I spent very few Friday nights at home during my AP career. So, when I did manage to get a free Friday, Judy and I always tried to find something fun or interesting to do - especially after the kids were grown and doing their own thing.

On one of those rare Fridays at home in 1981, we decided to make one of our infrequent visits to Temple Emanu-El for the Shabbat service. It was a fateful decision.

It was announced that night that the government in the USSR had opened the door for Jews living in the Soviet Union to emigrate to Israel and the United States. Those open periods were few and far between and generally lasted only weeks.

Our temple was one of a number in the U.S. and Canada that was willing to host the emigres and help them settle in.

The temple president asked for volunteers to meet the incoming immigrants at the airport, put them up for a night or two and then help them get through the tasks of getting their green cards, signing up for temporary coverage by Medicaid and getting settled into apartments being provided by Jewish Family Services and other Jewish organizations.

I was just about to start a few weeks of vacation and we had no plans to travel, so Judy and I volunteered.

A few days later, we were given the task of meeting a family named Gelfman at Kennedy Airport. We didn't know how many of them there were, if they spoke any English or had any background at all. What we did know was that their plane from Italy, where they had been living temporarily, was scheduled to land at 1:40 p.m. that Thursday.

I asked Judy how we would figure out who the Gelfmans were? Her eyes lit up and she said, "We'll make a sign."

Not knowing the Cyrillic alphabet _ a deficit she has since filled _ Judy enlisted the help of a Russian speaker at JFS to print out the name for us. She then copied it on a large piece of construction paper.

We headed to the airport on the appointed day not knowing how many people we were picking up or anything else about them, other than their last name.

We had been warned that it often took up to two hours for newcomers to pass through customs and immigration and arrive in the baggage claim area. But, not knowing when they would come out of those double doors, I stood dutifully holding up the sign while Judy sat on the floor next to me reading one of her texts and occasionally looking up to see if I was doing okay.

It was a long two hours before a disheveled woman and a rather large teenage boy walked through the double doors looking tired and a little scared.

By that time, the baggage claim was almost empty and they saw my sign right away.

They walked toward me and I asked, "Gelfman?" The woman looked leery, but nodded yes.

I had no idea if she or her son spoke any English, but I said, "I'm Mike and this is Judy. We're here to pick you up and take you to our home in New Jersey and help you get settled in America."

The woman nodded and said, "I am Rima and this is Eugene."

We managed to get the message across that they needed to get their one suitcase and follow us to our car.

It turned out that Rima spoke only a few words of English and Eugene even less. But, in the car, as I tried to point out a few of the sights to Eugene, sitting with me in the front seat, I heard a constant hum of conversation from the backseat, where Judy talked to Rima in English and Rima spoke to Judy in Russian and the two seemed to somehow understand each other.

Rima, who lived in Minsk, the capital of Belarus, grew up dreaming of coming to the U.S. She secretly listened almost every day to Voice of America. She missed one earlier window to leave because her mother was ill.

But, this  time, as soon as she learned the window was open, she applied for an exit visa. That meant she lost her job and her apartment as she waited several months for permission for her and her son to leave.

Finally, she was in America, and it was all a bit too much at first.

Our house in Westfield had a finished basement with a pullout couch and a bathroom. That's where Rima and Eugene stayed for their first two nights in this country. By the third night, they were in their own apartment in Elizabeth, NJ.

From the first day, it was as if Judy and Rima had a real connection. Somehow, they were able to communicate without language until Judy bought each of them a Russian-English dictionary and began to talk page numbers.

Eugene was an affable and smart young man and quickly began to pick up the language.

The two of them quickly became a part of our family.

To this day, we remain close friends with Rima and stay in contact with Eugene, who went on to graduate from college, got married to a Russian-American and has two children.

Through Rima, we met Lyuba and her family. Also immigrants from the USSR, they lived for a while in the same building as the Gelfmans.

Another couple we got to know in New Jersey were Adolph and Priscilla. Adolph ran a limo service and was often my ride to and from Newark Airport. He was a very nice man and a terrible driver, so bad that at times it was scary to ride with him.

But I felt he needed the business and I kept calling him, hoping that maybe this time his son, who worked with him, would show up.

We found out that Adolph and Priscilla also worked the flea market circuit on the weekends, buying odds and ends from wholesalers and reselling them.

One of the perks of covering the racing beat for AP was that I was constantly coming home with baseball caps featuring a wide variety of logos. I rarely wore a hat in those days, but I brought the hats home and tossed them into my closet. Petty soon, I had a huge garbage bag full of them.

I asked Adolph if he would be interested in trying to sell them at the flea markets and he was very pleased - especially when I gave them to him for free.

We lived in Westfield for 15 years and wound up with some very nice friends, including the Russians and Adolph and his wife. It all came to fruition in 1995 when we decided to sell our house in Westfield and move to North Carolina.

We had a decade and a half of accumulation in our house and decided to hold a yard sale to get rid of as much as we could before the move. Of course, we had no experience with doing a yard sale.

Adolph and Priscilla, veterans of the yard sale wars, volunteered to help us get set up and another friend, Elaine Tibbott, came by to help us price everything.

Then Rema and Lyuba announced they too were going to help with the sale.

On the big day, with early rain turning to bright, clear skies, Adolph and Priscilla helped us fend off the early birds ("vultures who try to cherry pick your best stuff before anybody else can see it.")

Once the sale started, I took care of the cash box, Judy circulated and made decisions on lowering prices and the Russians and Adolph and Priscilla worked the crowds, selling like crazy.

I had put three suits into the sale, all of them altered to fit my fire hydrant build and at least five years old. Lyuba walked up and asked me, "How much the suits?"

I shrugged and said, "If they actually fit somebody, just give them away." Lyuba looked at me like I had slapped her in the face and waved at me, dismissively.

Moments later, she came back all smiles and plunked down cash on the table: "Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen," she said proudly.

This may have been the most successful yard sale in New Jersey that year. We came away with over $2,000 without selling any really big ticket items. But, more than the money, the memory of our friends pitching in and all the fun we had that day, is what lingers in the mind.

Traveling for a living has its pitfalls, but the people who remain at home can also face some difficult situations.

In the days before cell phones, once I left the house I was often out of contact with Judy for many hours. If an emergency arose, she had to deal with it.

I left the house in New Jersey early one fall morning in the mid-80's and headed for Newark Airport and a trip out to the West Coast. About 30 minutes after I left, the phone rang and Judy answered.

Judy, as she always does, said, "Hi!" A quietly eerie voice at the other end of the line said, "Is your husband home?"

She said, "No. He's not here," and the voice rose and said, "I know he's not there. I'm an escaped prisoner from Rahway Prison and I have him bound and gagged."

Judy knew the infamous prison in Rahway, NJ, was on one of the several routes I took to the airport and her heart began beating very fast. But she didn't want to get into a dialogue with the person on the phone without finding help, so she said, "You have the wrong number" and hung up.

"I figured, if he really had you, he'd call back," Judy told me later.

She then raced to my business phone in the other room and called our neighbor, who she called "Paula Perfect" because she did everything so well. Judy told her about the phone call and the neighbor laughed and said, "Oh, that's been going around."

Judy then called the Westfield police and the officer who answered said, "He must be up to the H's in the phone book. Don't worry. It's just some kook making prank phone calls."

I finally called home from Riverside, CA, around 8 p.m. eastern time and Judy sounded unusually relieved to hear my voice. After hearing about the phone call, I understood her trepidation. From then on, I called home more often during the day, just in case.

On a much lighter note, I once left the house in NJ for a three-week trip to Daytona Beach, FL, as a severe snowstorm bore down on the east coast. Judy tried to talk me into staying home until the storm passed, but I was determined to try to fly out of Newark before the storm hit to make sure I was in Florida to begin my coverage of the Daytona 500.

As luck would have it, I flew out of Newark on the last flight allowed to leave before the airport shut down.

When I called home that evening from Florida, the reception was about as cold as the weather in New Jersey.

"Did the storm hit?" I asked. "Yes!" Judy said, icily.

"Are you and the kids okay?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't we be?" she replied. "I've been outside shoveling for the past two hours and I'm about to go out again. So I'm getting off now."

There was a click and the line went dead and I thought, "Wow! She's really upset."

I had no idea she was planning her revenge.

I had taken a limo to the airport that morning, leaving my car in our garage and Judy's car in the driveway.

Our driveway abutted against our neighbor's driveway, which meant there was no place to throw the snow from in between the houses. You had to carry the snow to the front or the back of the houses to pile it up in the yard.

Judy decided a fitting punishment for me running away before the storm was to pile as much snow as possible in front of the garage so that, when I arrived back home, I would have to shovel to get the car out. I'm sure if there were cell phones back then, she would have sent me a picture of the mountain of snow piled in front of the garage door.

The storm passed and so did Judy's anger. We were back to saying, "I love you" before we hung up and Judy and the kids flew to Daytona the day after the race to spend the next week with me in the warm weather.

We visited Disney World and spent plenty of time by the hotel pool and in the ocean. But, as the time came to leave, Judy, smiling happily, said she had a surprise for me when we got home.

As we flew toward Newark, I caught her glancing toward me with a bit of smirk and wondered what this surprise could possibly be.

When we got to the airport in New Jersey, the weather had turned unseasonably mild. But Judy was sure that huge pile of snow awaited me.

I saw her disappointment when the limo pulled into our driveway and she realized that huge pile of snow was gone, the entire driveway clear and dry.

When we got in the house, she told me, rather ruefully, about the "surprise" I was supposed to have found.

"Oh well," she said. "I probably would have helped you shovel the car out anyway."

There was another trip to Daytona Beach when things didn't work out so well for any of us.

Back in the 80's, the International Motor Sports Association held a sports car race at Daytona International Speedway on Thanksgiving weekend. I was scheduled to cover the race and didn't want to miss Thanksgiving with the family, so I took them along.

It was in the 30's with gray, overcast skies when we left Newark. Sunny skies and unseasonably high temperatures in the 80's greeted us in Daytona. We were all thrilled until we found out the airline had misplaced our luggage.

We were all dressed for winter and sweltering in the Florida heat.

Ever the optimist, I said, "Don't worry. We'll go to a store and buy what we need."

But I forgot it was Thanksgiving Day. Nothing was open but drugstores and the ubiquitous souvenir stores.

We bought toiletries from a drugstore and, much to the delight of the kids, we stopped in one of the souvenir stores and bought tee shirts and shorts. I don't remember the rest, but Judy's new tee short had Chinese characters on it and the word FLORIDA underneath.

She thought that was pretty cool since she had been studying some Chinese writing.

We were invited to a Thanksgiving dinner that evening, hosted by IMSA officials at one of the hotels along the oceanfront. And we were the only people there wearing jeans and tee shirts.

Although I explained about our lost luggage, we wound up sitting at a table by ourselves and pretty much ignored by everyone. It was not exactly the festive Thanksgiving I had hoped for.

The luggage finally showed up the next day and the rest of the trip went smoothly.

The next summer, Judy was wearing her "FLORIDA" tee shirt when she volunteered at a school bake sale. Josie Ho, who was born in China and was the mother of one of Lanni's classmates, was also volunteering.

Josie is now one of Judy's best friends, but they barely knew each other at the time and Josie kept staring at the tee shirt.

Finally, Judy turned to Josie and said, "This doesn't say Florida, does it?"

Josie, who is a very kind woman, smiled and said, "No."

Totally embarrassed, Judy cringed and asked, "What does it say?"

Josie smiled and said, "Ne Va Da!"

They both began to laugh.

The next week, Judy took the tee shirt to a local shop and had them imprint Nevada under Florida. She also had them put a check box next to the name of each state, with a check in the box next to Nevada.

We still have that shirt tucked away in a box of old clothes that Judy doesn't want to get rid of.

We lived in Westfield, NJ, from 1980 to 1996, affording us the opportunity to enjoy the wonders of New York City whenever we had the time or inclination.

Westfield is a qtuiet bedroom community for people who work in the city, just 28 miles from midtown Manhattan and within an hour by car, bus or train.

Although we generally stuck pretty close to home when I wasn't on the road, we did occasionally take advantage of having the big city practically on our doorstep for special occasions and when we entertained out-of-town visitors.

One year, when our kids were in their early teens, Judy and I decided to introduce them to Broadway.

We loved going to plays in the city, although the expense did keep us from doing it as often as we would have liked. And, though we had lived in Westfield for a decade by that time, we had never taken the kids to a Broadway show.

Wednesday is matinee day on Broadway and the kids were on their spring break from school. Both of them were enthusiastic about seeing a show, although there was nothing playing that appealed to all of us.

I suggested we just go into the city and go to the half-price ticket booth in Duffy Square (located near Times Square and right in the heart of the theater district.) and just see what was available. Everyone agreed.

We wound up seeing "I'm Not Rappaport," a dramedy starring Judd Hirsch and Ossie Davis, a pair of very fine actors. The play revolves around two old men sitting on a park bench and talking about their problems. Lots of dialogue, no action.

Judy and I enjoyed it greatly. The young ones didn't, although they were nice about it. They even thanked us for taking them.

We decided to have an early dinner in the city before returning to New Jersey and wound up at a Brazilian restaurant in Midtown owned by a friend from racing. It was a great lunch and it raised everybody's spirits.

As we walked back toward the Port Authority Bus Station, we passed the tickets booth, which had just opened for that night's shows. There was no line and I said to Judy, "Maybe we could find something the kids would enjoy more."

The booth was cash only and we counted up what we had. Considering we already had our return bus tickets, we had just enough cash between us for another round of Broadway tickets.

This time we chose a musical, "Chicago," starring Ann Reinking. It's a good show and everybody enjoyed it.

As we walked toward the bus station following the performance, Tory said, "I wonder how many of the kids in my school can say they went to two Broadway shows in one day?"

I don't know about those kids, but I never had. And I haven't since, either.

A year or so later, Judy's friend Vicki was visiting from Indianapolis with her three young teenage kids.

We decided to take a drive into New York City in our midsize station wagon. We cruised the streets for a while, pointing out some of the sites to Vicki and the kids. Her two boys got the biggest kick out of counting limos and spotting women they were sure were prostitutes (they were) on Eighth Avenue, near the bus terminal and Times Square.

Judy asked if we could show Vicki the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where we had stayed numerous times for NASCAR awards banquets. As we drove toward the hotel on Park Avenue, Judy said, "Pull over by the hotel. I want to show Vicki the lobby and the jewelry store."

Like a good husband, I pulled over in a no parking zone near the corner, away from the hotel doorman, and waited with the five kids, who grew increasingly bored as the ladies did their tour of the Waldorf.

Suddenly, I spotted Judy running toward the car in the road, looking extremely excited. Behind her was a very tall man in some kind of fancy uniform and wearing a tall hat.. He was grinning from ear-to-ear as he walked slowly toward the car.

Judy ran up to the driver's side window and, when I put the window down, she said, "There's a ringmaster and some clowns that need to get to Madison Square Garden for a performance and the cabs won't stop for them because they're in costume. Can we give them a ride?"

I looked over my shoulder at the gaggle of kids behind me and said, "Where would we put them?"

Judy shrugged and said, "We'll figure it out. Okay?"

Again, being the dutiful husband _ and knowing Judy always gets her way _ I said, "Okay."

Judy ran back toward the ringmaster, who signaled behind him and what seemed like a hoard of clowns of all sizes suddenly appeared. It turned out they had been performing at a luncheon honoring the owners of the Barnum & Bailey Circus at the Waldorf and were running late for their afternoon performance at MSG.

I was amazed as Judy directed the seating, with Vicki and the ringmaster in the front seat, next to me, Three full-size clowns in the back seat, with a small clown diving across their laps and Judy climbing into the back of the car, joining the five teenagers stuffed in that compartment.

We got some strange looks as we drove crosstown. And, at one point, the too-heavy car scraped one of the city's awful, uneven roadways and tore off a hanger holding up the muffler, which began to drag noisily, The ringmaster apologized profusely, saying the circus would pay for any damage.

But I just laughed. I knew I was going to get my money's worth out of this story.

Just before we got to MSG, the car was quiet and Judy said, "Are any of you Jewish?"

There was a long, somewhat pregnant pause before one of the clowns from the backseat said, "I am. Why do you ask?"

Judy said, "Next week is Passover. Do you have any place to go for a seder?"

He lit up and said, "That would be great. We're here in the New York area for another couple of weeks."

We got them to Madison Square Garden in plenty of time for their performance and exchanged phone numbers with the Jewish clown, whose name was Scott. Turns out he also taught at the clown school in Sarasota, FL, in the winter and was a very personable guy.

A week later, he joined us for our first-night seder in New Jersey and nearly gave Judy's mom a heart attack.

First, although he was out of costume, he entertained the kids by teaching them how to pretend to walk into doorways, a feat that did not sit well with Mom.

Scott behaved himself until dessert was served.

Judy was in the kitchen when her mom burst into the room and sputtered, "The clown ... the clown."

Judy rushed into the dining room and saw that Scott had taken possession of the big fruit bowl, holding it to his chest and pretending to eat out of it.

I saved the day, saying, "Now Scott, that's not nice. You need to pass the fruit around the table."

He made a face, like he was ashamed and, with great laughter erupting in the room, made a big show of passing the bowl to Lanni, who was sitting next to him.

Judy turned to her mom and said, "See. Crisis averted."

Mom said, "I guess so. He seems like a nice boy."

Later that month, as the circus was performing on Long Island, Scott invited us into the city and gave us a tour of the circus train, where he lived while they toured the country.

We kept in touch for a few years, but that was the last time we saw him.

It was a great adventure - thanks to Judy's kindness and her complete inability to realize you can't fit 10 pounds into a five-pound sack.

One of the most surprising and interesting trips Judy and I have taken came about because of our friendship with a Catholic priest, Father Phillip De Rea.

I met Father Phil, whom Judy often described as "less Saint Thomas Aquinas and more Friar Tuck," when he became the chaplain of the Indy car series.

Phil had grown up in Nazareth, Pa., and had been the parish priest at the church attended by the Andretti family. He and Mario had become friends and he began accompanying the driving star to the races, where Phil quickly saw a need for spiritual guidance.

Judy and I spent many a wonderful evening in Father Phil's company at some amazing restaurants. And we met many of his colleagues and friends, which included a wide array of people from all walks of life.

Phil loved people and people loved him. That made him a natural as a fund raiser for the church and he became very successful at raising money to buy vehicles for missionaries overseas and other big Catholic projects.

He rubbed shoulders with a lot of the racing elite - team owners and officials - and became a friend to just about anybody he met. His lifestyle also led to some apparent jealousy within the Church.

Eventually, it also led to the Church deciding to send him to Rome, purportedly to help reopen a very old church near the Vatican that was overseen by two elderly priests, who really didn't want any help.

Phil could have taken the assignment as a punishment but, instead, he jumped into it with both feet, enjoying the chance to work on his Italian and to meet and help new people. It was also the chance to play host to dozens of visitors, family and friends, showing them the delights of Rome.

I was at home in Wake Forest, NC, one summer day in 2004 when the phone rang. It was Phil calling to ask if Judy and I might be interested in attending a conclave at the Vatican. The meeting was to discuss the problems faced by people who traveled for a living, such as circus and carnival folks, gypsies and such. Phil convinced the powers that be at the Vatican to add racing people to the discussion.

Judy doesn't particularly enjoy foreign travel for a number of reasons. For one thing, she likes to stay close to home. And, not speaking any other language but English, she dislikes not being able to understand what is going on around her in public settings. So I expected a firm no when I brought up the subject of traveling to Rome that December, after the racing season ended.

Instead, Judy shocked me by saying, "Okay, as long as we can go to England on the way."

One of my good friends from auto racing was Dennis Morgan, the editor of the Toronto Star's "Wheels" section and, for years, that paper's auto racing reporter. Dennis was an ex-pat, born in England and emigrated to Canada, where he met and married Angelina, who became Judy's friend.

Along the way, Dennis' elderly "Mum" made annual visits to Canada and sometimes accompanied the Morgans to race weekends, where we all became friends.

"Mum is in a home somewhere near London and, if we can visit her, then yes, we can go to Rome, too," Judy said.

Done!

It was a fabulous trip, with a week in England and ten days in Italy, neither of which we had visited previously.

We did indeed travel by train to the small town outside of London where Mum was living. She was delighted to see both of us, but Judy especially, and made sure that Judy tried her dessert that day, Spotted Dick. It was a sort of very sweet pudding.

While we were in London, we did all the usual touristy things, watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, visiting the Tower of London, attending a performance of "The Mousetrap" on the West End, taking high tea at Harrods Department Store and touring Shakespeare's Globe Theater.

When we took the Globe tour, most of it outside, since the theater is uncovered, it was a cold, rainy December day. As we were finishing, I was looking in the guidebook for somewhere to warm up and saw there was a tea and coffee museum and cafe only a few blocks from the Globe.

It was supposed to be open until 5 p.m. and we got there at 4:30. But, just as we walked up to the door, the lights went off inside. We walked in anyway and asked the young lady behind the counter why they were closing early. She said, "Nobody is here." I said, "We are," and she grudgingly turned the lights back on and charged us the full rate for our visit, despite saying they would close in 20 minutes.

We decided to see the museum rather than sit down for a warm drink. Typically, I walked through rather quickly while Judy strolled, read every sign and took notes.

As I walked back toward the cafe in the front of the museum I saw a tall, distinguished and well-dressed man who I recognized from numerous pictures scattered through the museum as the owner. He looked a little stuffy, but I walked up and introduced myself and he turned out to be very friendly and pleasant.

I told him that Judy was still wandering in the museum and it was hard to get her to move any faster. He said, "That's not a problem. I'll send the girls home and she can take her time. I live upstairs, so I'm in no hurry."

When Judy finally appeared, the gentleman invited us to take tea and scones with him. Absolutely delicious.

After answering numerous questions from Judy about tea and coffee, he excused himself for a moment before coming back with a book on the history of tea and coffee and presenting it to Judy. It turns out, he wrote it.

Another wonderful experience.

Judy also wanted to see one of England's famous hedge mazes. We decided to take a train out to Hampton Court, the onetime home of Henry VIII. It was great fun, with docents dressed up and playing the roles of servants from the time of the infamous king. And the maze was beautiful and challenging.

Another highlight of our visit to England was a trip out to Greenwich to have lunch with longtime AP writer Paul Treauthart and his wife, who also took us on a tour of their village.

Finally, it was on to Rome, where we met up with Father Phil, Lewis, Indy car star Helio Castroneves, his sister Katie and his parents as well as Bob Hills, who was also a chaplain for the Indy car series.

Phil had a friend (of course) who owned a beautiful, new hotel just across the street from the Vatican museum. The family had owned a hotel next door for generations before building the new edifice, which was all marble and granite. From the balcony in our room, we could watch people walking in and out of the museum and see the roofs of the Vatican.

And, of course, it was within walking distance of just about everything in the most historic part of Rome.

The conclave, which was held in a meeting room in the Vatican, was fascinating. We were provided with headphones for translations into English from the various languages being spoken. Helio, one of several speakers on the morning we attended, made an impassioned and impressive speech about faith. It was inspiring.

The rest of the trip was just a lot of fun, most of it arranged by Father Phil, who seemed to know everyone in Rome.

He had set up a private, after-hours tour of the Sistine Chapel, led by the curator of the Vatican Museum. While most visits to the Sistine Chapel are in masses of people, often shoulder to shoulder, as you're pushed through to the exit, there were only about 40 of us in attendance and we had about an hour to absorb the beauties of Michelangelo's incredible work.

At one point, Judy and a nun friend of Phil's that she had become friendly with, were lying on the floor of the chapel, pointing out things to each other from the ceiling art. It was a tremendous privilege.

Phil also arranged an audience with Pope John Paul II for our group. We were actually ushered in a back door of the Vatican Palace, the pope's home. There were no metal detectors or Swiss Guards at that entrance. We were just led in by one of the Pope's priest cadre.

He had been very ill for a while and had just come out of the hospital. As it turned out, he died only weeks after we saw him. But, on this day, the Pope was apparently feeling fine and enjoying life.

He was wheeled in on a rolling throne and placed at the front of the room, facing the 50 or so people that were granted this audience. He made a few remarks of greeting in English and then we were all treated to several acrobatic acts by participants in the conclave.

At one point, one of the acrobats slipped from the grasp of his partners and started to fall before being caught just short of the floor by the other men. All of us, including the Pope, gasped in horror and then clapped happily when the man was saved from injury.

Knowing we would be part of the audience, Judy brought a gift for the Pope - "You don't come to somebody's house without a present."

She had bought some warm, fuzzy socks, noting that elderly people, particularly those who don't feel well, get cold feet. I pooh, poohed the idea that she could give the Pope a gift, saying, "You can't just walk up and hand him a package."

But Phil took care of it. He walked Judy up to the Pope's main emissary, a Cardinal from Asia, and told him Judy had "a gift for His Holiness." When Judy told him what it was, the man beamed and said, "I'll make sure he gets this thoughtful gift."

I like to think that, weeks later, when I watched on TV as the Pope's body was carried through the Vatican to be placed on view, that he was wearing a pair of those socks.

When people, including the Castroneves family, lined up to kiss the Pope's ring, as Jews we decided to simply watch and enjoy the ceremony.

Another image that stays with me is of Judy and Father Phil crossing a crazy, busy street in Rome. The traffic there is outlandish and scary, but Judy tucked up under Phil's arm and the two strolled across the street. She figured who in Rome is going to run over a priest. And she was right as cars brakes to a halt and waited patiently for them to cross.

Phil had also arranged for all of us to take a minibus to Parma, where we were invited to be guests of Dallara, which built cars for the Indy car series. The trip up, through a series of mountain tunnels, was spectacular.

We were guests at the company's Christmas party, put up in the company's luxury hotel and treated to a fabulous dinner at a castle owned by Dallara, where everything that was served was either grown or raised on the property.

The next morning, Judy and I and Lewis visited a nearby factory that made and sold Parmesan cheese. As Lewis and I walked through the store at the front of the factory, we noticed that Judy was nowhere to be seen.

When we walked into the factory, looking for her, we found Judy standing with a group of workers who were laughing and talking in excited Italian as Judy stirred a vat of parmesan with a long paddle. There were hugs galore for her before we left with a huge chunk of parmesan to bring home.

We spent part of the afternoon on the way back to Rome in Florence. where we got to see the 17-foot tall statue of David, carved by Michelangelo, in the Accademia Gallery,. One of the benefits of going to Italy in December is that there are few tourists, so we got to walk in and see the statue with no crowd and no waiting. Who knew it was so big?

Of course we saw most of the major sights in Rome, such as The Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain and many of the spectacular cathedrals. We also visited the synagogue in the Jewish ghetto and attended a Friday night service there. It was a strange feeling having to show our passports to the Carabinieri guards, who brandish machine guns and have watched over the synagogue since a terrorist attack years ago.

Some of the meals we had in Rome also stand out, including one at a restaurant inside an ancient cavern that is the oldest continuously operating restaurant in Rome.

One day, Phil was too busy to join us for lunch, but said to pick any restaurant near the Vatican and just tell them that Padre Fillipo had sent us. We laughed and made jokes about him being the most important man in Rome.

Then we found a restaurant, sat down at a table and told the maitre de that we were friends of Padre Fillipo. He lit up and said, "Ah, Amici (friends) of the Padre. We will take care of you."

The food was great and the bill had the appropriate Padre Fillipo discount.

The trip was spectacular and, even this many years later, it brings warm memories, particularly of Father Phil, who passed away several years ago. He was a special  man and a great friend.

Getting permission to do one-off events - like the Baja 1000 and the Pikes Peak Hill Climb - was tough.

The powers that be in AP's New York Sports Department kept a tight grip on the budget and trips considered unnecessary were usually met with firm turn-downs.

During the winter of 1990, as I was working on my schedule for the next season, I looked longingly at the opening race of the Indy Car season, scheduled in March at Surfers Paradise in Queensland, Australia.

It was the first visit to Australia by the American open-wheel series and, adding the fact that I had always wanted to visit "Down Under," I put the event on my proposed schedule, crossed my fingers and sent it off to my boss, sports editor Terry Taylor.

Amazingly, I didn't get a knee-jerk "No!" Instead, Terry called and said, "Get me some numbers - plane fare, hotel, etc., and we'll see."

The Wire Service Guild contract stipulated that we could fly first or business class on any flight over six hours and, obviously, the trip from the  U.S. to Australia would be considerably longer than that. But I checked the cost of business class ($3,400) and coach ($1,440), both on Continental, which was my airline of choice in those days.

I was told, unofficially, that, if I insisted on flying business class, I could forget the trip. But, if I settled for 17 hours in coach, I could make the arrangements. So, coach it would be. I didn't need to rent a car, since most of the media was at hotels next to the race circuit. And most of the other expenses - meals and incidentals - would be very similar to any other race weekend.

After the arrangements were made, I began to have second thoughts about that long, long trip in coach. Then I realized I had lots of Continental miles to possibly use for upgrades. It took a bit of bargaining with the airlines but, in the end, I was able to upgrade each of the five international legs of my trip to business or first class for a total of 30,000 miles.

Friend Lewis was making the trip, too, and got the same deal. Both of us were in Phoenix for a Formula One race before leaving for Australia. We began the long journey with the short flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles before facing hops from LA to Honolulu, Honolulu to Auckland, NZ, and Auckland to Brisbane, Australia before taking a one-hour bus ride to Surfers Paradise, the site of the race.

Our flight from Phoenix arrived six hours before our scheduled departure to Hawaii and we decided to see if we could get our boarding passes and check our luggage.

The Continental ticketing area at LAX was completely empty except for one clerk. He was a small, mousy-looking man wearing a gray cardigan sweater over his uniform and with thick glasses hanging from his neck on a croaky.

He smiled when we approached and said in a light, sing-song voice, "Can I help you?"

I told him we were traveling to Brisbane by way of Honolulu and Auckland and he looked up and said, "Are you going to the Indy?"

Surprised, we both said, "Yes." He then told us that he was a regular visitor to the Indy car race at Long Beach.

All was smiles and pleasant conversation until he tried to pull up our boarding passes. It turned out that both of us were listed for coach seats and had not been upgraded for any of the flights. Worse, all the first and business class seats were locked out.

Lewis and I looked at each other with something approaching despair, thinking about those 17 hours in coach seats with no leg room and people crushed in on both sides of us.

But this little man was not about to give up, particularly since we were fellow Indy car fans. We watched silently as he worked his computer screen, his face screwed up in concentration behind those thick glasses and his fingers flying over the keys.

Five minutes went by. Then ten. Still, we stood silently, watching and hoping.

Finally, he looked up with a broad grin and said, "You're all set."

That man's magic fingers had put us in first class - in the upstairs lounge of the first jumbo jet - for the leg to Hawaii, and in business class for the next two legs on a different plane. He also worked his magic for the trip home, setting us up in business class for the legs from Brisbane to Honolulu and Honolulu to LA.

We gave him our contact info and told him to get in touch with us and we would make sure he had access to hospitality for the next Long Beach Grand Prix. But, unfortunately, we never heard from him.

We were able to wait for that first flight in the first class lounge and the ensuing trip was pretty much a breeze, despite the length.

Upon arriving in Brisbane with great anticipation, we got off the plane among the first group and, as we started to head for immigration, I realized I had left my briefcase in the overhead compartment above my seat.

I told Lewis to go ahead and I turned around. Passengers were still streaming off the plane, coming down the metal stairs, and I realized there was no way I could go against that stream of humanity.

I told a Continental agent my dilemma and he looked at me like I was an idiot, saying, "Well, you can't get back on the plane. You'll just have to wait until everyone is off the plane and we can fetch your briefcase for you."

So I stood there, tired, embarrassed and thinking about missing my bus until the last passenger had left the stairs. Finally, the agent asked my seat number and went to get the briefcase.

When he brought it down the stairs, I felt relief. But then he made me tell him what was in it. It seemed to take forever.

Amazingly, I got to the bus to Surfers in time and got the last seat. And I found myself sitting next to Jim Hall, an Indy car team owner and one of the great innovators in motorsports. Strangely, instead of racing, we talked about shoes.

Jim had foot problems and noticed I was wearing a pair of Rockports. He said his foot doctor had recommended he buy Rockports for walking and this was our major topic of conversation for almost the entire hour-long ride to Surfers.

It was a strange way to begin the much anticipated visit.

If you want a description of Surfers Paradise, on the east coast of Australia, in 1991, think 1950's Miami Beach. With the palm trees, waterways, blue skies and big hotels surrounding the race circuit, Surfers, also known as the Gold Coast, looked just like the Miami Beach that my parents took our family to for winter vacations many years before.

It was mid-afternoon and we were able to pick up our credentials and check out the working facilities before checking into our hotel (a Hilton, just down the road). We ran into several people we knew, including PR man extraordinaire Michael Knight, who invited us to join him for dinner at a local restaurant called Grumpy's.

The restaurant was known for its seafood, particularly an Aussie east coast specialty called "Bugs" by the locals. They are also called flat lobsters, with broad heads, flattened antennai and no claws. Aussies eat them like we do blue crabs in Maryland or crawfish in New Orleans.

The bugs were delicious, but the most fun that night came when Michael tried to order iced tea. It seems that Australians, at least in Surfers, had never heard of such a thing.

After the initial shock at the waiter's lack of comprehension, Michael asked for a cup, a glass of ice, a pot of hot water and a tea bag. When it was brought to the table, he made himself a cup of iced tea. The audience, watching the process, included most of the amazed wait staff and even the chef, who came out of the kitchen to witness this strange ritual.

It was a great start to our Australian adventure.

The next day, with practice beginning on the temporary circuit, I met Dennis Passa, one of the local AP writers and the guy who would have covered the race by himself if I hadn't shown up. He greeted me with a smile and a handshake and said, "Boyo, I'm glad you're here. I know next to nothing about these guys."

He also said he had gotten "a good bloke report" on me from other AP writers who had visited the area.

The day went smoothly, with the highlight, finding out that there was a topless beach close behind the media tent, with the walkway to and from said beach going right past our open windows. I must say, though, that the novelty quickly wore off as the parade of lovely Aussie birds went past and the work inside the tent heated up.

That night, Lewis and I were trying to decide what to do for dinner when we saw a large crowd gathering across the street from our hotel. Walking outside to see what was going on, we found out that it was a free concert, put on as part of the race weekend, featuring Dionne Warwick.

I talked Lewis into eating some of the street food and watching the concert and it was a great evening.

The east coast of Australia is also known for the mining of fire opals. After reading up on the area before the trip, I was determined to buy one of those opals as a surprise for Judy.

The day before the race was reserved on track for the support series, which I was not covering. So that gave me the chance to head for the downtown area and find a jewelry store that had been recommended by a local.

The lady in the store was terrific, suggesting I just pick an opal and let my wife decide if she wanted it mounted in a pendant or a ring. Great idea. But picking the right stone wasn't easy.

I told her my price range - up to $300 - and she brought out a bag and proceeded to pour the contents onto a cloth table. There were dozens, in all shapes and sizes, to choose from, all ranging from $250 to $300.

Finally, I said, "You're the expert. Pick me one she'd like."

The lady zoned in on a beautiful stone, about the size of  raisin, that sparkled with many colors in the light. It was perfect.

We eventually had it made into a pendant that Judy wears for fancy occasions.

The race turned out to be an interesting one and the winner was even more interesting.

John Andretti, Mario's nephew and one of the good guys in racing, got his one and only Indy car win that day, beating Bobby Rahal in a race in which cousins Jeff and Michael Andretti finished seventh and 14th, respectively, and Uncle Mario crashed out in 17th.

It was a really good story for my one and only trip to Australia.

But the good times were not quite over.

Lewis and I were not scheduled to leave for home until late that Monday, so Dennis Passa invited us to have lunch with him and his wife at their farm about an hour away from Surfers. The ride to the farm proved daunting as the morning sun was right in the driver's eyes as we traversed a small mountain pass on a narrow, two-lane highway.

As we came around a 45-degree bend, a very large kangaroo bounded in front of the car. Dennis hit the brakes hard and missed the critter by inches. As we sat their momentarily, two of the kangaroos apparent offspring bounced past, looking at us like we were the strange sight.

We had a nice day and made our flight with time to spare. The trip home was long and generally uneventful, except for a few minutes of consternation in the Honolulu airport.

As the plane was being boarded for the flight to LA, I was called to the ticket desk and asked for my boarding pass. The woman took it and tore it up, which made me nervous. She said, "We're trying to sort out some seat assignments and I'll call you when we're ready for you to board."

I was still sitting there, waiting nervously, when I realized the lounge was empty except for the ticket clerk and me.

Finally, she waved me to the desk and handed me a boarding pass. I didn't even look at it before getting on the plane, figuring it didn't matter where I was sitting as long as I was in a seat.

A pretty flight attendant looked at my boarding pass, smiled and sent me to first class. It turns out that I had been upgraded from business to first. Strangely, Lewis, who was one of the first people to board, was sitting in the next seat over. He had been moved up to first class after getting to his original seat. But all's well that ends well!

By the time I got back to New Jersey, I was totally wiped. But it was a great trip and I loved the part of Australia that I saw and the Aussies that I met. I would love to go back some day with Judy and see the rest of the country.

One of the most interesting personalities I dealt with during my career was Dale Earnhardt.

He was already considered a rising star when I began covering NASCAR in 1980. The year before, as a rookie, he won a race, finished seventh in the points and began to build the reputation for aggressive driving that eventually made him "The Intimidator."

In 1980, driving for California real estate mogul Rod Osterlund, Earnhardt shocked the stock car world, winning five times and taking his first of seven Cup championships.

As you might imagine, I interviewed Earnhardt numerous times that year - but never one-on-one. Somehow, all our meetings were mass interviews or interviews arranged with other writers. At the start of the 1981 season, I wasn't even sure if Earnhardt knew who I was, despite all those interviews.

I decided to try to get to know him better and asked his PR person at the time to see if Dale would meet me for lunch at a Mexican restaurant near the Daytona track and, to my delight, he agreed.

As I sat there waiting for him _ I showed up 15 minutes early _ I was nervous. I had a list of questions, but I didn't know how he would react in a one-on-one situation. I needn't have worried.

Earnhardt showed up right on time, and without his PR person, which surprised me. We shook hands and went through the usual preamble of pleasantries. He was loose and engaging. But, as soon as the tape recorder hit the table, he turned to stone.

My questions were met with an icy stare and curt answers. After about five minutes of this, I knew something had to be done.

I picked up the tape recorder and put it in my pocket.

"Dale, since this is obviously making you uncomfortable, how about I just take notes?"

He looked startled, then smiled and said, "Yeah, let's try that."

The rest of the interview was great. He was alternately funny, charming and informative.

Finally, after my last question, I said, "Why did the tape recorder bother you so much? It's just a way to keep from misquoting you?"

He shook his head and thought about it for a moment. Then he said, "Last year, every day, I had those things pushed into my face. It got so I couldn't stand seeing them. They just make me mad."

I said, "Unfortunately, my friend, you're going to have to get used to it - especially if you keep winning."

He grunted and said, "I suppose you're right. But, for you and me, when we talk, how about you just take notes."

I agreed. And, for the rest of the time I knew Earnhardt, I never used a tape recorder in any of our one-on-one interviews.

Dale was more comfortable in a drivers' uniform or a hunting jacket, but he could dress up really nice.

He seemed at ease each December at the formal events in New York City. And he looked good in his tux.

I always rented a tux for the formal events. But, one year, I decided to buy a shirt to wear with the rentals because the ones that came with the tuxes never seemed to fit right. The new shirt came with some very basic studs for the buttons and the sleeves. But I was okay with that.

We were at a cocktail party prior to the awards dinner and Judy noticed that Dale's tux was highlighted by some very fancy studs.

She walked up to him and said, "Hi Dale. I don't know if you remember me. I'm Mike Harris' wife."

He greeted her kindly and she said, "Mike always leaves me some money for the household when he goes off to the races and I always hold some back to buy gifts. I really like the studs you're wearing and I'd like to get something like that for Mike. Can you tell me where you got them?"

Earnhardt said, "Well, Teresa, my wife, is the one who bought them. I think she got them at a store on Rodeo Drive in LA."

That didn't set off any warning signals for Judy, although it probably should have.

She found Teresa, who greeted Judy warmly.

Asked about the studs, she said, "Oh, I'm sure your husband would love some like that. I found those at Tiffany's on Rodeo Drive. They're emerald. I think I paid $10,000 for them."

Judy thanked Teresa profusely and quickly came to find me.

"You know those studs Dale is wearing?" She asked. "Well, you're going to have to settle for something a little less glamorous."

Eventually, Judy found a very nice set of studs in our more modest price range, and I have worn them on formal occasions ever since. But we both agreed that the Earnhardt situation proved we have good taste in jewelry.

The week leading up to the 2001 Daytona 500 was a busy one. One of the events I covered was a Wednesday luncheon to publicize that Saturday's International Race of Champions event.

By good fortune I wound up sitting at a table with Barbara and Jay Signore, the couple that ran the IROC series, Judy and Bobby Allison and Earnhardt, one of the favorites to win on Saturday and Sunday.

Barb and Jay, two of the nicest people in the world, didn't spend much time at the table because they were being pulled in a million directions. That left the Allisons, Earnhardt and me to ourselves and Bobby, an avid pilot, began to tell stories about flying to midweek races at local tracks with different drivers, including Dale.

At one point, Dale turned to Judy Allison and, with a big grin, said, "Hey, what ever happened to that paper bag?"

Judy blushed and changed the subject, turning to Bobby and saying, "You remember we had to rent another plane that time?"

But Earnhardt was undeterred. Seeing the quizzical look on my face, Bobby explained.

"We usually got show-up money from the tracks in those days, and it was always in cash,'' he said. "Dale came with us and we raced at some track in, I think, New York, and we got a nice chunk of change. We put it all in a paper bag and I told Dale we'd divvy it up later. Then we flew on to another racetrack.

"But Judy needed to get home to the kids or some family thing. So I got her a ride with another pilot and she took the bag with her. We never saw that bag again."

I looked over at Judy and she was smiling innocently.

"Don't know what you're talking about," she said.

At about that moment, Barb Signore tried to step up onto the elevated stage to begin the driver introductions. She stumbled and started to fall backward.

I've rarely seen anyone move as fast as Dale did, jumping to his feet, crossing the aisle in a flash and catching Barb before she fell. I don't think she even knew how close she came to disaster.

Dale sat down and I said, "Nice catch." He just smiled and shrugged.

That Sunday, he was in contention the whole race and was flirting with the lead on the final lap when his car went out of control and hit the concrete wall in turn four on the high-banked oval. Michael Waltrip and Dale Earnhardt Jr. continued to the finish line, ending up one and two.

Waltrip was already in Victory Circle when it became apparent something was terribly wrong. The senior Earnhardt had still not emerged from his wrecked car and it was surrounded by safety and track officials.

I was already well into my race lead when it became apparent that Dale was in trouble. Somebody poked my arm and pointed out that his car was being covered by a tarp, never a good sign.

Then word came that he was being flown to a nearby hospital.

And, long after it became apparent, we were officially told Dale Earnhardt had died in the crash, killed instantly by a whiplash injury.

It was devastating. One of those moments in your life that stands out like an all-caps headline.

I have read that some journalists do their best work when they are under the stress of a tragedy. It also may be because, to keep from crying or just freezing up in those moments, you have to concentrate harder and close your mind to the circumstances until you're done.

Normally, my editor on the race story would have been the senior person  at the track. Instead, I was told to dictate to deputy sports editor Aaron Watson in New York Sports, one of the best editors I ever worked with.

He kept me focused as I filed a half dozen ledes, each one with new information, quotes and color from the scene. Before I had finished for the day, at about midnight, I had written three separate stories and more than 5,000 words.

I hadn't taken time even to go to the bathroom until the last story was filed.

Lewis and I, sharing a room at a beach motel, stopped at the only chain restaurant that was still open near the track to get a bite to eat. It may have been the quietest meal the two of us have ever had. I was still in shock over the loss of a man I truly admired.

The next week was tough as we dealt with the investigation of the crash, the funeral and the race the next weekend at Rockingham, NC. It had to be covered thoroughly but, at times, I felt like I was just going through the motions.

Deaths in auto racing are inevitable and always terrible tragedies, but losing the biggest star in the NASCAR firmament was something else.

To illustrate how big that story was, one of the AP executives traveling in Asia that week, sent me the sports section from the English language newspaper in Tokyo. The headline, above my byline, in huge bold print: "EARNHARDT KILLED AT DAYTONA".

There was a pall over much of that season, although it did fade as we moved toward the end of the year.

And then, on a rare week off late in the season, I was playing golf when I got a phone call from sports editor Terry Taylor congratulating me winning the AP Sports Editors organization's Best AP Story of the Year and Best AP Deadline Writing _ both for the Earnhardt coverage.

It was bittersweet. I was extremely honored to win the awards and, at the same time, sad about the reason I had to write those stories in the first place.

Auto racing and NASCAR, in particular, lost a true icon the day Dale Earnhardt died in that crash. But the one big positive that came out of it was that the investigation and subsequent efforts by a number of people led to much greater driver safety equipment, including head and neck restraints that have probably saved numerous lives since.

Traveling with Judy and the kids in my early days on the auto racing beat was often an adventure.

I was set to cover a NASCAR race at Bristol Motor Speedway in Bristol, TN when the kids were about seven and eight. They had been begging me for a chance to come to one of the races and this seemed like a perfect opportunity to make it happen.

The race was going to be televised live in Bristol, so Judy and I made a plan to get her and the kids to the track for the first half of the race. Since I had a reserved media parking spot on the road leading up the hill to the press box on the outside of the track, they could leave after the halfway point, avoid the post-race traffic and watch the end of the race from the comfort of our motel room.

I caught a ride to the track from one of the other writers and would do the same for the trip home after I was done writing.

As the start of the race neared, I was in the press box but keeping an eye out for the car, hoping Judy and the kids got to the track and into their grandstand seats in time for the start and without mishap.

Our car, a Pontiac station wagon with a Sears clam shell carrier on top, was easy to spot. And I'm sure I got a big smile on my face when I saw the car turn into the track entrance. But that smile turned to a worried frown and I began to mutter under my breath when I saw Judy pass the road to the outside media parking area and continue straight toward the infield.

As I muttered, "No, no. Don't do that," she drove the car over the track and into the infield, where she was directed to a parking space.

First, I wasn't sure she and the kids would know how to get to their seats on the outside of the track before the gates were closed and, second, I knew if the car remained in the infield, she and the kids would have to stay, not only until the end of the race, but for at least an hour afterward, until the track opened the gates again.

Judy later told me she kept asking people where the media parking was and they just kept waving her forward. When she went over the crest onto the banked track, she knew she was in the wrong place but didn't know how to fix the problem.

I'm not sure I have ever run that fast in my life, before or since. Fortunately, I had an extra key to the car in my wallet. Taking the chance that the family had crossed the track and found their seats, I raced to the car and moved it back across the track to my reserved parking spot, just in the nick of time.

Now, I had to find Judy to let her know I had moved the car. But I had no idea where their seats were located in that massive crowd.

What I didn't know was that Judy had spotted the car leaving the infield and said to the kids, "Either somebody's stealing our car or daddy is saving us."

She watched to see where I parked the car and the three of them walked to the parking area to find me. But I was already back in the press box, waiting for the race to start and worrying about how I was going to contact Judy.

My wife is very resourceful. She tried to get to the press box but was stopped because she didn't have the right credential. Nobody was willing to leave their post to come tell me she was trying to find me.

Finally, though, Judy knocked on the door of the radio booth. Longtime friend Eli Gold was on the broadcasting team that day. He had somebody watch Tory and Lanni for a few minutes and walked Judy to the press box, getting her inside the door so she could find me.

Problem solved. Back to the original plan.

By the time the race ended, the kids were in their beds at the motel, sound asleep and very happy they had gotten to see a race - and eat all kinds of concessions food they normally weren't allowed to eat.

We took the kids most everywhere we went, but there were a few times we got a baby sitter.

One time, we were in Florence, SC for a race at nearby Darlington. Judy and I were invited to an awards dinner at a local country club, not a place for the kids.

The lady who managed the motel had a 15-year-old daughter who did baby sitting. And the manager also noted she would be just down the hall if there were any problems.

The kids were in bed by the time we got home and paid the sitter, who simply said the kids had been "just fine."

Moments after she left, Tory got out of bed and, looking very serious, said, "I have something to tell you."

It turns out that, when it was bed time, the sitter told the kids to say their prayers and be sure to say they took Jesus Christ for their lord and savior."

Tory told her, "We don't do that. We're Jewish." The sitter replied, "Well, I hate to tell you, but that means you're going to Hell and you'll be damned for eternity."

Lanni, lying in her bed, began to cry. But Tory told us he put his arm around her and whispered in her ear, "Don't worry, Lanni. We're Jewish. That that doesn't apply to us."

Apparently that was enough for Lanni and the two of them went to bed without further ado. But Tory obviously waited up for us to make sure we not only heard the story but assured him that he was absolutely right in his assessment of the situation.

A really good big brother.

A few years later, we were in Daytona Beach for a July NASCAR race. We were staying at an oceanfront motel that had a very nice pool area.

There were quite a few other writers and pr people staying there, many of them with their families.

Lanni had become quite friendly with one of the girls around her age and they were hanging out together by the pool when a black family arrived.

Two black kids went into the pool just as Lanni took off her cover-up and headed toward the water. The other girl said, "You can't go in now. There's n.....'s in there."

Lanni later told us she smiled at the other girl and said, "Oh, we're northerners. We don't care."

With that, she dove into the pool and said hello to the other kids. The other girl shrugged and followed Lanni into the pool and nothing more was said.

We're real proud of those kids - and not just for those moments.

Of course, they were not always perfectly behaved. In fact, Tory, who was 11 at the time, nearly scared us to death one year in Miami, FL, where I was covering an IMSA sports car event.

We stopped by what was then the brand new and very fancy Intercontinental Hotel in downtown Miami to pick up my race credentials.

The kids were squabbling that day and Tory was being a real pain to his sister. As we stood in line at the credentials desk, I barked at him to leave his sister alone and behave himself. He made a face and scurried away.

The last I saw of him, he was diving under a table, which was covered by an overhanging linen cloth. Judy and Lanni stayed in line with me and, after I got my credential, I walked over to the table to get Tory.

I looked under the cloth and he was no longer there.

I got a little perturbed and we looked around the room for him. Then we went out into the massive lobby area and looked for him there, calling his name. I stopped at the front desk and asked if they had seen a young boy wandering around. They hadn't.

At first, we were just upset that he had walked away. After about 10 minutes of searching, we got worried.

I had the desk clerk call hotel security. They asked if Tory would run away and both Judy and I assured them he would never do that. At that point, they took his absence seriously and began a room to room search of the 35-story, 641-room hotel.

My stomach was in knots and, not knowing what else to do, I walked out the front door and started to walk toward nearby Biscayne Bay, hoping against hope to spot him. As I walked I saw a head pop up behind the seawall and then quickly duck down. It was Tory - hiding from me.

I was so angry, I could have spit nails. I'm a fast walker normally and I did a power walk straight to where I had seen him. I found him hiding behind the wall and grabbed him by the back his shirt  collar and kind of frog-marched him back to the hotel.

Tory was trying to tell me that it wasn't a big deal that he had wandered off. Then the doorman saw us coming and asked, "Is that Tory?"

Suddenly, he realized this was probably more serious than he had expected.

I called off the hotel search and apologized to the hotel staff and security people, who said they were just happy he was safe.

Of course, we told him he was grounded for at least a month. But it was hard to stay mad at that kid.

At the previous IMSA event in Miami, we were staying at an old hotel in downtown. The race course included part of Biscayne Boulevard, just outside the front entrance of the hotel, and the media center was the meeting rooms at the top of the 28-story building.

I asked Judy to bring the kids up to the media center to watch a practice session. She was credentialed, but the kids were not. As she tried to get into the elevator in the lobby, security stopped her and said the kids could not go up.

My wife, always quick on her feet, looked the guy in the eye and said, "Well, do you expect me to leave them here?" She quickly ushered them into the open elevator and pushed the button before the security guy had a chance to respond.

The next day, Tory asked Judy if he could walk up the stairs from our room to the media center to be with me? It was only a couple of floors, so she said yes.

Unfortunately, all the doors in the stairwell were locked from the outside. When Tory got to the top floor, he couldn't get in. He knocked but no one heard him.

Finally, he walked back down to the floor our room was on and found that door locked, too.

He did not panic, though. He walked the rest of the way to the lobby, trying the door on each floor along the way before finally finding an open door on the main floor.

Tory then went to the elevator and told the security guy he was going back to his room on the 25th floor. Once in the elevator, he rode to the top floor, found me and stayed with me until I had to start writing.

At that point, I called Judy to take the elevator up and fetch him. She found she could not go up on the elevator without going all the way to the lobby and showing her credential or room key first. But it all worked out in the end.

When the kids got a little older, they often went with me to the races and the tracks put them to work. Sometimes they handed out notes and drinks and other times did whatever errands came up.

Tory never got into it all that much, preferring to read his comic books or find a TV to watch, although he did enjoy talking with the other writers and photographers. But Lanni found she liked helping out.

We were at the Pocono track one year when Lanni, about 14 at the time, saved the day. The only copier in the media center stopped working. Calls to maintenance to come fix the machine went unanswered for long enough to cause a lot of concern.

At the end of the long day, I walked into the office to pick up the kids and was met by the track PR guy who said, "Lanni saved us. She fixed the copier. She's really something."

Turns out she figured out how to open the top of the copier and was able to clear a paper blockage when none of the adults on hand could manage it.

Those days were certainly fun and interesting.