School

Oooooh. School is back in session. It started on Monday. I have been excited for a couple of weeks, and I'm not attending school at this point in my life. I do have two children who do attend school, though. I love them dearly, I want to point out, so that nobody can claim otherwise. But I can't deny that I couldn't wait for school to begin.
Listen: I'm faced with both an Age Gap and a Gender Gap. What that means is my son (older, male) is not interested in the same television shows as my daughter (younger, female) is. That's logical. That's fine. Until you have to hear about it. Then it's loud. It's annoying. It's annoying as hell, actually, especially when you take into consideration the fact that we have three televisions in this house. But we only have one in the living room.
Don't even think about getting them to give up the remote. It leaves the room when they do, if I don't catch them first. They've even brought it to the bathroom with them. They can't control the television from the bathroom. But neither can anybody else.
Our living room has just one television, but it has two couches (a big one and a small one, or, in decorator-speak, a sofa and a love seat). Even when they sit (that is to say, lounge) on separate couches there seems to be a battle. "His foot's in my way!" or "She's poking me!" or the ever-popular "He's (or She's) looking at me!"
I was one of six children who grew up with one television. As a parent, writing what I just wrote, I feel a need to say (as I do often, but not enough), "Mom, Dad, I'm sorry."
I love my kids, but I am glad that they're back in school. School can provide so much more structure than I can realistically provide. They're spending time with their peers, and that helps keep things calmer. The routine is helpful. I'm glad they're back at school.
But this morning, Ellie kissed me goodbye, got on the bus and sat down and started talking with her friends.
She didn't even wave out the bus window.

On Little League...and Winning

Tomorrow is my son's first Triple A, or extended league game. It's not affiliated with Little League, but all of his teammates played in the same Little League division as Joey. It's a step up, competitively, from where he was during the Little League season.
Yeah, I said competitively. Here's why: baseball is a competitive sport. It's a fact - look it up if you have to. It's in the rules. It explains the scoreboards at the fields.
A lot of people say that winning isn't important. I disagree. I don't believe that winning is the most important thing at the Little League level, but it's important. At the Little League level, the most important thing is learning. These kids are playing baseball to learn the intricacies of the game; to pick up skills that help them grow as players. Why? So that they can win.
At the Little League level, fun is important. But the truth is, winning is more fun than not winning (we shouldn't say losing). It feels much better. You can play hard, and play your best and know those things in your head but your heart knows that your team scored fewer runs than they did. As coaches, we hope that the kids really hear us when we tell them that they played a great game, and nobody should hang their heads, and we're really proud of them and the way they played. But their tears tell us they didn't.
At the Little League level, winning is more important to the kids than to the coaches. Nobody in the dugout could tell you if the count is 3-2, 0-2, or 1-2; but they all know if the poor guy running the scoreboard is missing - or GOD HELP HIM, adding - a run. Even at the T-ball level, each of the kids keeps a mental score. Of course, no two tallies match. The coaches don't keep score - all the games end in a tie - but every kid leaves the game knowing who won.
Little League coaches want their teams to win. The good ones do, anyway, and here's why: when they win, they prove that we're teaching and they're learning. And that's the most important thing.

O.K., I'm Back.

Sorry it's been a while. I've been pretty busy, and a little embarrassed after the David Ortiz post. I can't just blame it on that, though (check out paragraph 2 from my 3/31/09 post for my excuse). But I have been busy.
One of the things I've been busy with is my son's Little League team. I was an assistant coach. Our season just ended, and I have got to say that while our win-loss record could have been better, we did all of the things that we were supposed to do. The guys on the team - ranging in age from 8 to 11 - all got to be better players than they were when the season started. They surprised me with something spectacular every game. I'm really proud of them all: Elliott, Ian, Matty, Jackson, Silas, Cody, Braelen, Joey F., Alex, Joe T., Henry, Luke and Chandler.
I was supposed to run our final practice, but it got rained out. I wanted to keep their the boys' heads in the game, so I sent this e-mail:

"Due to the weather, today's practice has been called off. Since we can't hit the field and physically practice today, I'd like each of you to try to get in some mental practice. The Red Sox play at 1:35 today - the game will be on NESN, and they'll probably play it again tonight. I'd like each of you to watch at least three full innings of the game, or another baseball game, if you'd rather. As you watch, pay attention:

"CATCHERS: Watch how the catchers set up for pitches. Never mind the signals - we don't use those. Watch the mitt location, and pay special attention to what the catcher does when the pitch comes in. He stays in his crouch. When a catcher stands to catch a pitch, it gives the ump the impression that the pitch is a ball. The catcher stands up to make the throw back to the pitcher, and he throws it back TO the pitcher, so that the pitcher doesn't have to work hard getting the ball. Notice, too, how the catcher moves after the ball is hit - fair or foul. Try to do what they do.

"PITCHERS: Watch the pitchers' motions. They're very consistent, that is, they don't vary much from pitch to pitch. Notice how the pitcher always throws with a full arm extension, and then follows through.

"INFIELDERS: Watch for the "ready position." (Usually best seen in replays, since the camera is on the batter to start) Notice which position covers which area of the field, and how they call balls out. The successful plays always begin with the player getting the ball - if you don't catch it, you can't get the hitter out. First base- stretch for the catch, but make the catch, even if it means taking your foot off the bag. A passed ball is an extra base.

"OUTFIELD: Watch how the outfielders line up fly balls hit to them. Watch how they get under the balls, and don't simply reach out to make the catch. Notice how they drop to one knee to field grounders - infielders don't have time to do that, but in the outfield, it can keep the ball from rolling past you. In the outfield, a passed ball is often TWO extra bases.

"ALL FIELDERS: Even major league ball players use cut-offs. Watch who cuts off and where. Try to understand why they used the cut-off the way they did.

"BATTERS: Watch the batters. See how they stand in the batter's box - and stay in it, unless they're likely to get hit. Notice how the batters hold their bats - the bats are back, waiting at the back of the swing. They don't have to pull the bat back to start their swing. It takes too much
time.

"This is a fun kind of practice. It can be done with a snack, a drink, even a parent. It can last longer than three innings, too, if you want!"

So, I was surprised by the number of families on the team that don't have cable television, and therefore don't have access to a lot of Major League Baseball. I was also surprised by the number of positive responses I got to that practice.
It's been a great season, no matter what the W-L says.

Who's Got the Curse Now?

If you know me, you know that I am a Red Sox fan. If you know Red Sox fans, you know that we are anti-Yankee. So the recent sweep of the New York Yankees by the Boston Red Sox was a thing of great joy to me.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not a Yankee-hater. I don't want anything bad to happen to the New York Yankees. I just don't want anything good to happen to them. I don't want their plane to crash, but if it developed engine problems before take-off and they had to sit on the runway and forfeit a game, it would be OK. I don't want them to get the swine flu, but some temporarily debilitating game-day gastrointestinal upset after a bad taco wouldn't be bad. Get it? Nothing bad, but nothing good, either.

So, how about the new Yankee Stadium, huh? Quite a few baseballs have left that park this month, with a significant number leaving by way of right field. Let's think about that for a minute. Does anybody else remember last April? That was when workers removed a David Ortiz replica jersey from the construction of the new Yankee Stadium. It had been put there by a construction worker from the Bronx who happened to be a Red Sox fan. Gino Castignoli, a Sox fan since 1975 (he idolized Jim Rice), worked just one day on the project, and buried the jersey beneath two feet of concrete. Does that ring a bell, anyone?

Castignoli had hoped to curse the Yankees, but when the jersey was removed, most people thought that the curse was foiled. Maybe it was just softened. I may be accused of trying to draw the conclusion I want, but think about it: When opponents set up what Red Sox announcers call "the Ortiz shift," where do the players move? Toward right field, because David Ortiz bats left-handed. And so many home runs sailing to right and right-center? Could it be more than a mere coincidence? Could the new Yankee Stadium be cursed?

David Ortiz is in a bit of a slump right now, for sure. At .287, he's got the lowest batting average in the starting line-up (bad for somebody we pay to hit), 20 strikeouts (see previous parenthetical comment) and no home runs. I'm looking forward to May 4, when David Ortiz stands in the batter's box at the new Yankee Stadium. I suspect that, if there's any truth to this curse, if Gino Castignoli's buried jersey did its work, David Ortiz will end his slump.

Of course, if it ends sooner, that's OK, too.

A Bunch of (Somewhat) Random Sentences

It has been a while since my last post, as my friend Colleen pointed out in a recent comment. I'm touched by the fact that she was concerned, and wasn't merely pointing out that I was lazy.

I was being lazy, sort of. I used to write a column for a newspaper, complete with deadlines. The trouble with deadlines is that, even if you don't have any ideas for a column, you still have to write one. The good thing about deadlines is that, even if you don't have any ideas for a column, you still have to write one. I couldn't let nineteen days just slip past without a word.

That's why I'm writing this post, even though I don't know what I intend to write about.

Tuesday Weld was born on a Friday.
Mouse sex only lasts five seconds.
Rats can't vomit, which is why poison is so effective against them.
Andrew Jackson took part in more than 100 duels.
75% of Earth's creatures are insects.
It's illegal to dance to The Star Spangled Banner in some states.
The letter "Q" doesn't appear in the names of any of the 50 states.
Only one state is named after a president.
A common housefly lives for about 2 weeks.
A common housefly buzzes in the key of F.
Every person's tongue print is unique.
You can't get blood out of a jellyfish, either. They don't have any.
There are about ten million bricks in the Empire State Building.
Your hands and feet contain more than half the bones in your body.
Your feet give up about a quarter cup of sweat daily.
Lonely parrots can go insane (sounds like a song title).

Sigh.

What I Wanna Be When I Grow Up

I was at work yesterday, and the television in the lounge was tuned to NESN. Charlie Moore Outdoors was on, and I stopped for a moment and watched a little bit of it. The guy has earned the nickname, "The Mad Fisherman." He's hyper, crazy and fun to watch.

But that wasn't what struck me the most.

I want to have a fishing show.

Not because I'm a really great fisherman. Not because I really like to fish. I mean, I do like to fish, but that isn't why I want to have a fishing show. I want to have a fishing show because it just seems like the world's easiest way to make a living. Sorry, Charlie, it just does.

How hard can it be? It's recreation for pay. Sometimes you might have to fish for eight or ten hours to get enough usable video. OK. I have fished for eight or ten hours for absolutely no pay. Sure, it's a long day, but it's fishing for goodness' sake! That isn't the same as working.

I'm not talking about the crew - they're working. The host is fishing and talking.

I'll bet he's got sponsors providing his equipment, too. Good gear, and he gets to travel to all sorts of different fishing spots to fish! That's the kind of business trip I could really get into.

Summing up: Quality equipment for free, travel, a certain level of fame, pay, and fishing.

That's why I want my own fishing show.

Finally!

So, it was a little more than twelve hours after the 3:30 AM telephone call, that I got the next call. My granddaughter, Alyssa Lynn, had finally graced us with her presence - all seven pounds, three ounces and nineteen inches of her.
I can relax now.

Waiting....

It's hard to feel good about a 3:30 AM telephone call. They're rarely very pleasant. Sometimes they're wrong numbers. I don't usually get angry about misdials, but I do think that if you're dialing a phone number in the wee hours, you should use all the care you possibly can.
Sometimes these calls are the result of drunk dialing. Usually, when somebody gets drunk and calls a friend, unless they're asking for a ride that will keep them from getting behind the wheel (all too rare), it's something that could wait. At least until morning. Frequently until the Second Coming. I have rarely said anything while drunk that I wanted to remember for posterity. I have often said things while drunk that I would like to remember so that I can get the apology right.
3:30 AM telephone calls often bring bad news. At work, I first on the alarm company's call list. If any of the alarms go off, I get the call. Motion sensor? I get out of bed, and drag myself to the restaurant. I get called when the coolers get too warm. I got a call that told me that there was a power outage at the restaurant (it took a lot of strength to keep from sarcasm then: "Thanks for waking me up. I'll bring some right down.").
Then there are the really bad news calls. The ones that tell you that something bad has happened to a friend or a family member. I haven't had any of those, but I worry about getting them.
This morning, at 3:30 AM, I did get a phone call, but it wasn't a bad news call, a wrong number or a drunk dial. It was my oldest daughter, calling to tell me that she's in labor. I liked getting that call. Now, though, it's more than seven and a half hours later, and I haven't yet received the follow-up call. I'll keep on waiting....

But.....

My son, Joey, as part of his education, has to read at least twenty minutes each day. Books. Ellie doesn’t yet – she’s just in first grade – but she will one day. I’d like to be told that I have to read at least twenty minutes each day. On a regular chair. “What does he mean by that?” I hear all the non-parents asking. The parents know, and I can feel them smiling and nodding. What I mean by that is on a regular chair - with cushions – not a porcelain one with a hole in the seat. If it weren’t for bathrooms, parents would never get any reading done. We can’t read when the kids are reading (I know how the non-parents think; I used to be one) because that’s when we’re cleaning up after dinner, folding laundry, checking homework, and doing all those things we don’t get to do when the kids are awake.

I know what to do – listen up, local Community Service Departments: Find an empty room in some building, and decorate it like a living room. You know; a few easy chairs, maybe a sofa, and some reading lamps. If the room could have a fireplace it would be a big plus. You could charge for it – it’s an adult reading class. Not a class for learning to read, but a class where you get to read, for forty-five minutes or so. There would be a waiting list.

Until then, novelists take note: Keep the chapters short. Other people have to use the bathroom, too.

I Like to Read...

It really should come as no great surprise that a writer enjoys reading, but the possibility exists that some of you may not think that way, so I just thought that I’d put it out there: I like to read. I don’t get anywhere near as much time as I would like to do as much personal reading as I want to do.
Personally, I tend to prefer fiction. Having just typed that sentence, I have to confess that I am fighting the urge to apologize for that. There is a mindset, often found in persons who perceive themselves as intellectuals, that fiction is a waste of time. When I turn on the television news – something I do when the kids aren’t around – I get a whole bunch of reality. I get news and insight from newspapers. I escape into a book. I want characters, not people.
What I really like is when the writing makes me believe that the characters are people; when I become so caught up in the story that I start to feel like I know the main characters in the book. When that happens, I can tell that the author is being honest with me – I know (or believe that I know) if the protagonist is acting out of character. I can also compare myself to the characters: How would I have handled that situation? Am I as honorable/dishonorable/honest/resourceful/wise as he is?
I love the way good writers find that they can use the English language. Non-fiction writing, I think, tends to be more restrictive in its use of the language. Fiction writers can “paint” more. I’m a big fan of Stephen King, and the way he puts words together is one of the reasons (another is his story-telling talent). In his novel The Stand, a character – a person – slips while climbing a steep slope, and King describes his fingernail as “peeling back like a decal.” I shivered when I read that the first time, and I’m still struck by the image. I guess horror, fantasy and crime fiction make descriptive imagery a little easier.
If asked to name a favorite book, I suspect that most people would probably name a children’s book. Maybe it’s because children’s books are more likely to be read repeatedly than adult books are. Maybe it’s because the magic in the written word is more real when we’re younger. I can’t choose a single favorite book, but most of the books that I would choose as favorites are children’s books. Some of them I came to know as an adult.
When I taught preschool, one of the things that I truly loved to do was read “chapter books” to the children at rest time. Imagine: the lights are down, they’re on their mats, and it has a settling effect. For the children, I mean. The kids would all tell you that I didn’t get to take naps because I had to keep an eye on them.
I got to pick the books (usually), so I knew that I, at least, would enjoy them, and generally speaking, the children did, as well. There was a pretty fair amount of repetition – the room’s population changed every year – but we read E.B. White’s three children’s books (Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little, and The Trumpet of the Swan), Mr. Popper’s Penguins, Ruth Stiles Gannett’s Dragon books (My Father’s Dragon, Elmer and the Dragon, and The Dragons of Blueland) and A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner.
It’s important to read to children. That’s something that we all know, even if we don’t always do it. Our lives are busy – it can be tough to take even a few minutes of our days to sit and read a picture book to a child. But there’s always bedtime. Books are good calming tools. We have a pretty successful bedtime routine at our house. We read with a booklight – the kind that clips on to the book. The room’s lights are off, eyes are closed, and it becomes settling down time.
Another cool thing: Booklights and chapter books are great during a power failure.
Some cool trivia about two cool children’s books:
Dr. Seuss was commissioned by Houghton Mifflin to write a children’s book, but was given the stipulation that he could use only 225 words from a list of 400 words. The result was The Cat in the Hat, which contains 220 different words.
It is, perhaps, an apocryphal story that Random House publisher Bennett Cerf bet Dr. Seuss that he couldn't write a book using 50 words or fewer. The result was Green Eggs and Ham. Legend tells us that Cerf never paid up.
Something from a children’s book that should be a bumper sticker, a T-shirt or both:
“Some do and some don’t. You never can tell with Heffalumps.”
Finally, my favorite passage from Charlotte’s Web, which may be the truest thing E.B. White ever wrote:
“Mothers for miles around worried about Zuckerman’s swing. They feared some child would fall off. But no child ever did. Children almost always hang onto things tighter than their parents think they will.”

Daughters, Fathers, Dances and Valentines

Once again, my youngest daughter, Ellie, and I visited the Father/Daughter dance sponsored by our local community services department. This was our fourth time, and we once again thoroughly enjoyed ourselves – Ellie especially. As usual, she started talking about this year’s dance on the ride home from last year’s, and is already talking about next year’s. She dresses up and wears a corsage, and I wear a suit and tie, we get our pictures taken, and we go out for a couple of hours dancing. When she isn’t grabbing a snack, or playing with a friend, that is.

Eventually, though, she will take my hands and we’ll dance. When we dance she likes to spin (all of her dresses have to spin well – female readers and Dads of daughters will understand), and will occasionally mimic some of the dance moves that she sees other dancers do. Last year, the big move was to suddenly – and I mean with absolutely no warning – jump into the air and slide between my legs, while holding my hands. This particular dance move has been called “the Nutcracker.” This year, she would grasp my fingers and twirl. Unfortunately, she didn’t lightly grasp my fingers, allowing for graceful, painless twirling. Gripping my fingers tightly – as if to keep her from falling, perhaps – she spun. Sadly, my fingers have not yet learned to twirl on my knuckles, and I spent a few frantic moments trying to figure out how to best explain sprained fingers as a dance injury. I felt it safest to hold hands and jump up and down until I got winded. It didn’t take as long as you might imagine.

It’s fun to see the changes in the fathers and daughters who have attended the dance regularly. Obviously, the greatest changes are in the daughters. Youth ages more quickly and less painfully. I can see that as time goes on, Ellie and I will dance together less frequently. She’ll find her friends and hang out with them, requesting songs I’ve never heard of, and I’ll watch her laugh and dance with them. I love that she’s growing, and I’m proud of her independence, but…

Next year, we’re talking about inviting my married daughter and her daughters, too. That’ll be fun.

I’m writing this shortly before Valentine’s Day. I don’t usually write a about that particular holiday, mostly because I tend to believe that it’s a personal sort of holiday. It’s a day about love – romantic love, not the “your-fellow-man” (excuse me, I’m supposed to say, “your-fellow-person”) type of love. That’s kind of private. It’s individual, and no mass-produced greeting card is ever really going to fit. Neither is a bouquet of roses that are just like all the other bouquets of roses that exchange hands on Valentine’s Day. Not that any of that matters. We still send flowers and give cards and candy and all that. Of course we do. It’s Valentine’s Day.

Christmas is a holiday that puts a lot of pressure on women. We men typically let our wives do the bulk of our Christmas shopping – for our kids, our parents, and most other people we “pick up” (that is; have picked up for us) gifts for. On Valentine’s Day, the pressure’s all on us guys. Look at the commercials. Have you ever seen an ad that says, “Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. This year, why not surprise him with…?” Me either. Every jewelry store IN THE WORLD can be found advertising in print and on television. Are they trying to sell men’s jewelry (whatever that is)? No. They’re just trying to sell jewelry to men.

Frequently, they succeed, because we men are too afraid to not buy it. What makes us afraid? The women in our lives. Women have wildly romantic expectations for Valentine’s Day. Men have a different view of romance: “Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey. It’s top of the line, and should cut the time you spend vacuuming in half! Now, come on over here and show me how much you love it. Ow!”

When we’ve finished ducking the blows, we hope for an explanation. “What do you mean it’s not a very nice Valentine’s Day present, Honey? It’s red. Please stop hitting me!” And we don’t understand the frustration. Because we’re happy with the dinner reservations and the card you gave us. Or the power tools, or golf club or whatever.

It’s not that hard to buy a present for a man. Power tools don’t come in many colors, we’ve told you which golf club we want, and tickets to major sporting events are always wonderful. Buying for women is tougher. It isn’t enough to just buy a present. We have to buy the right one. We have to know what the right one is. So we ask her. And she says, “You should know me well enough to know what I’d like.” Just because she said once that she wanted that red vacuum cleaner, though, doesn’t mean that it’s the right present. She might want it, but not for Valentine’s Day. Gift certificates are impersonal (fine for guys, though - seriously). A sexy nightgown’s nice, but she’ll hold it up and say, “Is this for me; or for you?” [One day, I’m going to say, “Me,” grab it and put it on. I’m just like that. When I say that, I mean that I like to shock people; I’m not implying that I wear lingerie. Often.]

Look, I know that it sounds like I’m complaining, but what I’m really trying to do is explain our side. This is tough for us. We need to try to open the lines of communication. Help us – give us straight answers. And we won’t give you appliances.

Squirrels, Feeders and Food

A squirrel knocked down my bird feeder today. We're going to come to blows, that squirrel and me. Shouldn't be on the feeder in the first place. Big show on my bird feeder, all confident, but kind of skittish when it comes to roads, squirrels are. The problem is that a squirrel is afraid to commit. Watch a squirrel in the road sometime – it darts out about a third of the way across, stops, and then runs back about half the distance it ran the first time. Then it stops again, changes direction, and runs halfway across the road, turns back and takes three giant (squirrel) steps before running into the path of the truck coming in the other direction.

When that happens, what should we do? Well, let's face it. These are tough economic times. We all have to stretch our dollars. So, you might try this recipe for Easy Squirrel BBQ: Take 4-5 squirrels, cut into serving pieces, and Original Allegro marinade. Place meat in a large zipper seal bag and cover with the marinade. Refrigerate at least 1 hour, but overnight is better. Line a 9 x 13 baking pan with foil, making the foil big enough so you can fold over the top and seal. Place the meat on the foil and season with garlic powder, salt, pepper and Creole seasoning. Wrap the foil over the top and seal. Bake for 2 hours at 350 degrees. While the squirrel is cooking, pre-heat your grill. When squirrel is done, remove it from foil and place it on the grill. Baste with your favorite barbecue sauce. Grill over medium heat until sauce starts to get sticky. Do not overcook - you don't want the meat to get tough! Serve with your favorite side dishes.

NOTE: It's important – and so difficult – to avoid toughness when it comes to roadkill and other game. Here’s a handy tip: for wild game that is rough and tough in taste and texture try soaking it in a zipper seal bag with Coke, beer, red wine, pineapple juice or buttermilk. Except with the buttermilk add minced garlic, black pepper, salt, paprika, cardamom, or other spices to suit your taste. Squeeze out ALL the air and seal well. Keep it in the refrigerator at least 12 to 24 hours. If you have a meat injector you can even put the liquid inside the meat. Coke gives the meat a slightly sweet taste & really tenderizes it. Large pieces (roasts, ribs, shoulders, etc.) are best slow cooked. Check periodically that the meat doesn't dry out by basting or using a spray bottle with the chosen marinade.

“My kids won’t eat that!” I hear you say. You might want to try Squirrel Nuggets: You’ll need some squirrels – the amount depends on how hungry you and your family are. Clean and quarter the squirrels. Add to a large soup pot. Cover with water, beer or chicken stock. Add one large onion, two chopped celery stalks, two chopped carrots and peppercorns to taste. Bring it to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until meat is tender. Remove the meat from the pot and cool. Remove the bones, keeping the meat in nugget-sized pieces. In a bowl, mix some flour and beer together to a gravy consistency, season to taste with paprika. Dip the nuggets into the batter and deep fry to a golden brown. Serve with ketchup, ranch dressing or homemade plum jam for dipping.

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER: I do not expect to ever actually fight a squirrel. They're fast, and they can climb, so they're hard to catch bare-handed. I do not expect to ever actually prepare either of these recipes. It would be very difficult to feed my family of somewhat picky eaters roadkill squirrel, especially with gas prices on the rise. I could stock up, but I hate hearing my wife scream every time she opens the freezer.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!

It's my Mom's birthday, and I think that everybody should know about it.
Why?

• Because when I was younger and did stupid stuff, she scolded me, or punished me when it was appropriate and she loved me.
• Because she let me choose dinner on my birthday.
• Because she hugged me when my heart broke.
  
• Because she kept the cookbook that my second grade class (with Mrs. Frinsko) made until I was in my forties.
• Because when I was older and did stupid stuff she scolded me, or sympathized with me and she loved me.
• Because she likes the foods that I cook, which puts her a step ahead of my children.
• Because now that I'm an adult and I do stupid stuff, she sympathizes, and she loves me, and she hugs me when my heart breaks.
• Because she had six of us and still she tells us that we can visit her and Dad in Florida and stay at their place - even with the kids.
• Because she hugs my kids when their hearts break.
• Because she knew the difference between stupid stuff and a mistake - most of the time.
• Because she loves me.

So, Happy Birthday, Mom!

If you want to send my Mom birthday wishes, comment on this post. I'll make sure she sees them.

They All Smile in L.L. Bean Catalogs

And do you know why? They're getting paid, that's why. And they're wearing nice, warm clothing that they didn't have to pay for. Oh, sure, they have to take it off eventually, but they'll be indoors and toasty. If I sound bitter, I'm surprised you can hear it through the chattering teeth.
I left my house Tuesday morning at 8:00 am for an appointment. It was minus six degrees Fahrenheit, according to the dashboard thermometer. As I looked at that number, I thought, "Wow. It's ten degrees warmer than it was when I went to work at 7:00 am yesterday."
I said to my wife, when I came back inside after taking out the trash (for some reason a masculine job), "Perhaps the blizzard will warm things up a bit." Because that's tomorrow's weather - ten to fifteen inches of the white stuff - and it probably will warm things up a bit, although it's likely to be pretty cold when I'm walking behind my snowblower. And I'll be cold and wet and ready to go inside when the snowplow goes by and fills in the end of my driveway. And because I grew up in this town, I know the driver and he knows me, so he'll beep his horn and smile and wave and say "Hi!" And that simple gesture of friendliness, that driver's reaching out to an old friend even as he pushes hundreds of pounds of snow back into his driveway, that beep and that smile and that wave combine to fill me with that sort of liquid anger that makes me want to blow up everything that's big and orange.

It's not your fault, Bill, and I get over it.

I look on Facebook at all of my friends who have moved away and are pining for the rocky coast of Maine, and the glorious foliage, and the lakes, and the snow-covered mountains. Do you know what I've noticed? They've all moved away from the rocky coast of Maine, and the glorious foliage, and the lakes, and the snow-covered mountains. I bet most of them are someplace warmer.
I've thought about it. I've often thought that, when the kids are grown (does that ever happen? My Mom says it doesn't), I'd like to move to warmer climes. My wife has always said that she wouldn't move without the kids, and I've always told her that I'd miss her, but we can always e-mail. Even she's talking about it, now.

It's funny, though.

I don't think about it in the summer.