When I tell this story to friends, they always laugh. And that’s exactly what a friendly, retired couple did as we walked our dogs together this past week. Because of summer travels, we hadn’t seen each other for months. So we caught up with each others lives in the neighborhood greenbelt as our dogs got their exercise. And that’s when I told them about 6/11.

They laughed. And then the wife gave me a reality check.

“Dream on!” she said, smiling.

Excuse me?

They are in their 60s, with eight grown children and lots of grandchildren. And they clearly were about to school me.

“Even now, I have to help them out,” the husband explained.

Ouch.

I see.

When I graduated from high school, my parents were willing to pay for all my college expenses. But in my sophomore year, I got a part-time job at a newspaper, my chosen field. The pay wasn’t much – $7 an hour – but it was enough to pay my tuition and all my living expenses for the rest of my college years. And ever since then, I’ve been self-sufficient.

I expect the same from Little M when she graduates. I hope she gets a job and not have to boomerang. But the U.S. economy is on life-support, and there are no guarantees it will get better in two years. If she ever needs help, my wife and I will, of course, whip out the checkbook.

The couple had popped our bubble. But the husband tried to make us feel better.

“It’s OK to think that way,” he said about our 6/11 mantra. “Because it gives you hope. You have to have hope because it keeps you going.”

Journalism is a small world, and in the mid-1990s, when I was a young, impressionable, sometimes naive journalist, I was fortunate enough to cross paths with them. They didn’t know me very well, but nonetheless, they took time to help and mentor me, and for that, I’m forever grateful to them.

I first met Brand in 1996 when I was a reporter for the West County Times, in Richmond, Calif. At the time, my newspaper chain was trying to make inroads into Berkeley, and was offering a crazy deal – $10 for a year’s subscription – to drive readers and compete against the Oakland Tribune. Brand was a grizzled newspaper vet who covered Berkeley for the Tribune, and one afternoon, he and I were stuck at City Hall, waiting for a city official to emerge from a locked office to give us additional details for a story.

He knew I was on deadline before a Berkeley City Council meeting, and that I was angsting. I hadn’t yet developed the skill to pump out a 12-inch story in mere minutes. I needed time – at least a good hour – to write the story, and needed to rush home to file the story before the meeting, or I was hosed. This was before Wi-Fi, back in the day when we needed phone lines to dial into the newsroom computer system. Brand took pity on me and said something like: “You go home and write your story. I’ll wait here and when I get the information, I will call you and share it with you.”

I was surprised. I was taught in journalism school that you simply don’t share information with your competitors. I didn’t trust him. But I was also relieved that he gave me an out. So I took it. An hour later, he did call. He shared all the information he had. He saved my ass.

I’ve never forgotten his kind act. We were competitors and he didn’t care. He taught me a good lesson in journalism: the difference between competition for scoops, which this was not, and being a nice guy to a fellow colleague.

As for Reed, I’ve read many stories in his obituary’s online guest book about how he’d eat everyone’s lunch on a breaking news story, so I’m glad I never competed against him. I got to know him outside the newsroom because my friends at work were good friends of his. One time, in 1997 or 1998, we met in a Berkeley pub or coffee shop one night, and I told him that I had just received a new job offer.

It was a choice between loyalty and jumping ship for much higher pay, a choice between staying in the comfort zone and pushing myself to explore the unknown. I told him I was choosing loyalty and comfort. And in a very gentle way, he told me I was making a mistake. We talked it through. The upshot: I took his advice, and took the new job, and in many ways, the decision helped me get to where I am today.

Each of these experiences is what I remember of the two men. Both were willing to help a kid out and impart their wisdom. I can only imagine the impact they made to their families, friends and colleagues, day in and day out, year after year. Because of that, their legacies live on.

Remote control misfire: I TiVoed the movie, “Hollywoodland,” a few weeks ago, and was looking forward to having some free time to watch it — and that moment came Sunday night. I reclined on my chair, pressed play, clicked on the information button to get a little blurb on the plot, and I couldn’t read it. It was words, but it was scrambled. I know my eyesight is poor, but this was borderline dyslexia. So I squinted and leaned closer to the TV screen and realized… it was in Spanish. I recorded the movie from HBO’s Latino channel. Argh.

Corn dogs, anyone? So on Monday afternoon I was in this new development anchored by Home Depot three blocks from home when I came across Wienerschnitzel! Yes! Previously, the closest Weinerschnitzel to my home was a 10 to 15 minute drive away. Much too far. I ordered a chili dog, a chili burger and two corn dogs to go. When I reached the window, I told the woman, “I love Wienerschnitzel! When did you open?” She said, “Last Friday. Are you from California?” And I said, “Yup.” Apparently, I’m not the only one from Cali who screamed for joy.

The Californiacation of Arizona continues. We have invaded your state, we’re clogging up your freeways, and now our fast food joints are clogging up your arteries!

Cell phone angst: This year, after six years of watching Little M’s cell phone minutes like a hawk, we finally transitioned her to her own account. So if she ends up with an $800 phone bill one month (yes, it happened once), she would have to pay it with her own money. Anyway, I noticed our service provider recently announced a “Smart Limits” plan, where for $4.99 a month, parents can set limits on the amount of minutes and text messages kids can use on their cell phones. Where was this service years ago when we needed it? It would have saved me from my weekly angst – and as the end of the month neared, my daily angst – of checking minutes.