straight through.

We always stayed at a very nice family-style hotel in Miami Beach. The best thing about it was the pool area, which Rich and I particularly loved. One time, there was a cold snap while we were there - highs in the 50s - and Rich and I were the only ones crazy enough to go in the pool. Of course, the water was warmer than the air, but most everybody thought we were nuts.

This time, the weather was beautiful, with temperatures in the 80s and the sun shining brightly. Everyone was happy and looking forward to a great week. But dad had not gotten notice of when the spring sales meetings were to start, so he called to find out.

He had expected the meetings to begin about two weeks after our vacation. Unfortunately, Campus had moved the meetings up to the middle of the week we arrived in Miami. The letter with the dates had probably arrived in Madison the day we left.

Dad suggested we just stay in Florida and he would fly up to Cleveland for the meeting and fly back after. But Mom didn't drive and she was worried about staying alone with five kids for a week in a hotel.

So, just one day after arriving, we packed up, jumped back in the car _ a Pontiac station wagon _ and headed for Cleveland. It was disappointing, but we all loved going to Cleveland, so that softened the blow.

Everything was fine until we hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike, a windy, dangerous road even today. It began to snow and pretty soon it was coming down hard. Than the windshield wipers stopped working.

Dad was a great driver who loved to be behind the wheel. But driving on the Turnpike in a snowstorm with no wipers was more than he bargained for. He pulled to the side of the road, saying, "We'll wait here until it lets up."

But, within minutes, a caravan of semis came slowly past. Dad joined the rear of the long caravan and we drove on in the wake of that last semi, traveling at maybe 20 mph. We could barely see the rear lights of the truck, but dad kept a steady pace for about half an hour until we came to one of the Turnpike gas stations.

Luckily, they had a mechanic on duty. The fix for the failed wipers was surprisingly easy. The wipers ran on a vacuum system and the mechanic pointed out a small hole that was letting air in. Dad filled the hole with a paper clip and the wipers worked again.

We were able to continue our trip without any more trouble. And, since we all loved being in Cleveland and seeing family, we didn't really miss being in Florida.

Another sales meetings story happened when I was in college, probably 19 years old.

The meetings coincided with my spring break from the UW and I joined the rest of the family for the trip to Cleveland. By this time, there was Interstate nearly all the way, so the ride was shorter and easier.

But, when we got to Cleveland, dad found out many of the new samples had not arrived and the meetings were postponed for at least a week. On the spur of the moment, dad decided, instead of spending the week in Cleveland, we would do a road trip to Toronto, a city we had never visited.

It was a pretty short ride from Cleveland, mostly along the shores of Lake Erie. And we stopped at Niagara Falls, the first time any of us kids had seen it. Very impressive.

We then continued on to Toronto. And it was then that we started to see billboards promoting the Canadian National Exposition.

It turns out the Expo, which is a real big deal in Canada _ kind of like a mini World's Fair _  was starting the day after our arrival in Toronto - where we had no hotel reservation.

Upon arriving in Toronto, dad saw a fancy looking hotel up on a hill overlooking Lake Ontario and within an easy drive of the downtown area.

It was about 10 p.m. when we arrived and Rich and I accompanied dad into the hotel. He walked up to the front desk and the man behind the counter smiled and said, "Hello. Can I help you."

Dad said, "Hi. I'm here with my wife and five kids. What can you do for us?"

The man looked startled and said, "Nothing, if you don't have a reservation. This is Expo week and every hotel within 200 kilometers of Toronto is fully booked."

Dad was undaunted.

"You must have something," he said. "I know you'd find a way to put up a VIP if he suddenly showed up. So consider me a VIP."

The guy started to shake his head and say something. Then he paused and looked down at a big book on the counter. This was before computers.

"Well, we do have a room that was used today for a board meeting. It's not a standard hotel room, but it has two pullout couches and we could bring in a couple of rollaways for the kids. But we would have to get it cleaned before we let you use it. That would take about a half hour."

Dad smiled and said, "That sounds fine."

But, never one to NOT look a gift horse in the mouth, he said, "How much?"

The man shrugged and said, "We usually get $120 a night for these meeting rooms."

This was in 1962. That was a fortune.

Dad said, "Look, it's 10 o'clock  at night and you're not going to find anybody to rent that room now. You can certainly do better than that."

After some serious negotiating, they agreed upon a two-night stay at $50 per night and everybody went away happy.

The room turned out to be very nice, with a big bathroom and a big screen TV. And the sleeping arrangements worked out just fine.

Laurie Harris (l) and Judy Harris with friend

The next day, we attended the Expo and I remember my sisters winning a huge Teddy Bear that took up an entire seat in the already-crowded car on the way back to Cleveland, and then on to Madison.

We had a great time, as usual, and another fun memory.

  

I suppose every family has its unproven stories, tales told from generation to generation, possibly embellished along the way.

But I enjoy believing that the following saga really did take place.

My dad’s parents, Lipman Knitzer and Pearl Harris (nee Nussbaum), were born in Russia and Poland, respectively, sometime in the late 1800's.

The family legend is that my grandfather and his brother, Harris Knitzer, were drafted into the Russian army in their early 20's, sometime in the early 1900's. They were a handsome pair, as proven by a family photo of the two of them in their uniforms. But they were Jews and, therefore, not treated well in the army.

They chose to desert instead of becoming canon fodder and took their families and began a 1,400-mile, months-long trek from Eastern Russia to France, passing through Poland, Germany and Belgium along the way. They survived by stopping at small villages and getting help from fellow Jews, trading work for food and a roof over their heads.

My grandfather and his first wife had a small child, my aunt Miriam (Mamie). The first wife, whose name I never knew, died along the way. They wound up in Le Havre, France, where my grandfather and his brother found work and earned enough for passage on a ship to the U.S., where they had cousins who would sponsor their entry.

Meanwhile, the women in the Jewish community of Le Havre thought it was terrible that my grandfather was raising a baby alone. Match-making was an honorable profession in those days and a new wife was found for my grandfather. She was a 16-year-old Polish girl named Pearl Nussbaum, who was also alone and wanted to go to the U.S.

My father was supposedly conceived during the ship’s passage to America.

Upon arriving at Ellis Island, the port of entry in New York City, my grandfather’s family got in one line and his brother in a second line. When it came time to answer the clerk’s questions, my grandfather said his name was Lipman Knitzer. They clerk said, ``Leon what?’’ Uncertain of what was being asked, my grandfather turned to the other line and asked, ``Harris, what’s he asking?’’ The clerk promptly said, ``Leon Harris, OK.’’ 

That’s how Lipman Knitzer became Leon Harris and how we became the Harris family.

Although we lost track of my grandfather's brother, who moved to Canada, we were told he also took the surname Harris at some point. So we do have Harris relatives in Canada and elsewhere.

Another family legend that I first heard when I was very young involved my mother's family.

My grandfather on that side was not exactly a family man. He was an over-the-road trucker who often showed up at home just long enough to make my grandmother, Nettie Krieger, pregnant again. After the sixth kid, he left and never came back, leaving Grandma Nettie to raise the family by herself.

But there was a story that, before he left for good, he would sometimes take the family on Sunday drives in one of those big old sedans from the 1920's or 30's.

He liked silence in the car and would flare up if one of the children started talking or made any noise, so the trips were usually done in peaceful silence, with everyone just taking in the eastern Ohio scenery.

One Sunday, the drive included the six kids, their mother and her mother, who sat in the back seat next to the passenger-side door. Great grandma fell asleep as they drove. My grandfather was apparently a careful driver and he took his turns very slowly.

As he made a turn at a quiet country intersection, great grandma's door popped open and she tumbled out onto the grassy berm without a sound.

One of my girls in the back, afraid to make a sound, reached out and quietly closed the door so as not to get Papa upset. But then she began quietly sobbing.

My grandma looked into the back seat to see what was wrong and the sobbing girl quietly said, "Bubbe fell out!"

Grandma screamed and grandpa hit the brakes. They went back and found great grandma unhurt and still sleeping soundly.

At least that was the story I heard.

In 1984, my mom was dying from colon cancer. She was on her deathbed in a hospital in Cincinnati, where she had lived for a number of years.

Judy and I drove in from Cleveland to be with her.

One afternoon, Judy and my Aunt Gail, mom's youngest sister, were sitting with her. Judy said, "Mom, Mike has told this story about you and your family over the years. I'm just wondering if it is true."

She then told mom and Aunt Gail the story. Mom said, "I have no idea what you're talking about." But Gail started to laugh.

It turns out that I had heard the story when I was a youngster, but it was about the family of one of Gail's friends.

That got all three of them laughing and Mom laughed so hard, tears began to stream down her face. So, here she was, three days before she died, having one of the best laughs of her life.

Another story that actually involved our family took place when I was a teenager.

Most years at spring break, dad would pack us all up in the car and head for Miami Beach or Biloxi, MS for some warmth and relaxation.

Like me, he loved to drive and never seemed to get tired. Often, he would drive through the night to get to our destination. I remember once driving through the Everglades on a moonless night, the two of us the only ones awake in the quiet car.

The trees were like a tall picket fence as we sped past, and it was so dark that little beyond the headlights was visible. It was eerie and cool at the same time. And dad and I kept each other entertained by talking sports. It is one of my favorite memories of my dad.

Another time, we took a different route than usual and drove through the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.

As we neared one of the highest points on our route, dad ran over a large rock sitting in the middle of the road. It ripped out the oil pan and damaged the transmission on his big Packard Patrician.

He pulled to the side of the road and looked around, saying, "We'll have to find some help."

There was no traffic at that point and nobody to flag down. So dad said, "I'll walk ahead and see if I can find a telephone somewhere."

It was somewhat scary as mom and me and my brothers and sisters waited in the car, peering out at the vistas far below as dad walked ahead and disappeared around a big bend in the road.

But he was only gone a short time before he reappeared around that same bend with a big smile and a jaunty pace.

"There's a gas station and a small motel just up ahead," dad explained. "We can walk up there and the guy will come tow the car and see what repairs we need."

The repairs were extensive and the mechanic had to order parts from Gatlinburg, the nearest city. He said the parts would arrive the next day, so we checked into the motel, a very rustic place with the only telephone and TV in the lobby.

The place was run by an older couple, who made us feel right at home. There was no restaurant, but they fed us dinner and breakfast before the car was ready the next afternoon.

That whole experience could certainly have been a lot worse and it did make a great tale.

As spring training goes on and the new season of baseball approaches, I generally start to reminisce about my days covering the game that I have loved since I was about five years old.

I've already written what I consider the best stories I have about my experiences in and around the game as a sports writer. But, as I watched a Red Sox preseason game on TV over the weekend, a few more interesting (I hope) tales popped into my head.

During my time covering the Cleveland Indians in the late 1970's, I had the opportunity to get to know some of the players on a personal basis. The one I got closest to for a while was a young right-handed pitcher named Len Barker.

He later gained fame by throwing a perfect game in 1981, but I was gone from Cleveland by that time. And his career never quite lived up to his potential.

When Len was traded, along with Bobby Bonds, to the Indians by the Texas Rangers in the fall of 1978, he was considered a future star. I got to know him while taking part in the Indians' preseason public relations tour and we hit it off, despite a 12-year age difference.

I invited Len and his new wife to have dinner with us and the four of us enjoyed a great evening. When it came time to pay the bill, Len said, "I got the big signing bonus. Let me take care of it."

About a week later, Len called to see if we wanted to join he and his wife for another meal, this one at a very fancy and pricey downtown restaurant. I said we'd go, but only if he let me pay our share.

It was a fantastic dinner, but our part of the tab was half a week's salary for me. Add to that the cost of the baby sitter and it was a really expensive evening. Turns out he had very expensive taste and the pocket book to enjoy it.

We went out with the couple several more times until I realized we were just living very different lifestyles. At that point, I told Len that Judy and I needed to rein in our spending and we wouldn't be joining them for dinner any more.

He said he understood, but things were considerably cooler between us at spring training and during the regular season. Then I left for racing and never saw Len again.

In another baseball story, I was scheduled to go to the Canadian Grand Prix in Montreal in late September of 1981. I got a call the week before from one of the bosses, who said, "As long as you're going to be in Montreal anyway, how about covering the Expos' final home series. They're playing the Mets and they have a small lead in the division over the Cardinals and it would be good to have a staffer there."

We usually got coverage of Expos home games from Canadian Press since the AP had no sports staffers in Canada. It wasn't very in-depth.

I had to cover practice and qualifying on Friday and Saturday afternoon at the track on Ile du Notre Dame, just outside of downtown Montreal. But I got done each day in plenty of time to make it to the baseball games. And it was an easy subway ride from my hotel to the old, dilapidated Olympic Stadium. I didn't even have to walk outside on the short trip between underground subway stations.

For obvious reasons, I wasn't able to cover the Sunday afternoon game, but the boss was okay with that.

The Expos had a really good team in 1981, beating the St. Louis Cardinals for the National League East division title by a half game in the second half of the strike-interrupted season before eventually losing to the LA Dodgers in the NL Championship Series. The tight pennant race after the 50-game strike made covering  those late season games more fun and definitely more meaningful.

Montreal won the first game 6-3 and there was a lot of music and laughter in the Expos clubhouse after the game. By the time I filed my first lede and got there, Expos manager Dick Williams, who I met in 1976, his last year as manager of Charlie Finley's Oakland A's, was wrapping up the post-game meeting with the writers.

He was sitting behind his desk, smiling and talking with the local sports writers when I walked in.

The moment he saw me, Williams did a double take and began to scowl. He stood up and walked around the desk and stood over me in a menacing manner. I was confused and a little bit scared. I took a couple of steps back.

He was a big man and I had no idea why he would be angry with me.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked gruffly. "You going to ask me more stupid questions?"

The room got quiet as the other writers, most of whom had no idea who I was, stared at us.

I said, "I'm here for the AP to cover your last home games. Did I do something to offend you?"

At that point, he broke into a smile and said, "Just giving you sh.t. Actually, it's good to see you."

I got a handshake _ he had a grip like a bear _ and a bro hug. And everyone relaxed and started to laugh. I didn't feel much like laughing, but I was relieved.

We really didn't know each other that well, although I had told him the story about Charlie O trying to hire me. I guess he was just in a joking mood and I was the one who came in his sights.

Dick and I had a nice talk after the other writers went out to the clubhouse and we chatted again the next night after his Expos beat the Mets 4-2.

The next _ and last _ time I got to cover a baseball game was in the early fall of 1982.

I got called into the office in New York after one of the veteran AP sports staffers fell ill and had to miss a couple of weeks of work.

During the two weeks I spent in New York, I wound up doing a variety of jobs, including writing baseball and basketball roundups, turning handouts into short stories and whatever else needed to be done. It was a nice change-up from the auto racing beat.

I walked into the office for my 4 p.m. to midnight shift one afternoon and the desk supervisor said, "Harris, don't take your coat off. We need you to cover the Yankees tonight. Your credential will be at the will call window and we need pregame and post game notes to go with the game story."

I was excited. I had covered only those two games in Montreal since I left Cleveland after the 1979 season. But I was also a little nervous  because I had never worked a game at Yankee Stadium and I didn't know my way around the place.

Getting there early and finding my way around seemed like a really good idea, so I jumped on the D train in Rockefeller Center and rode it to 161st street, just down the block from the stadium.

It was about 5 p.m. when I got there. That left plenty of time to figure out where everything was and gather some notes before the 7:05 start.

As I made my way to the Yankees' clubhouse, it also occurred to me that I didn't really know any of the current players and none of them knew me. I was hoping that wouldn't be a problem.

I walked into the quiet clubhouse and the first face I saw was Jeff Torborg, the manager of the Cleveland Indians in my last couple of years covering the team and now a coach for the Yankees. He was standing just inside the coaches dressing room.

Jeff saw me as I walked into the room and lit up with a big smile. We  shook hands and began to catch up when I noticed that Joe Altobelli, the former manager of the San Francisco Giants, who I met and interviewed numerous times in my years of covering the Cactus League in spring training, was right behind him.

Joe also gave me a big greeting and turned to Joe Pepitone, who I had interviewed several times on visits to Cleveland Stadium, and said, "You know Mike, don't you?"

Joe Pep got up, shook my hand and said, "What are you doing here. I thought you only haunted Cleveland!"

The three coaches and I continued chatting loudly, with a lot of laughter, when I suddenly noticed that another Yankees coach, Yogi Berra, was sitting quietly at the other end of the room in front of his cubicle.

Yogi, who I had never met one-on-one, was staring at the four of us like we were from outer space.

Finally, I broke off the conversation with Jeff and the two Joes for a moment and said, "Hi Yogi!"

The Hall of Famer and master of the spoonerism shook his head like he was confused, looked at the other three coaches and asked,  "Who the f...k did he used to be?"

Then he couldn't figure out why we were all laughing.

Needless to say, I got some good notes from that group. And I even got a friendly wave from Yogi when I came back to the clubhouse for interviews after the game.

Looking forward to another baseball season.

There were a few times during my career that covering one race or event on a given weekend wasn't enough.

If the circumstances presented themselves, I sometimes was able to double dip.

One year, the Indy Cars were scheduled to race on Saturday in Phoenix and NASCAR was set for a Sunday race in Atlanta. I sat down with an airline schedule (remember those?) and figured out a way to take a red eye out of Phoenix and get to Atlanta in plenty of time to make it to the track for the Sunday race.

It turns out that everybody was pleased with the idea because the Atlanta sports writer who would have had to cover the race was far more interested in working on the NCAA tournament games in Atlanta that Sunday. He had covered the preliminaries at the track but had also been struggling to decide at which event to use a stringer for on Sunday.

I was excited by the idea of covering two feature events and having bylines in the papers from nearly 1,600 miles apart on the same weekend _ and I was young enough that the prospect of almost no sleep for two days didn't bother me much.

The race in Phoenix ran without a hitch and I was able to get some dinner with friends before heading for the airport. The red eye took off on time and I caught a few winks of sleep on the plane before we arrived in Atlanta at around 5 a.m.

I had booked a room at one of the airport hotels and was able to get my rental car and check into the hotel by 6 a.m. I set my alarm for 7:30 and fell soundly asleep.

When the alarm sounded, I got up. But it was like I was sleepwalking. I probably shouldn't have gone to sleep at all. But I was able to struggle out of bed, get dressed, grab a cup of coffee and a croissant at the hotel restaurant and head for Atlanta Motor Speedway.

Again the race went off without a problem. By the time I finished my writing, about 2 1/2 hours after the checkered flag, I was ready to collapse. I hardly remember the drive back to the hotel.

Normally, I would have taken a late flight or even a red eye to get home that night. But I guessed, rightly, that this was not the weekend to race back to New Jersey.

I was proud of myself for what I viewed as a major accomplishment, although no one else even mentioned it.

It was a lot easier the next time I did a weekend double because, this time, the races were a lot closer together geographically.

In those days, NASCAR had a race in Daytona Beach, FL, on the Saturday closest to the Fourth of July. It was known as the Firecracker 400.

Championship Auto Racing Teams (CART) scheduled a race on the Sunday of that weekend at Burke Lakefront Airport in Cleveland, Ohio, my old home town. I couldn't miss that.

The only possible glitch was the forecast of rain in Daytona. A postponement until Sunday would have ended my hopes to cover both races and put the pressure on the Cleveland sports writer to cover that race for me on what was supposed to be his day off.

We were on the phone numerous times until the race in Daytona got past the halfway point, making it official and freeing me to get to Cleveland _ if I made my plane.

The race was slowed by several rain delays before NASCAR officials finally decided everyone had had enough and ended it a few laps short of a complete race. I was the last passenger to board the plane in Daytona before they shut the door.

The rest of the trip went smoothly.

My professional life got a little more complicated when Tony George, the president of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and a member of the family that owned the Hoosier track, decided to start his own Indy car series as a rival to CART.

The Indy Racing League (IRL) was formed to rein in ever-increasing costs, open up the competition to grass roots racers and keep the team owners in the established CART series from dominating Indy car racing and dictating the rules and the schedule.

The split, which began in 1996, also split the already thin fan base and caused a Hatfields and McCoys type of feud, with both sides spitting venom and saying the other side was killing the sport.

It also meant I had more races to cover in person or make arrangements for. And there were plenty of conflicting dates.

CART, which lost the Indy 500 in the split, decided to run a race in East St. Louis, IL, just across the river from St. Louis, MO, on the same weekend as the 500. But, instead of trying to go head-to-head, the CART race was scheduled for the Saturday before the 500.

Although Indy had lost a lot of luster with the split, it was still a big event and drew most of the big names in motorsports journalism. Trying to build up its event, CART offered to fly any of the writers who wanted to cover both events back and forth on a charter.

St. Louis is just a four-hour drive from Indianapolis and it was also the city where my sister Judy and her family lived at the time. I decided to skip the charter flight and drive with Judy and my pal Lewis.

My Indy race advance was written and sent on the wire on Friday, before I left for St. Louis and there was nothing I had to do in Indy on Saturday. Until the CART race was scheduled, that Saturday was always a day for playing in a media golf tournament.

I didn't mind giving up the golf, but the hardest part of the trip was the ride back home after the race.

It was a very long day and we usually made it back to Indy around midnight. That was not a problem except for the fact that we generally got up around 5:30 a.m. on Indy race morning to make sure we were at the track in plenty of time to get parked and be settled in before the 11 a.m. green flag.

We did that trip for several years before the St. Louis race disappeared from the CART schedule.

The eventual end of the CART-IRL split also led to the strangest double I did in my career.

During the 12 years that the two Indy car series ran, there were numerous attempts to heal the conflict and bring them back together.

One year at Indy, I was invited to the motor home of Paul Newman, the Oscar-winning actor, aspiring race car driver and CART team owner.

We were friendly, but that was the first time Newman had asked me to join him in his motor home.

Once we had settled in, Newman looked at me with those famous penetrating blue eyes and said, "Mike, this war is killing us. You need to do something about it."

I was dumbstruck. What the hell was I supposed to do about the CART-IRL split?

"You've got a national pulpit," Newman went on. "Write a story about how we need to get back together. Maybe they'll listen to you."

I shook my head in wonder and said, "Paul, you know I've been writing story after story for years now about how this split is killing Indy car racing. It's about money and power and nobody is listening to me or to anybody else, it seems."

He shrugged and said, "Well, it was worth a try."

Finally, in May of 2008, there were all kinds of signs that the reunification of the rival series was imminent.

I was scheduled to fly to California for a NASCAR race at Auto Club Speedway in Fontana, about 80 miles east of Los Angeles, when I got word of a press conference at the Indy Speedway that same day.

Phone calls to several sources convinced me that the announcement in Indy was going to be the uniting of the IRL and CART, obviously a very important national story.

I called my boss and said, "Should I change my flight to Indy and cover the press conference before I fly to California? We can get somebody in the LA bureau to cover practice and qualifying at Fontana on Friday."

To my amazement, I was told to stay with my original plans and somebody from the Indianapolis bureau would cover the press conference.

That was a little upsetting. But I was even more put off when I called Indy from the airport before I left Raleigh and found they didn't have anyone to cover the press conference.

"They'll fax us the announcment and we'll write it from the office," the Indy news editor told me.

I was aghast. I had written literally million of words since the formation of the IRL was announced in 1994 about the split, which almost killed one of the most important forms of auto racing in the world. And the AP wasn't even going to have a reporter at the press conference that finally ended the conflict.

Again, I called my boss and said, "We've got to do something about this. I'll cover it myself from California."

After some back and forth, she agreed.

I called the head of PR at the IRL and told him what I had in mind and he agreed to work with me.

After arriving at the track in California, I wrote a quick NASCAR feature for Saturday's papers. Then, at the appointed time, thanks to that PR person,, I listened to the Indy press conference on an open telephone line, writing several leads on the unification before getting some of the principles on the line for added quotes.

The copy flowed to NY sports and onto the wire. It went amazingly smoothly.

Just as I wrapped up that story, it was time to cover NASCAR qualifying. 

I got one quick call from my boss with an "atta boy" and that was it. To this day, I'm amazed at how smoothly it went with so many possible things to go wrong.

Judy has never really loved traveling. She's a stay-at-home type of person. But, somehow, I've managed to drag her all over North America and even to some of the more interesting and beautiful places in other parts of the world.

When I broach the subject of a trip, Judy's reply is usually, "I'd really rather not."

So the way this has worked, especially since my retirement in 2009, is that I make all the travel arrangements and then tell her what day we're leaving, how long we'll be away and the type of clothes she's going to need.

There's griping and grumbling until she is finally packed and ready to go. But the moment we step out the door, the attitude changes and we're ready to have some fun. Once we hit the road, Judy often isn't that crazy about the idea of going back home.

It's a process that I have gotten used to over the years. Grin and bear it and it will all work out.

We've taken some amazing trips since my retirement began. We've been to Hawaii twice, cruised the Caribbean and sailed through the Panama Canal, taken a two-month driving trip that went coast to coast, visiting family and friends and numerous national and state parks along the way, and hit Las Vegas at least a half dozen times for gambling (video poker is my game) and family visits.

But the real adventure was a trip in 2014 that took us to Barcelona, Spain to visit my sister Judy and her husband Stuart, as well as their son Boyd and his family, who were all living there at the time. More to the point, the trip included a long weekend in Paris, France.

I got a great airfare by flying Air Canada with a short flight from Boston to Toronto, a non-stop from there to Barcelona and the reverse on the trip home.

Unfortunately, Logan Airport in Boston was down to one outgoing runway because of construction, and a heavy rain with fog slowed things down so much that our flight to Toronto was 15 minutes too late to make our connection.

Instead of winging off to Spain, we spent the night in a Toronto hotel and had to fly to Montreal the next morning to catch a flight from there to Barcelona since Air Canada had only one flight to Spain from each of the Canadian cities every other day.

At least the airline paid for our room and our meals. But they also managed to misplace Judy's luggage, which we found was missing once we arrived in Spain about 24 hours later than expected.

Judy and Stu had made arrangements for an overnight trip to Girona, a charming, old city about an hour's train ride from Barcelona. So we hardly had any time to settle in before heading for the train station. And Judy was not happy to leave without knowing where her suitcase was.

Girona was fun and interesting, although Judy was fretting about her luggage, which Air Canada kept telling us was on the way and would be delivered to our hotel in Girona.

The next day, we visited a very old synagogue that housed a Jewish Museum, which chronicled the history of the Jewish people in Catalonia and, in particular, Girona, before they were forced to convert or leave Spain in 1492. We were told there were still a very few Jews living in the area. But, somehow the museum survived.

A few nervous hours later, as we were preparing to leave our hotel to head for the train back to Barcelona, Judy's luggage finally arrived. It was a huge relief.

Of course, touring the city of Barcelona, eating in the wonderful restaurants and spending time with family was a joy. But, for me, the highlight of this trip was sneaking in the weekend in Paris in the middle of our two weeks on the road.

We took a high-speed train from Barcelona to Paris. I sat at the window for most of the six-and-a-half-hour trip, just watching the countryside pass by. There wasn't a whole lot to see but trees and farms and water, but I thoroughly enjoy the sights while Judy read.

The train hit 198 mph but was so smooth that it felt much slower, much to Judy's chagrin.

With only Friday evening and Saturday and Sunday to see as much of Paris as possible, I studied some of the tour books closely for weeks before the trip.

My main goal for this bucket list visit was to see the Louvre. I purposely found a hotel within walking distance of the great art museum. Happily, it was also just two blocks from a Metro stop.

We had wifi on the train and I went online to see what time the Louvre opened on Saturday. It was my intention to be there before it opened, to maximize our time there. To my joy and amazement, it turned out that the Louvre is open until 10 p.m. on Friday nights. Our train was scheduled to arrive just after 4 o'clock.

"Judy, are you okay with going to the Louvre tonight after we get settled in our hotel?"

She looked up from her book, smiled and said, "As long as you feed me sometime."

We taxied from the train station to our boutique hotel in St. Germain and checked in. It was everything you expect from a hotel in Paris - dark, heavy furniture, tiny rooms and old world charm. Perfect.

After unpacking, we set off in a light rain to walk to the Louvre. Our stroll took us through the small St. Germain business district and onto one of the many stone bridges traversing the Seine River. Just on the other side was the museum.

There was a short line to get in, mostly because of security precautions. But I had bought a museum pass online back in the states and we were inside in moments.

The place is huge, with massive galleries. But, like most tourists, what I wanted most to see were the portrait of Mona Lisa and the statue of the Venus de Milo. It turns out Friday night is pretty quiet at the Louvre and we were able to see everything up close and personal, including me taking selfies with both of those art treasures.

There is a mall attached to the museum and we wound up eating dinner there before heading back to the galleries until closing.

There was a special exhibit that you had to buy tickets for, but it was sold out for Friday night. I bought tickets for Saturday morning at 10 and we were back in the short line to enter the Louvre at 9:30 after a wonderful hotel breakfast of strong French coffee and some of the best chocolate and almond croissant you could imagine.

The museum was much more crowded on Saturday, but we had seen the most important pieces the night before when we were able to just                                                                                        walk up and enjoy them.                                                                        .

 

The weather had cleared nicely by the time we left the Louvre around noon. We strolled through the Tuileries, the formal gardens that link the Louvre to Place de la Concorde, and headed for the Champs Elysee and the Arc de Triomph before heading back along the left bank of the Seine.

It was a long walk and, along the way, we sampled the wares of one of the numerous crepe carts. A real treat.

In the afternoon, we headed to the Musee de Orsay, an art museum housed in a onetime train station and displaying the works of numerous grand masters from 1848 to 1914. As much as I loved the Louvre, I was very taken with the de Orsay - so much so that we did a second visit on Sunday morning.

I asked one of the docents if there was a good place to eat lunch nearby and she gave me a funny look, as if to say, "Hey, buddy, this is Paris."

We wound up eating across the street at a little cafe that features crepe suzette. It was sensational.

We were tired and decided to use our transit pass to take the Metro back to our hotel. We got on the right train, but missed our stop because I was too dumb to realize you had to push the door open yourself. By the time I realized my mistake, the train was heading for the next stop.

We got off, made our way to the platform on the other side and waited for the next train to arrive. When it did, the car was very crowded.

In the middle of the car was a couple with a tiny baby, who seemed to be looking right at me. I waved at the baby and he smiled. I then proceeded to play hide and seek, ducking behind my hands and bobbing up to look at the baby with a big smile.

He began to giggle loudly. Before long, everybody in that car was smiling and laughing. The mother looked at me and mouthed the words "grand pere?" I nodded and she smiled.

This time, I pushed the door open and, as we walked off the car, several people said, "Bonjour!"

That night, we ate dinner at the Le Petit Chaise, one of the oldest restaurants in Paris. It opened in the same spot in 1680 and the decor appears to have changed little in the interim. But the service was  perfect and the food was excellent, particularly the French onion soup and the dessert of vanilla creme brulee.

Sunday, we ate a late breakfast and wandered through some of the shops in St. Germain. I had booked a "Tour of Paris Lights" from home. We were to catch the bus late in the afternoon only a few blocks from our hotel.

But, somehow, I misread the directions and wound up lost as the time of departure got closer.

People in Paris had been unfailingly nice up to then. But the folks I approached to ask directions, including the bellman at a fancy hotel, were downright rude, apparently put off by the fact that I was speaking English.

Between us, Judy and I were able to finally decipher the instructions and found the bus in the nick of time. We were both getting hungry, but I was under the impression that the tour would end at the Eiffel Tower just after dark and we could find a nice place to eat.

The first part of the tour was a drive-by of Paris statues and sights. We were then dropped off for a trip down the Seine on one of the famous bateaux-mouches, the river boats.

It was a warm, pleasant evening and the hour-long cruise that began near the base of the Eiffel Tower was beautiful, floating past people dancing and partying on both sides of the river and seeing some of the great landmarks of Paris, including Cathedral Notre Dame, before the fire.

At that point, it was getting dark and I thought the bus would just drop us off across the road at the Eiffel Tower, where we had tickets to go to the top two floors. Instead, the tour continued - for more than an hour.

I felt like Gilligan. Our two-hour tour had turned into something much different.

Finally, at 930 p.m., we reached the Eiffel Tower. I looked at the prices on the menu of the restaurant in the tower and decided it was a little too pricey for us. We took the elevator up, looked out over Paris for a few minutes and both of us looked at the other and said, "Enough. Let's eat."

We took a taxi back to our hotel. It was nearly 11 p.m. and the cafe at the corner of our street was open and busy. We had stopped in there for coffee the previous evening after our dinner. It was too early for the French dinner crowd, the place was dead and the waiters were pretty uninterested.

But, apparently Sunday night at 11 o'clock is the right time to eat in Paris. The place was hopping.

We were whisked to a table with a smile. It was no fast food place, but the meals came out soon enough as we dined on hamburgers, fries and onion rings that were unusual and delicious.

Finishing dinner after midnight was a bit tough on the stomachs of a couple of old timers like us, but it was also a great experience.

The next morning, we ate one last croissant breakfast before heading to the airport for our flight back to Barcelona, where we spent another week enjoying the sights and the company of my family.

But, as much as I love my sister and her family, and as beautiful as Barcelona is, Paris was the most memorable part of that trip. I'd like to go back some day. But, if I don't, we managed to pack in plenty of good memories in a short time.