Where the Wilde Things Are

I cradled my face in my hands today. I tend to do that when I'm frustrated, stressed or confused. I've been getting to that place less often these days. It's been a nice change. Our family story seems to be easing out of some turbulent years but I still find my face in my hands on occasion. While rubbing my face, I start to think. Maybe rubbing my forehead is my brain's brake pedal. I suffer from varying degrees of male stupidity and the stupider I get the more pressure I apply. Hey, sometimes you need to slam on the brakes. Self preservation, and all. This time it feels different. I think I've become so sensitive. I'm rubbing my brow because I told my daughter she couldn't go on a 4 mile run with me. I shouldn't feel bad. She hasn't run a mile in a year! Plus, it's rough terrain in ninety degree heat. I think I remember reading something important in the manual that came with her when we left the hospital. Oh yeah, I remember! &q

Floating down the river started out slow and relaxing. I was with my boys, one on a  body-board, the older with nothing but flip-flops. The river is slow and low. No more than hip deep. There are some gentle rapids where the water is squeezed together by the land but nothing to write home about. We floated together down the cool waterway chatting as we went. "Hey, Dad. Look at me! I can jump off this big rock!" I would look up, nod with a grin and float on. "Daaaaaaad, wait!", and I didn't wait. There will come a day soon when I will look back in regret. I'll wish I had waited to watch my young boys jump a hundred times trying hard to impress me. I might be in an empty house or on an ocean somewhere, remembering and longing. I won't remember why I floated past my boys that day. They will be grown living for their own dreams and families. Watching them float on. Stay Wilde! -Erick Wilde More on this story can be s

I wake up with a Benadryl hangover most mornings. The hangovers come on the heels of relief so there's a bittersweet note to the morning. Hitting the coffee brew switch becomes a task through the morning fog. I look forward to the coffee clearing the fog. The coffee did it's job today but turned bitter. The flavor was fine but the ritual was tarnished by a different chemical precursor. Human emotional fury is chemical, right? Hormones and shit? It feels strange to be jolted into a reality by conflict. "Attack!", they say. "Oh, I didn't know we were there yet!", I reply. There was no victim. Just two offensive and immature adults, dukeing it out. Why? I guess people just get bored. The coffee worked because there is no morning fog. But I can't get this bitter taste out of my mouth. I get the feeling it's coming from me anyway. Whatever. Coffee is sometimes bitter too.

Linsey and I have been together a long time yet we never run out of things to talk about. I think it's a sign of a healthy relationship. Today has been a busy day exercising our gift of gab. I'm just a little tired from sharing our gift with the world so I will keep this one short.  The first This Wilde Life Podcast is published and ready for review. In the next few weeks, you should be able to find us on iTunes, Spotify, Google Play Music, Google Podcasts, Stitcher and Alexa (Amazon). The podcast is under review but it should be accessible very soon. Stay tuned to our Instagram/Facebook account for the deets! To listen, subscribe and share now,  click this link ---- > This Wilde Life We love to entertain so we want to keep the podcasts engaging, funny, thought-provoking and authentic. We hope to have interviews with other interested (and interesting) peeps as often as possible. Let us know if you are interested in being on the show! We would love to hear fe

We reached the point of no return soon after deciding to go on the road. Life was unraveling and we thought we made an irreversible mistake. Circumstances were pushing us toward homelessness. Adversity is a wonderful catalyst. It pushes innovation, creativity and introspection. We were facing two thousand dollars in repair work on our motorhome before we got it home. Nothing unexpected. We hoped that would be the end of our troubles; we were wrong. Within days of our return we packed our things, crammed the kids into the motorhome and limped our way to an RV park. It wasn't long before another mechanical diagnosis revealed our engine on the verge of falling apart. We said goodbye to another four thousand dollars and moved our family of six into my mom's two bedroom house. After a month and a half of repairs and delays we moved back into the RV. Mile after mile, I listened to the engine chug along, fearing an impending breakdown. Seven months later, it is still ru

People make comments about the road-life we lead. Most say we are blessed, lucky, fortunate or favored (some think we are dangerously irresponsible). The comments come with a hint of wishful yearning from people envisioning their lives in full-time travel mode. There is a romantic jealousy epidemic these days and a few things need to be set straight. Be prepared to bear with me; this might take a few posts. To begin, road-life is easily confused with vacation life. We hear about families taking the leap into their RV only to spend their savings, complicate close relationships and end their trip in bitter regret. Our first attempt at the nomadic life ended the same way with the tragic results. The Wildes naively set out on full-time vacation three years ago. Here is what we learned. Vacation is a healthy drug. Most people use vacation as an annual therapy. But too much of a good thing is too much of a good thing. All of us acted like addicts when we went on full-time vacati