Going, Going, Gone!

Here we are at the end of another year. Each year seems to pass with even greater speed than the one before. Two-thousand-thirteen has been no exception.

Much has happened this year; most of which will remain meaningless for anyone other than me as we move ahead. This year, like all those that have gone before, will soon be nothing but a collection of memories; the new year awaiting with all of its promise.

I have developed a special celebration to say goodbye to the old year and welcome the new one. Tonight I will hopefully get to do what I have done for the last dozen or so New Year's Eves. I will go to bed around my normal time and greet the new year when I get up Wednesday morning. I'm not a night owl to start with, and Sadie is still going to be up bright and early in the morning. She really doesn't care if I go to bed at a normal time or if I stay up until Midnight. She will want her breakfast and morning attention without regard for how much, or how little, sleep I may have gotten.

For those of you who choose to stay up tonight, I wish you a Happy New Year! Please don't bother calling or texting me with your New Year's greetings. I will, if I'm lucky, be snoozing my way through the Midnight hour.

I Saw That!

There's an old saying that says, "When all you have is a hammer; everything looks like a nail." Well, you can imagine what that means when I say that I got two new saws...

My boss gives each of us and each of our wives gift cards as a Christmas bonus each year. I used my card this year to buy some tools that I needed to complete some projects around the house that I had previously been putting off with the convenient excuse that I didn't have the proper tools. Well, my Christmas bonus this year destroyed my last excuse for putting off Diane's project list by allowing me to buy a miter saw, a Sawzall, a pneumatic finish nailer and some associated goodies.

Well now I have saws and everything looks like something that needs to be sawn.

The trim job in the kitchen and dining room became the first project to be checked off. Diane finished painting the rooms several weeks ago. Continuing the project required me to cut and install a lot of wood.

Suddenly, there was a bunch of stuff that needed to be cut and nailed! The pile of freshly stained and sealed lumber awaited me in the basement.

I was going to saw it.

I had to saw lots and lots of wood!

The angled cuts required for the cathedral ceilings allowed me to put my new miter saw to the test. We'll tackle the same tasks in the living room next before I move on to the next stage of building faux box beams across the cathedral ceilings in both areas. Then I'll be using the new Sawzall to cut out a short wall next to the stairs so we can replace it with a railing, newels and balusters!

We have one by fours.

I saw that.

We have one by sixes.

I saw that.

We have railings, balusters and newels.

Yep, I saw those, too.

So many things to saw and so little time...

Take it or leave it.

Some that know me refer to me as the "cold hearted orb" from the Moody Blues song. Others claim that my analytical/clinical nature leaves me emotionless. While it is certainly true that there are very, very few things that bring a tear to my eye; I'm not the emotionless Vulcan that I have been accused of. I just tend to be very private; keeping my emotions largely to myself.

It's not that I'm some tough guy who won't be seen shedding a tear. It's just that few things pierce my heart enough to draw tears. There are some, though.

For example - even after seeing it at least a dozen times - I still cry at the end of Field Of Dreams when Ray Kinsella gets to play catch with his dad. Perhaps it's because I, too, wish I had just one more chance to have thrown a ball in the yard with Dad.

I still tear up when the command module appears under the canopy of its parachutes at the end of Apollo 13; even though I distinctly remember watching it happen in real life and I know exactly how the movie will end - each of the many times I have watched it.

Mostly, though, it is "real life" that brings a tear to my eye.

I cried as I held each of our sons for the very first time; amazed that God had entrusted me with those two amazing little human beings.

I cried when the Diane was wheeled away for her breast cancer surgery; and I cried again when the doctor came to tell me that she was out of surgery and doing okay.

I cried when each of the boys walked across the platform after receiving their degrees; filled with pride at what they had accomplished.

As a general rule, though, my tears are private; a lump in my throat and an ache in my chest that reminds me that I'm not a "cold hearted orb," even if no one else recognizes it.

I've never been one for New Year's Resolutions, but perhaps I should reconsider. Maybe I should try to be more emotive. Maybe I should try to be less clinical and analytical.

I expect that, like most people's New Year's Resolutions, it would not last. After all, I never set out to be a "cold hearted orb," it's just who I am.

Take it or leave it.

Merry Christmas!

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord."

(Luke 2:11)

Where are you on this Christmas Eve?

Another Christmas Eve is upon us. I will, unless something drastic intervenes, grill some bacon-wrapped venison loin for dinner followed by our family Christmas celebration. The boys will read the Christmas account from the second chapter of Luke's Gospel as a reminder of what we are celebrating before trying to decide whose turn it is to pass out the gifts. They will ultimately settle on one or the other and they will pass out the gifts from under the tree.

One at a time, each gift will be handed to its recipient to be opened. It seems there are fewer gifts under the tree each year as the boys use their Christmas money toward some large ticket item they want. This year, for example, Joseph replaced his computer with a new MacBook of some ilk and Matthew applied both his birthday and Christmas money toward a new deer hunting rifle and scope. We wrap up our time of celebration together as a family as we eat shrimp and other finger foods.

I am always reminded, though, of those people who can't share in that celebration with their family because they are helping my family to celebrate together.

There are the police officers who will continue their solitary patrol to ensure that our celebration is safe;

the firefighters who sit together in their home away from home ready to beat back the flames that may endanger us;

the prehospital and facility-based medical providers who treat the sick and wounded in an attempt to hold off the effects of trauma, disease, violence and old age;

and the service men and women who stand between us and those who would seek to destroy us.

Those men and women are missing out on the celebration with their family tonight. I'm sure they would much rather be at home with their loved ones like I will be, but they remain on duty.

So tonight I will remember those whose sacrifice forces them to be somewhere else while we gather in our living room to celebrate the reminder of Christ's first coming to the earth.

A Golden Day!

I don't know where the term ever started, but somewhere along the way someone decided that the birthday on the year you turn the same age as the date of the month is your Golden Birthday. I'm not sure what makes it golden, but it is somehow a more special birthday than any other.

Today marks Matthew's Golden Birthday. It seems that he made his appearance into the world only yesterday. Certainly it couldn't have been twenty three years ago that I first held him. I still remember those diapers as if they were just this morning.

Much has transpired in those twenty three years. Matthew has become a man. Diane and Joseph insist that he is exactly like his old man, but I beg to differ. While Matthew may display some of my traits; he is certainly not exactly like me. He lacks many of my rough edges. He has become a man we are quite proud of. 

And, at least for today, he is golden.

Happy Birthday, Matthew!

It Used To Be So Easy

Shopping for Diane is probably one of the most difficult tasks I undertake. It wasn't always that hard, though. In fact, it used to be easy.

Of course - I cheated.

Confession time...

My shopping routine used to entail surrogate shoppers at one of several stores Diane liked. I would go the the Land's End store in Brookfield, for example, and look for a woman who appeared to have taste similar to Diane's.

It was a bonus if she was shopping with one or more friends.

It was a double bonus if she also happened to be about Diane's size.

I would approach the ladies and tell them that I was shopping for my wife whose taste in clothes seemed very similar to hers/theirs. I would explain that I am color blind and, like most men my age, rather ignorant when it came to fashion. Then, I would ask for their help.

I was never rejected. I suppose it is many women's dream to shop with someone else's money!

I would give them an approximate budget and then I would go sit down on one of the comfortable chairs the store provided. The women gleefully went through the store selecting sweaters, blouses, etc. that they would select for themselves. They brought back clothes and ensembles to display for my approval.

When they were satisfied with the selections, I thanked them and took the items to the register to check out. The funny thing was that the women always profusely thanked me for letting them help. I'm sure some of them are still telling stories about how they had to rescue this poor, color blind soul who desperately needed assistance in shopping for his wife.

It was easy; and I don't recall that Diane was ever disappointed when I presented her with the gifts.

Life changed, though. Whether because of the effects of Diane's cancer treatments that destroyed her body's ability to regulate its temperature - making fabric selection a touchy task, at best - or the fact that Diane has become more particular; that shopping method is forever lost for me.

The results have often proven to be rather disappointing when I am left to my own devices, I'm afraid. There has been a wandering trail of attempts through the years that somehow fell short. Every once in a while, though, I still hit a home run. I got all of the components to build a small pond/watergarden in the back yard a while ago; and then got all of the components to triple its size a few years later. Those were big winners.

There have been a few stinkers mixed in, too. I won't get into the specifics on those.

So here we are just a few days from Christmas and I'm faced with my annual dilemma - what can I get for Diane that she will want/use/enjoy.

I continue to draw a blank.

It used to be so easy.

My Own Golden Pond...

Today marks twenty-six years since I somehow managed to trick Diane into saying, "I do."

I've changed much in those twenty-six years. My hairline is slowly receding and what hair I have is mostly gray instead of nearly black. My joints don't work as well as they used to and I couldn't squeeze one leg into the pants I used to wear.

Somehow, though, as I have suffered the effects of the years Diane has just grown more beautiful.

Even as a young man I knew that there were rare, timeless beauties. After all, as a man in my early twenties I was captivated by the then 74 year old Katherine Hepburn as Ethel Thayer in On Golden Pond.

I never dreamed that I would one day marry a woman even more graceful, elegant and beautiful.

I remember our wedding day as if it was yesterday even though it feels like we have been together forever. We've been through a lot together; with raising two boys, battling cancer and just growing to love each other more with each passing day.

Every day God gives me with Diane is a gift.

It just feels right being together - kind of like the Thayers.

I've been compared to Norman Thayer many times through the years. Perhaps, except for the fact that my language is not as salty, it's an accurate comparison. After all, I share many of the same cantankerous qualities and could easily see myself saying to my lovely bride on the eve of my eightieth birthday, "Wanna dance or would you rather just suck face?"

Diane will likely just roll her eyes as she always does; perhaps even secretly thankful that I remain so in love with her. She might even say something like Ethel said to Norman with the words, "You know, Norman, you really are the sweetest man in the world, but I'm the only one who knows it."

With each anniversary I am reminded just how lucky I am. Someday, if God allows, Diane and I will be old and gray and as we look back on our lives we, too, may have a conversation...

Ethel: "Listen to me, mister. You're my knight in shining armor. Don't you forget it. You're gonna get back up on that horse and I'm gonna be right behind you holding on tight and away we're gonna go, go, go."

Norman: "I don't like horses. You are a pretty old dame aren't you? What are you doing with a dotty old s.o.b.like me?"

Ethel: "Well, I haven't the vaguest idea."

I haven't the vaguest idea why Diane's with me, either.

Happy 26th Anniversary to the love of my life.

Oh, Gag Me!!!

Several decades ago our family started a Christmas tradition called the Gag Gift Game. I don't remember how it got started, but it was the source of much amusement through the years. I understand that Debbie, Kim and Beth and their families continue the tradition to this day at the family Christmas dinner.

The rules to the Gag Gift Game are really quite simple; everyone finds (or purchases if they can't find something appropriately hideous) a gag gift that they then carefully wrap in such a way as to make it as desirable as possible. Each person places their gift in a designated spot early in the get together. Part of the game's strategy is to place your gift without anyone else seeing you so no one knows which person brought which gift. This is a VERY important part of the game because everyone wanted to figure out which gift was Nana's (she typically put cash in there) and, perhaps even more importantly, everyone wanted to figure out which gift came from the particularly unlucky person who had one of the gifts that make their appearance year after year.

The original - and still most famous - of those regular gifts is a gym suit. Young people probably have no idea what a gym suit is nor why it is so hideous.

Allow me to explain.

Decades ago someone, in their great wisdom, decided to create a special outfit for girls to wear during gym class that would prevent any boy from ever having an improper thought about any girl seen wearing it. The girl could be the most beautiful girl in the school, but she would simply be just one more bland, figure-less form when adorned in the "beautiful" one-piece gym suit.

They were hideous when the girls wore them and they seem to grow more hideous with each year of separation from those days.

One year Mom dug out her old high school gym suit, carefully wrapped it and added it to the gift pile. (Why Mom would have kept that hideous gym suit is beyond me, but she had and it became legend.) Little did we know that some unsuspecting soul would be "rewarded" with what may be the worst (best?) gag gift ever when the game ended.

At game time, several people collect all of the gifts from the gift pile and put them in the center of the table. Everyone takes turns shaking two dice. Rolling doubles allows that person to select a gift from the middle or steal a gift from someone else who then must select or steal another gift, and so on. There were usually several sets of dice running simultaneously so the selecting and stealing happen very rapidly; with a person selecting a gift and having it stolen virtually instantly.

This routine goes on for a set amount of time. The pace grows more frenzied as the timer approaches zero because each person has typically targeted a gift they want to hold at the end so they stealing becomes intense. Whatever gift a person is holding when the timer goes off is the one they keep.

At this point, the participants went around the table opening their gifts; usually to much laughter and discussion of who brought what and why. Sometimes the gift was so bizarre that the discussion had to include a description of what the item was.

The year Mom included the gym suit was a Christmas that will, to steal a phrase, live in infamy. I don't even remember who got the lovely gym suit that first year, but whoever it was opened the package when it was their turn and stared at the hideous apparel that we all knew so well.

A gym suit.

The lucky recipient held on to the gym suit for an entire year before returning it to the gift pile the following Christmas to be won by the next lucky recipient.

This started a trend. Each year, the person holding the gym suit would try to come up with the most creative way possible to package it so the players would be unable to guess which package contained it.

It was sealed inside a tin can one year.

It was hidden away with only a note informing the lucky recipient that they were now the proud owner of the gym suit another year.

As if it wasn't hard enough to try to guess which package contained the gym suit so you could avoid it, Kim made it even harder by adding her old high school gym suit one year - forcing the players to attempt to identify and avoid TWO packages each year.

While there have been many great gag gifts in the Gag Gift Game through the years, none can ever live up to the aura that surrounds the gym suits.

You'd Think I Would Know Better!

Diane and I will celebrate our 26th wedding anniversary in just a little over a week. I love Diane with all of my heart and I can't imagine my life without her. You would think that after 26 years I would understand all of Diane's moods and thoughts and emotions.

You might think that, but you would be wrong.

Perhaps nothing better exemplifies my cluelessness than a discussion we had over Thanksgiving weekend. Diane was exhausted; and when Diane is exhausted she sometimes is not very tolerant of my slightly sarcastic nature.

You would think that I would know better than to joke around when she's really exhausted.

You would, of course, be wrong again.

Through the years, it has been my habit to tell Diane, "I love you more!"

After years of hearing that, Diane decided that she would rebut with, "Well, I love you most!"

I normally replied with the simple words, "I still love you more!"

For some reason that night, though, I decided to say something different.

Diane had been falling asleep on the sofa as we watched television. She had finally reached the point of exhaustion where she said she was just going to head to bed. I kissed her and told her I loved her more, as always and she replied as she always did.

So, instead of my normal, "I still love you more," I decided to say, "No, you don't."

You'd think I would have known better.

You would think that I would have known to just bite my tongue and not try to say anything cute. But NO, that wouldn't have entered my mind. In fact, much of my sarcasm seems to leap from my tongue without ever pausing anywhere near my brain.

I thought I had a lighthearted and fun way of saying the same thing that I always say. I didn't even think that Diane, in her way too tired state, would take that poorly. She immediately broke into tears and asked, "Just what is that supposed to mean? Do you think I don't love you?"

I was taken aback!

What had I done?

I explained and it was smoothed over.

You'd think I would know better...

Mrs. Foreman's Wig

Wigs in the early 1970's were not nearly as natural looking as they are able to make them today. In fact, some were so obvious that one wondered just how bad a woman's natural hair must be for her to choose to wear a wig.

Mrs. Foreman was one of those women.

Mrs. Foreman was a teacher at Busch School. She was out on the school playground pretty much every day as we played before school, during recess or after eating lunch. Her "spot" was normally near the playground markings that designated our kickball spot.

I don't remember if it was during my fifth or sixth grade year that two of the older boys, Chris and Joe, started a little private contest to see which of them could "accidentally" hit Mrs. Foreman with the ball and knock her wig off. I'm pretty sure every student at the school knew of this contest, but somehow Mrs. Foreman remained unaware and stood in her designated spot each day.

A number of balls came close over the period of several days, but neither of the boys was successful. Eventually, though, their persistence paid off and one of them - I don't remember which - hit Mrs. Foreman to partially dislodge her wig. I'm pretty sure the entire student body quietly celebrated the victory.

A number of years went by and my sister Kim started dating a boy she met in the church youth group. His name didn't ring a bell with me at first, but his face did the first time I met her boyfriend. My sister was dating none other than Chris Amos - the Chris of the Mrs. Foreman's wig conspiracy!

Chris's face conveyed a dire warning to me as I mentioned the little incident from the school playground; making it obvious that Kim was, as yet, unaware of that event in his past. She, of course, learned the whole story at some point and it became a source of entertainment for us all when it was discussed.

I found myself wondering through the years if Kim and Chris would have found it as entertaining if their son Bryan had undertaken a similar challenge.

Love At First Sight

I can still remember the first time I laid eyes on Velvet. Not velvet as in the fabric; no, I'm talking about Velvet the wonderful dog we had as kids.

Somehow Debbie had finally begged, pleaded, cajoled and whined enough to convince Mom and Dad that she was ready to get a dog, so we headed off to the Humane Society on Macklind Avenue in St. Louis. Debbie carefully reviewed all of the dogs before selecting Velvet.

Velvet was a beautiful puppy; mostly black with a patch of white on her chest. She was energetic and playful. I will never forget watching her lick Debbie's fingers through the bars of her crate; her brown eyes sparkling with joy at the attention she was getting.

Debbie, like the rest of us, fell in love at first sight and Velvet came home to live with us.

Velvet was a great dog. She was a mutt of some sort; part lab mixed with who knows what else. The vet suspected she had some beagle in her, as well. Mostly, though, Velvet was just a bundle of love.

Velvet used to help Patches - our rather promiscuous, seemingly perpetually pregnant cat - carry her litters of kittens from one hiding place in the house to another. We'd laugh as we watched Patches walk by holding a kitten by its scruff in her mouth followed immediately by Velvet carrying another of the kittens by its scruff.

Velvet loved going for car rides, but quickly learned the route to the vet's office and would cry and quiver as we made our way to the office for an appointment.

Technically, Velvet was Debbie's dog, but she was a family prize. Velvet was always thrilled to see anyone and had a lifetime habit of urinating when she got very excited greeting guests. We tried to take her out shortly before we knew we were expecting anyone, but that didn't seem to make much difference. She still got excited and left us with a wet spot to be cleaned. I remember Warren Bless scooping Velvet up as she greeted his arrival for a visit. It proved to be a problem as Velvet wet the front of his shirt. In true Warren fashion, though, he just laughed and borrowed one of Dad's shirts.

Debbie moved out to get married shortly after graduating from high school, but Velvet stayed. Velvet slept on my bed virtually every night - usually taking more of the bed than she left for me. I didn't mind, though. Velvet loved unconditionally and snuggled against me. She listened attentively as I talked about whatever was bothering me and always finished with an encouraging snuggle or lick.

I eventually moved out, too, but Velvet stayed. Velvet lived for a very long time. One of my more painful memories was the time I said goodbye to Velvet as I left from a visit. I lived hours away and knew that this would almost certainly be the last time I saw Velvet. She was old, and it showed in so many ways, but she still had plenty of wags in her tail as I stroked her hair and hugged her.

I stopped my car at the end of the drive and cried. I cried for a long time as I reflected on how much of my life I had shared with Velvet.

My suspicions proved to be true and Velvet died shortly after that visit.

Velvet is buried out on the farm, surrounded by other beloved canine companions that have also died through the years. While many of those other dogs held unique and special places in Mom and Ted's lives, none of their deaths impacted me the way Velvet's had.

My beloved pup Sadie reminds me of Velvet in so many ways. She snuggles up between Diane and my legs on our bed each night; taking as much real estate on our queen-size bed as we will allow. She always has a warm and loving greeting for me whenever I get home. She even resembles Velvet a bit; with her large, warm, brown eyes, black hair and small patch of white on her chest.

Sadie captured my heart the first time I saw her, too.

Just like Velvet; it was love at first sight.