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My brother Gene was born a year after I was. From the beginning we looked like blonde-headed twins, but we had our differences. His dark tan appeared with the first rays of summer. I had freckles and a lot of envy for a guy who did not have blisters and peeling skin. We were inseparable.

In our teens, we enjoyed a glorious day at the Riverside Amusement Park in Indianapolis one summer. It was not Disneyland in size or appearance, but I would not know the difference for a decade or more. Our whole family and cousins Bobby and Andy lined up for a day of fun.

It was a selfish adventure. I do not have memories about anybody that day unless I rode something with them. With that in mind, Bobby got nauseous on the airplane ride. When he asked me to stop, I probably should have quit maneuvering the rudder that spun out plane in all directions. Maintenance spent a few minutes cleaning up the mess.

The roller coaster was terrifying. Gene and I raced to get in the last car, but that might not have been such a great idea. The seat belts would not tighten, and the safety bar that came down across our laps did not latch. The ride started slowly as the carts climbed the first incline at a snail’s pace; but, as momentum picked up, “amusement park” seemed an inappropriate title.

Each time the coaster crested a hill, the safety bar lifted; and we held on for dear life. At one point my glasses flew off. I lunged and caught them as we started down. With one hand on the bar and the other extended to grab the frames, I felt like a bronco buster.

Later Gene spotted a cage that resembled an elevator compartment with chicken wire on the sides. Two people could step inside and try to set it in motion. By shifting your weight back and forth and pulling on the handrails, you could make it swing and turn a full circle on the bar above that it was hinged to. Most of the people ahead of us made only one or two turns, but a few had managed to do it ten times. The crowd was mesmerized when a dynamic duo completed twenty rotations.

Success required balance and strength and timing. Once the door was latched, we started pushing and shifting our weight. Gene and I worked well together. In no time at all, we managed ten turns. Soon we were at thirty and were keeping score out loud. By fifty the crowd was counting with us. At ninety the man in charge signaled for us to stop, but the on-lookers chanted louder. We were determined to reach the century mark even though the attendant pulled the brake, so we continued until we heard the magic of one hundred.

I wish I were still in that kind of shape, but what I wish for even more is balance, though a different kind. Shifting weight and moving feet seems less important now. What I struggle with today is balancing opportunities and obligations and balancing work time and family time. It is a difficult, constant challenge.

The year before our daughter April died, I sat down one evening after wrestling practice. I asked myself what I knew about my varsity athletes and what I might do to motivate them more effectively. Immediately fifteen to twenty notes about each athlete were written down.

My daughters were running through the room as I compiled the lists, so I asked myself the same question about them. I could only muster five or six thoughts about each of the girls and was devastated by the difference. It was a glaring imbalance.

That evening I penned my resignation from high school coaching and resolved to spend more time with my family. I have memories about doing many things with my kids in the twelve months that preceded April’s death and cherish each one. Yet, if the crowd were counting those outings, I doubt they would have reached a hundred.

I will always be trying to catch up on the things I wish I could do with them.

Adapted from “Balance,” pages53-55, Daffodils and Dog-ears