I first met Mac when I needed him most. He was two years old and the second child of modestly affluent parents who were both career-oriented. Mac was non verbal and appeared to lack both fine and gross motor skills typical for his age group. A beautiful child, Mac took a back seat to his highly intelligent but troubled ten year old brother, Sam. In the suburban household in which Mac and Sam resided the gold coin of human worth was intelligence as well as attractiveness and poor Mac just didn't make the grade. Frequently agressive and destructive, parents saw misbehavior in Mac as 'being a kid' and ignored him while Sam was questioned nightly about school quizzes and studies. Sam, relatives felt, would be a shoo-in for an ivy league college if only he would apply himself to the goal. And Mac? No one cared to speculate about Mac's prospects.

A person adrift for the previous seven years, I had married a Tennessee rancher, Chip, in 1985 in the hope of finding a home and the family I had never been privledged to experience. After years in big cities the rural life was idyllic even if the union was somewhat lacking in most respects. Chip's idea of a wedding had been a hurried mumble-mumble affair with none of his family in attendance due to the fact that he hadn't the nerve to tell them we were getting married. Our honeymoon consisted of going straight home to meet my older stepchild's school bus so that she wouldn't guess anything unusual had happened that day. Our wedding night I poured over old photographs and went to bed while Chip was out playing tennis with 'the boys'. Over the years nothing changed except to get worse. The farm failed and the marriage was dead long before it hit the ground in divorce court in 1989.

So here I was, back once more in DC, looking for a safe harbor and a place to heal. It was a natural thought to turn to that about which I knew the most; child rearing. The job was sketched out to me as being of approximately one year in duration. Fine, I told Mac's parents. I planned to get myself together and relocate to some as yet undecided locale. I could not have foreseen that I was not to change locales for another ten years.

The deeply masculine voice on the other end of the line sounded so incredibly adult.

".......mom's in France again with her boyfriend and trying to take it off her taxes. You know how it goes..."

"How's Boo Boo, Mac? Do you still have your dog?"

"Yeh, Boo Boo is seven now."

"You were so young when we got her. It seems like a million years ago."

"Not to me!" Mac declared.

"You remember?"

"I remember everything."

"The cats?"

"What cats?"

And I knew I had him.

It was July of 1988, ten months after I moved in with Mac's family, that everyone left for an extended vacation in England. Everyone, that is, except Mac and myself. A few months prior to the departure Mac's mother, Sara, declared that she wanted Mac to have a vacation, too, and that she was having her travel agent rent a house for us in the mountains or the beach. Roughly two weeks before the departure for London I was informed that there had been no rentals available anywhere in the quad-state area and that we were very lucky because we were going to have a chance to vacation camping out. They had found a small pup tent in the garage and that would do for Mac and perhaps I could go buy a tent somewhere on payday. Of course the campgrounds were booked and there was no space there but perhaps some kind farmer would let us stay in his pasture.....? Oh, and they wanted to give me a little extra just for keeping Mac around the clock those weeks...say maybe a hundred dollars more. Wow, gee, what generousity, I thought. Next we'll be told to sleep in a cardboard box under a freeway and call it the Hilton. In the end we were given three cans of Sterno as the total contribution to our vacation.

I decided to take Mac to Harpers Ferry. It was only sixty miles and even the ancient work car allotted us for the trip with its threadbare tires would make it that far. The day before the parental departure Mac and I hit the road. It was evening when we arrived and stopped in a small convenience store in Boliver on our way into town. Luck was with us and we stocked up on some of Mac's favorite foods including cookies and chocolate milk. We walked the streets and climbed the cliffs high above Devil's Staircase in the Potomac. The night birds wheeled and called that strange mournful cry which made me think of all those who had fallen during the taking and retaking of Harpers during the American Civil War.

"Have another cookie, Mac." I offered.

"No, thank you. Take me home now."

"Er, Mac, we're not going home."

"I SAID take me home!"

"Can't do that, partner. We're staying here for tonight."

"I don't think you understand. I am telling you to take me home."

"No. Have some more milk."

"I'm not accustomed to sleeping anywhere except my room."

"Not tonight."

"I'm going home!"

"Long walk, kid. You should get there in a few weeks."

"I won't sleep a wink then!"

"Suit yourself."

I walked Mac around the Hilltop Hotel to the parking lot and opened the car.

"Let me give you a hand getting in."

"What's this?"

"No one gave us money to stay anywhere so we're sleeping in the car. I brought your favorite pillows, your quilt, your toys, and here are the toy soldiers I bought you."

The back of the car was more than ample for Mac's small mattress and other belongings. I climbed into the seat in front of Mac. For a time we sat there quietly conversing as, one by one, cats began to assemble behind the landmark hotel where Mark Twain once stayed. Within minutes there were dozens of cats surging past us toward the kitchen of the inn.

"Kitties!" exclaimed Mac.

"That they are." I confirmed.

The child's wide eyes and open mouth clearly displayed his amazement and pleasure.

"Kitties." Mac repeated sleepily.

And while the 'kitties' feasted Mac slipped into a gently snoring slumber.

The next morning we did the town; the wax museum, the shops, the firehouse where John Brown made his stand and lost his freedom. Toward evening we did drive back to Maryland and Mac's own room which, for some reason, had lost it's charm for Mac.

We were to have many adventures throughout the decade to come; fishing expeditions and picnics, trips to out-of-state parks. We rode bikes in the pouring rain because Mac wanted to know what it would feel like. We laughed at bad weather and cried over sad movies and played on a playground by the light of fireflies on a summer evening. There was a new sense of wonder and excitement in the simple things long forgot or never experienced; a quickening of the spirit.

And that was Mac's gift to me. I had been recalled to life.

For years Mac talked about the river of kitties to anyone who would listen and then there were fewer and fewer references to what Mac described as "The BEST adventure of my WHOLE life!"

Knowing Mac was my best adventure.

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