THE CAMPING TRIP Camping trips had become a regular activity by the time Tom Ridge was age seven. His mother, father, and he would stuff much-too-small bags with only the necessities-food, drink, flares, matches, and a deck of playing cards. Most memorable to Tom was the battered, softened deck of cards that opened with a whisper like that of an old book, its pages scoured and adored. The cards had originated from his great-grandfather, who had acquired them during the war; they were war hardened and love softened, smooth enough to shuffle easily. On the camping trips Tom and his father, a serious, rugged man with a tender air, would enjoy numerous card games and tricks. It was on these trips that Tom learned how to pay old maid, solitaire, rummy, poker, Texas Hold’em, shanghai, and any other card game imaginable. The family would rummage through brush and thicket to find suitable tree branches to toast marshmallows on. As a child, he would bound fearlessly through the tangles of fallen branches, searching for a stick to toast with and perhaps, if he was fortunate enough, a grand staff. There was something inexplicably magical about the trips; there were many lessons he learned, rather unwillingly about his family, his life, and living. This is why, when he became a father, a new era of forest trekking and stargazing began. Tom was an undoubtedly kind person, the sort of man who opens doors for complete strangers or pays for the next driver passing through the toll gate. Rarely was he quick to anger or forceful; if he had ever been in his life, it was out of passion for those he loved. His warm and unassuming nature flowed from his father to him, then down into his own son, Bradley. Brad, as Tom loved to say, had a cup full of kind and then some. There was no space for hatred in his heart, especially at his current age of five. Never had there been a child such as Brad: almost adult in his reasoning, yet filled with innocence. One particularly muggy July afternoon Tom was seated in the dining room of his home, which was crowded, natural light shining through the sliding glass door. Sipping lemonade slowly he set the glass down, turning to the living room, still seated. “Trisha?” he called gently. Soft footsteps sounded and his wife entered the room, the sun’s birth gleaming on her red curls. A grin broke across his face as he said, “I think it’s time.” She stared, her dark eyes comprehending. Suddenly she smiled; she should have given warning, for she nearly knocked him out of his chair with such a beautiful look. His heart swelled; never had he been so in love, he was sure!
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