We didn’t hang out in Utah very long. We drove 30 miles into Salt Lake City, then north along the shore of the lake. We had lunch with Tom Laabs-Johnson (right), a classmate of mine from the high school days, a social worker who helps troubled youth.
Tom is one of those people who has never uttered an unkind word about anyone. In the three years we spent together in a dormitory at the Darrow School, I never saw him without a smile on his face. He showed up to meet us in shorts, despite the chilly March weather. “I wear shorts 365 days a year,” he said.
“You guys are perfectly welcome to stay at our place for the Winter Olympics in 2002,” Tom offered.
It was a touching invitation, but we were in rather a hurry to get back home. We had just a 9-day window to travel while our daughter was in France on a McGuffey High School French Club trip, and she was due back in a couple of days. Still, the scenery was so breathtaking around Salt Lake that I wouldn’t have minded spending the next six years at Tom’s house.
Instead, we pointed our vehicle eastward on Interstate 80, and in a few hours we were in Wyoming, headed for at least one more unforgettable experience.
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