Recently, I accompanied my wife to a museum to look at royal tea settings from other centuries. Why did I do this? Because I am a really loving husband, and the Red Sox game had just been rained out.

In the car ride there, we were listening to Antonia Fraser's biography of Marie Antoinette, the 18th-century French queen who would be decapitated by guillotine, a casualty of the French Revolution. Most of what I know about Marie Antoinette I know because of Kirsten Dunst. I saw the 2006 movie in which she played the doomed French monarch.

Actually, that's not completely true. I built a plastic model of a guillotine when I was a little boy, and it came with two plastic royals roughly the size of Barbie dolls, a male and a female, whose heads could be lopped off. (Yes, I did have amazing parents. There was no toy they wouldn't buy me, no matter how inappropriate, if it was made of plastic and had some vague connection to learning.) And so I knew also that if Marie Antoinette's head had been hollow and small and made of plastic, it would be easily lost if it rolled under the bed.

In any case, as I was looking at the elegant tea settings, I found myself thinking of the lavish -- and spectacularly time-consuming -- rituals that marked Marie Antoinette's life at Versailles. And I realized that although the world is a different place now than it was two and a half centuries ago, some things haven't changed: The exceptionally wealthy still have too much time on their hands. And everyone in this country who isn't exceptionally wealthy -- but has the resources for a TV and a satellite dish -- is obsessed with how the rich while away the hours.

Moreover, if in addition to being rich, you are young, beautiful and female, how you spend your days (and nights) will be even more interesting to the rest of us. To wit: Every morning my computer's home page, www.msn.com, will have a story about how Lindsay or Paris or Britney is spending her time, (or in the case of Paris, how she will soon be doing her time). Likewise, on MTV we can see celebrities' cribs, nests and pads, while the E! Channel offers celebrity dish just about 24/7 (including "The 50 Most Shocking Celebrity Scandals," and E!'s "True Hollywood Stories"). And, of course, there is that TV grandpappy of them all, "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous."

Our interest is prurient and mixed with a generous dollop of schadenfreude -- or pleasure at their comeuppance. Who didn't smirk when they realized that Paris would be spending time in the slammer?

Nevertheless, lately I have actually felt a little sympathy for Paris and her peers -- especially Lindsay, who is back in rehab -- just as I found myself feeling bad for Marie Antoinette as her story unfolded for me. Sure, the peasants who stormed Versailles were pretty darn hungry. And, yes, the wealthy we watch stumble today seem oblivious to the poverty that exists deceptively near their walled compounds.

But how much of their bad behavior is the result of bad parenting -- a sense of entitlement that is nourished from birth? How much stems from our encouragement that they fill their free time (which is, more or less, every single moment they're awake), with behavior that we would never tolerate from our own children?

That same weekend when my wife and I saw the tea services and listened to the biography of Marie Antoinette, we attended an awards ceremony at Smith College. What struck us both was the exemplary attitude of service that marked so many of the graduates: The work they had already done with the poor and the needy in the world, and their plans for the future. It was profoundly moving.

I don't imagine there will be a revisionist biography of Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan in 200 years. But you never know. Their stories aren't finished yet, and perhaps they do have second acts within them. And time, amazingly, is still on their side.

(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on June 3. To examine the Antonia Fraser biography of Marie Antoniette, click here.)

Finally, Lincoln has a third Wiffle ball park. I know I'm not alone in Vermont when I say, "It's about time."

The new facility, Twin Oaks Park, is smack in the center of the village and is in some ways reminiscent of Citi Field, the future home of the New York Mets, which is now under construction in Queens, N.Y. Both parks use grass, instead of artificial turf, and both are located in the Western Hemisphere.

There, however, the similarities end. Citi Field will cost about $610 million, which is about $610 million higher than the price tag for Twin Oaks. Citi Field also has 646 toilets, and Twin Oaks has none -- though I presume in an emergency a man could use one of the oaks that give the park its name.

Everything at Twin Oaks is understated compared with Citi Field. Whereas the future home of the Mets will boast restaurants with a seating capacity of almost 3,400 people, when I was at Twin Oaks on opening night last month, the fare included a bag of Sun Chips and a small tub of dip. But those chips were mighty good.

Twin Oaks is the brainchild of Wiffle ball park designer Matt Brown, 20. He cut the grass in the field behind his house, and found some garden posts and 3-foot high garden fencing in his parents' barn. Then he sprinkled some white lime onto the field, replicating precisely the dimensions recommended by Wiffle Ball, Inc., and the dream became a reality.

As Kinsella wrote and Costner learned, "If you build it, he will come."

Brown's field of dreams, however, is actually the third Wiffle ball park in Lincoln. The others? Mike Moriarty's Friendly Confines at DR Field on Quaker Street, and Tommy Thompson's Gap Bridge Field a mile east of the center of town.

Some people might ask if a town the size of Lincoln can support three Wiffle ball parks, but I was far from alone on opening night at Twin Oaks -- at least if by "far from alone," you mean "one of two spectators present." Watching with me that night was Jim Brown, Matt's father, and Jim is very good company and so it was sort of like "far from alone." Also, the players talk to the spectators between innings, which Major League players only do if you are from ESPN or you're a federal agent with a subpoena investigating steroid use. That, too, made the stands feel good and crowded.

Just for the record, "stands" isn't exactly the right word, either. Perhaps "a single, collapsible lawn chair that Jim got to before I did," would be more precise.

But the four-on-four Wiffle ball game was as exciting and dramatic as any Wiffle ball game I have seen in years. Thirty-seven-year-old middle school science teacher Chris Oxley lumbered like Manny Ramirez into the furthest reach of an outfield corner and made a desperate bare-handed leap -- imagine a gazelle weighed down by a Mini Cooper -- just as a Matt Brown wallop was about to fall over the fence for a home run. Local youth pastor Todd Goodyear, who is the most competitive human being on the planet when it comes to team sports or eating, scooped a sizzling grounder off the grass and pegged it home with the grace of, well, the world's most competitive youth pastor. And Moriarty didn't seem to mind pitching away from the familiar confines of his own park: His fastball sizzled into the piece of ratty aluminum Brown mounted on a stick and placed behind home plate to serve as a strike zone.

Citibank is paying roughly $20 million a year for the naming rights to the new stadium in Queens. My sense is Brown wouldn't get quite that much if he ever tried to sell naming rights to Twin Oaks. But the value of a good game of Wiffle ball on a summer night in Vermont? Priceless.

(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on June 10.)

When my father, like most men of his generation, is confronted by small children, two things happen: First, his voice climbs multiple octaves, and he sounds like a Teletubbie. This is true even now when he is talking to my daughter -- his granddaughter -- who is 13. Next, he retreats as fast as he can into Grownup World, which in his corner of South Florida means lengthy discussions of golf and colonoscopies.

He is flirting with 80, but he still can play an excellent game of golf and hold his own in poker. His poker would be on a par with his golf, but I'm not sure he sees most of the cards most of the time. Those kings and queens do a fair amount of gender-bending when your eyesight isn't quite what it was in the Truman Administration.

In any case, these days little terrifies him more than the prospect of 40 minutes inside a Toys R Us, or having to play with Barbies or plastic trolls with some neighbor's or niece's very small child. Of course, since his vision is about the same as a rhinoceros's -- and a rhino, I gather, can't tell a man from a tree at 15 feet -- he probably doesn't distinguish between Barbies and trolls.

But he wasn't always unsure about what to say and do with small children. As I recall, when I was a boy, he had the parenting drill down. Certainly the photos from my childhood suggest that he did just fine with the preschool crowd, even if the degree of difficulty was low because he was male and he only had sons. This meant that he was always surrounded by boys, and all he had to do with my brother and me was play baseball. He never had to make the leap across the great gender chasm and have a tea party with either of us.

Still, I think he would have given tea parties a shot if my brother or I had ever wanted to host one.

Given the reality that my own daughter is now a teenager, I don't believe I've played with Barbies (or had a tea party) since cell phones were the size of shoeboxes. But, once, I was as capable as the next parent when it came to playing with Barbies and trolls. Barbies were especially easy because there were only two scenarios. Barbie was Cinderalla or Barbie was an orphan. Either way, she was surrounded by an evil stepmother (or Miss Hannigan) and a variety of evil stepsisters (or orphan bullies). When one of us was getting bored, I would step on a small plastic Barbie shoe with a point sharp enough to kill, scream like a gored animal, and a good time would be had by all.

Trolls were harder. I actually had to invent stories about woodland creatures. Besides, the arms and legs of the trolls didn't move, and so I couldn't entertain myself when my daughter wasn't looking by putting them in filthy positions the way I could Barbies, and have them violate the Barbie Doll Blue Laws.

Now that I have some distance on those games, I wonder how good I would be if, suddenly, I had to spend a few hours playing Barbie. I know, for instance, that I am not nearly as comfortable allowing an infant to drool on my shoulder as I was years ago. Good Lord, in 1994 I didn't care when my daughter peed in my lap or burped up Gerber creamed spinach all over my neck.

My point? Things change. We change. And when I make fun of my father's colossal terror when confronted by toddlers -- or when I realize he is speaking to his teenage granddaughter in a voice that would be more suitable for a conversation with Barney and Baby Bop -- a part of me wonders if someday this will be me.

I hope not, but you never know. Perhaps when I'm 79, I, too, will be replacing "little" with "ittle," or forgetting that "ickum-sweetums" isn't a real word.

Happy Father's Day.

(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on June 17.)

Taiga, anthropologist Nuna Teal's 17-year-old golden retriever, is nearly blind and completely deaf, which means that Taiga and my father have a lot in common. The big difference? Taiga doesn't drive.

Not driving, however, was actually problematic for Taiga two weeks ago, when she got lost.

The world, of course, is filled with amazing lost dog stories. Earlier this month, a basset hound named Fred was rescued in Flagstaff, Ariz., 430 miles from his home in Riverside, Calif.. No one has any idea how Fred wandered so far from his neighborhood, and he's not talking. In my opinion, Taiga's tale is up there with the best of these stories.

Nuna had just moved from Huntington to Lincoln, when Taiga disappeared. One moment the dog was dozing outside Nuna's new home on a hill outside the village, and the next she was gone. It was a Thursday evening.

Now, Nuna and Taiga have been pals since Taiga was a puppy. (Just for the record, Taiga -- pronounced Ti-Ga -- is not Tiger with a New York accent. Taiga is the Russian name for the boreal forest that exists across North America and Eurasia, just below the Arctic. I do not know this because I am smart. I know this because Nuna is a patient anthropologist who explains things very well. Also, I googled the word.) Their friendship has spanned more than a decade and a half, and the golden retriever grew up with Nuna's children. She has always been a protective and loving and gentle soul.

Consequently, when Taiga disappeared, Nuna was devastated. She spent Friday and Saturday putting up posters and searching the nearby woods for her elderly pal.

She didn't bother to call for Taiga, since the animal wouldn't have heard, which made the search at once poignant and pathetic. Among the cavalry Nuna enlisted as help was Tigger, Taiga's 10-year-old daughter. "Tigger ran around in circles, sniffed, and just basked in all the attention," recalls Nuna. "But she was also completely useless." People tried to console Nuna with circle-of-life bromides about how Taiga was old and had gone off to die, but Nuna wasn't buying it. "She may be blind and deaf, but her smeller sure works and she seems pretty fit," Nuna recalls thinking.

Nonetheless, by Saturday night, Nuna had begun to give up hope. The dog was 17 years old and had been gone for two days. She didn't believe the animal could last another day in the wild without food. Consequently, she did something she had never done before. She prayed. She was, she says, raised a heathen, and so this was an act of absolute desperation. "I put my hands together and prayed to God to bring my ancient dog back," she says.

The next morning, my wife happened to glance out the front door of our house, and she noticed a dog she'd never seen before. A golden retriever. She brought the docile creature to the general store and compared it with the photocopy of the missing dog on the poster. It could be the same animal, but she wasn't positive. And so she clapped her hands near the dog's head. Absolutely no response, which was a good sign.

She left a message on Nuna's answering machine that she had found the old girl and piled Taiga into the back of her station wagon. Then she drove up the hill to the house where she thought the dog lived. Nuna was already outside when she arrived. And when Nuna saw her beloved friend, she burst into tears -- which, inevitably, caused my wife to burst into tears. And Taiga? She was so happy to be home she was spinning in circles like a dervish, which sounds more graceful than it was because Taiga really is pretty blind and was bumping into shrubs and human legs as she spun. But she was back with Nuna and the world once more was right.

Now, it is worth noting where my wife spotted Taiga when she glimpsed the animal that Sunday morning. Our house looks out upon the church, and the dog was sitting contentedly beside the building. Taiga was watching -- excuse me, smelling -- the world go by as she rested beside the church's wheelchair ramp.

Given Nuna's first-ever prayer the night before, was this a small miracle? Or was it a mere coincidence? Could be either. Personally, I think God is in the details at least as often as the devil, and so I tend to slot it more toward the former category than the latter. Sometimes, those wondrous signs of divinity are big: burning bushes, parting seas. But more often they're smaller and more subtle. And they're sitting right outside our front doors.

(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on June 24.)