If you have grandparents in your life, you should feel blessed

Sometime in the perhaps-not-too-distant future, I'm going to become a grandfather.

That used to mean that you were irretrievably old. It was partially a result of shorter lifespans, and partially a result of a life spent at hard labor that would age you faster than maybe nature intended.

But nowadays, the most youthful people become grandparents. I know people younger than me who have been grandpas and grandmas for years. Sometimes it's due to a teen pregnancy, while other times it's maybe because you had a child when you were relatively young and now your own child is doing the same.

I only ever had one grandparent in my life, and that was my mom's mom, Grandma Cumberledge. I only saw her a few times a year because she lived four hours from us, but she was always, always extra nice to me. We would go back and visit her, and before we left for home she would slip me a couple of bucks and say, "Now don't you tell your mother I'm giving you this." (But my mom would always know anyway because, you know, moms somehow know absolutely everything you do.)

Both of my father's parents passed away before I was born, and my Grandpa Cumberledge died when I was a year or two old, so I never knew him.

My Grandma Cumberledge, who died in 1984, would have been 116 years old tomorrow, had she somehow managed to stay alive after bearing 10 children and working hard every day for decades. I think of her every January 30th.

Anyway, if you have grandparents still around, or if you at least have positive memories of a grandparent, then consider yourself blessed. They're a lot more valuable than we tend to give them credit for.

My youngest turns 10 today

My son Jack celebrates his 10th birthday today, which for Terry and me means we no longer have (and never again will have) a child in the single digits. Another birthday, another milestone, another reminder that time waits for no one.

"Even children get older, and I'm getting older, too," is what Stevie Nicks sang in that Fleetwood Mac song. And it's true. On a day that's supposed to be about the child, we parents always find a way to make it about us. At least in our private thoughts we do.

We knew when Jack was born that he marked the end of the line for us. I don't mean that we were going to die or anything, but rather that he was kid #5 and there most certainly (short of us misreading God's plans in this department) wasn't going to be a kid #6.

Actually, there was a part of me that thought he was going to be kid #5 AND kid #6. I had it in my head that Terry was having twins. No particular reason for it, I just thought she was going to surprise us all and pop two kids out of there just to show off how good she had gotten at this childbearing thing.

So when the first ultrasound showed only one little fetus, I was a little surprised and, frankly, a lot relieved. I knew I barely had it within me to walk the floors at night with one more crying baby. But two? I might have died.

Anyway, Jack has been a joy for us since the moment he arrived (apart from those late nights early on, but we survived). He's extremely smart, extremely funny, and if I'm being honest here, extremely weird.

I always say his sister Chloe is the most unique person I know, and that's probably still true. But Jack gives her a run for her money. There are few people in the world like my little guy, which I guess is the way it's supposed to be, right?

So happy birthday to little Jackie, as I still call him. He's allowed to continue growing older as long as he doesn't remind his parents that they're aging right along with him.

Did I ever tell you the story of my vasectomy?

I recognize you probably don't want to hear about my vasectomy, and if that's the case, you're free to stop reading right here.

But if, for whatever reason, you're OK moving forward with this subject, you can't say I didn't warn you.

It has been nearly 10 years since I underwent The Big Snip. I know this for two reasons: (a) I always remember weird dates, and (b) My youngest son, Jack, will turn 10 this Wednesday.

It was after Jack was born, you see, that Terry and I decided Tennant Offspring, Inc. needed to shut down operations. Or at least, it needed to shut down the production of new offspring and instead focus on nurturing the offspring it already had.

Right from the start I realized it would be much easier for me to undergo the sterilization process than it would be for her. Women's reproductive systems are complex, Rube Goldberg-like machines involving all sorts of parts that can only be accessed through major surgery.

Men, on the other hand, are wired fairly simply. Vasectomies are way easier to perform (and way easier on the patient) than hysterectomies are. And after all, it only seemed fair for me to be the one on the table after Terry had courageously disgorged five babies from her uterus in the space of 12 years.

So vasectomy it was. I can't remember how or why I selected Dr. Schneider as the urologist to do the deed, but I did. At the time I don't think I realized he was 12 years old.

Or at least it seemed like he was 12 years old. He was clearly younger than me, and he seemed younger than the students at my kids' school. But he had a fancy-looking diploma on the wall and seemed to have all of the required instruments in his office, so I went in assuming he knew what he was doing.

Which of course he did. One thing I learned during two years as managing editor of Urology Times magazine back in the late 90s (really) was that vasectomies are extremely routine procedures that urologists learn to perform early in their training. There's just not much to them.

From the patient's perspective, I can tell you the only two things that disquieted me were:

(1) Laying on a table essentially naked while another man fiddled with my privates and talked about the Browns

(2) The use of what seemed to be a five-foot needle injected into An Extremely Sensitive Region in order to numb that region before Dr. Schneider made his incision.

The needle was of course not five feet long (though it was definitely at least three feet), but the key point here wasn't so much its length as its sharpness. The only pain I experienced in the entire procedure was when that needle (WARNING: EXTREMELY GRAPHIC MEDICAL TERM ABOUT TO BE USED) pierced my scrotum and, from what I could tell, kept going up into my abdomen and stopped just a few inches shy of my neck.

That was...unpleasant. Really unpleasant. But it only lasted a few seconds, and it didn't approach Baby Coming Out of Tiny Opening on the unpleasantness scale, so I was OK with it.

After that, the whole thing was actually kind of – and trust me when I tell you how hesitant I am to say this, but there's really no other word for it – nice. And by "nice" I mean that Dr. Schneider and I had a great conversation about sports while he went about his business. He, like me, was a big Cleveland sports fan, and we lamented how comically bad our teams were.

When it was over and he told me I could get up, I was kind of sad. Not because I was anxious to have him keep poking, cutting, cauterizing and generally fiddling with my Man Parts, but because I really liked talking to him. But I realized he probably had to get home and finish his homework, so I was OK with it.

When I got home myself, Terry looked at me anxiously and asked if I was feeling OK. And I was. The numbing agent was still in full effect, so I wasn't feeling anything.

Later I felt something. Later I really felt something. Not an intense pain or anything, but just an annoying, enduring pain. Which is when we broke out the bag of frozen peas. That's just not a cliche, folks, it really works. Sitting on that bag of peas on the couch watching TV was mostly what I did that night and much of the next day.

A few days later I tried to do my normal morning run and it just...well, it hurt, you know? The constant tugging of gravity on an area that had, less than 100 hours earlier, been subjected to scalpels and forceps and the like was unpleasant. Again, not Having a Baby Unpleasant, but still unpleasant.

Still, after a week or two, that pain went away and I was right as rain. Had to go back another time to make sure the whole thing "took," if you know what I mean, but all in all, it was the very definition of a minor procedure.

The moral of the story, guys: It's not that big a deal. I know you WANT it to be a big deal so you can tell gruesome war stories afterward, but disappointingly, the procedure is quick and easy, as is the recovery.

Just have those frozen peas at the ready. Seriously, you want to have those frozen peas...

Make health my hobby? No thank you.

I used to read a lot of health and wellness books. These are books that tell you, in minute detail, what you need to do to live a long life with the maximum number of "quality" years.

These books spell out how you should eat, what exercise you need to do, how you should manage stress, what you need to do to keep your brain young, etc.

I once figured out (this is true) that if I were to implement everything these books told me to do in order to achieve optimal health, I would have to get up every morning at something like 3:00 a.m. to fit it all in. I'm not kidding.

Going under the assumption that my evenings are too packed and unpredictable to regularly schedule any sort of exercise or self-improvement activities, I need to relegate health and wellness solely to the morning hours. And if I were truly doing everything I'm supposed to do in order to be a robust, happy person, I would need like three or four hours every morning.

That list would include (but is certainly not limited to):

• Aerobic exercise
• Strength training
• Flexibility exercises
• Balance exercises
• Brain building (i.e., learn something new, like say a language you don't know)
• Bible reading
• Meditation/breathing exercises
• Breakfast (THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY...they think)
• Brushing and flossing
• Something else I'm sure I'm forgetting

I don't have the time to do all of those things, so I do some of them. And I'm fine with it.

I haven't always been fine with it, by the way. For several years, I agonized over not hitting 10,000 steps every day, not lifting weights, not learning Tai Chi, not stretching, not not not not not not. I was so about what I was "not" doing that I never recognized all the good things I WAS doing.

I once read a book in which a doctor suggested making your health your hobby. The implication was that your spare time should be spent learning and implementing all of the things that science and personal experience show to be good for your body, mind and general well-being.

Which is great, except that in spending so much time trying to build a better life, you leave yourself no time to actually live that life.

So I've finally (FINALLY) learned to do the best that my schedule and self-discipline will allow and to be happy with that. And I'm so relieved. All of the "nots" above were, ironically, killing me. Now I feel so much more content.

In case you're wondering, I do get out and run four days a week, and it's never for more than a half hour at a time. I don't lift weights, I don't stretch, I don't meditate. I DO read the Bible daily now and I DO eat breakfast, brush and floss without fail.

And I feel great. The burden of having to be perfect with my health was too much.

It only took me five years or so to get that through my thick head.

I'm not a hugger, but...

Some people very rightly identify themselves as "huggers." These are people who will know you for seven minutes and think nothing of giving you a goodbye hug. Or a hello hug. Or a "just because I feel like it" hug.

I am not one of these people. However, I have no problem at all when one of them hugs me. In fact, I kind of like it. I think it's nice.

Yet I would never think of doing the same thing to someone to whom I'm not, say, married.

I guess it's that I don't mind receiving the casual hug, but I'm not someone who will willingly initiate that kind of hug.

Make sense?

I just don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. And a lot of non-huggers definitely feel uncomfortable when someone moves in for a hug. They usually will grin and bear it, but they don't like it. And I don't want to put anyone in that position.

I think that, deep down, there's a hugger inside of me. But my fear of offending, angering or otherwise upsetting others keeps me from following through on this latent desire.

It's kind of sad. I think I need a hug.

These, believe it or not, are your finest days

(NOTE: This is the Blog Rerun for January. This post still describes my life, and I suspect it also describes the chaotic but wonderful existence of many who read this blog as well. It originally ran on July 26, 2013.)

If you don't mind, I'd like for you to read a quote I've lifted from a novel called "Water for Elephants." It's a tad long, but it sets the stage for my ramblings today, and you may even find it as inspirational as I do:

Those were the salad days, the halcyon years! The sleepless nights, the wailing babies; the days the interior of the house looked like it had been hit by a hurricane; the times I had five kids, a chimpanzee, and a wife in bed with fever. Even when the fourth glass of milk got spilled in a single night, or the shrill screeching threatened to split my skull, or when I was bailing out some son or other...from a minor predicament at the police station, they were good years, grand years.

But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were in it up to our eyeballs, and next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and all alone.

You don't have to have children to appreciate the truth of those two paragraphs. You need only be someone who has been through great stress at one point or another. Which is to say, all of us.

If you read this little blog with any regularity, you've seen me wax forlorn over the chaos that is my life. I find myself running hither and yon from dawn to dusk, and I'm not even exactly sure where "yon" is, or why I'm supposed to run there. But I do.

Yet in all of my complaining, never does it escape me that I love this life. I absolutely love it. While there are many people who I admire greatly, I would not trade my existence for anyone else's in the world.

I constantly worry about my children. I constantly complain about their inability to clean up a mess. I constantly fret over the ways in which I fall short as a husband and father.

And it's wonderful. Every minute of it.

At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I think there's a certain nobility in what we as human beings do every day in support of ourselves and those we love. We sacrifice our time and energy for goals we like to believe are bigger than us, and we are better creatures for having done so.

Occasionally I find myself longing for the days when the kids are grown and things finally slow down. But I know for certain I'll miss this rat race.

So lately I've reveled in the bedlam. And so should you.

Whether you recognize it or not, my friend, these are your finest days. Embrace them. Learn from them. Grow in them.

Because when it's all said and done, these are the times that will define who you were and what you stood for. And if you're playing your cards right, you should be pretty pleased with the outcome.

When your child stops being a kid

I realize it's probably lazy of me to do this, but if you're a parent (or someday plan to become a parent) and you read this blog, I suspect this is the kind of thing you'd like to read.

Rather than writing today, I'm just going to link to the following piece, which I think encapsulates everything that's simultaneously wonderful and heartbreaking about parenthood.

It's called "Just Like That," and you can click here to read it. It will only take you a few minutes, I promise.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Why does coffee make me so happy?

I've been pondering this question for the last few years, ever since I started drinking the wonderful hot elixir derived from the "grano de café." (That's "coffee bean" in Spanish. It seems like coffee beans are almost always grown in Spanish-speaking countries, so I broke out the Español there because it sounded cooler.)

Drinking coffee makes me happy. The actual physical act of ingesting it warms my heart, both literally and figuratively. But why? Why is that? What is it about coffee that I love so much?

I have three theories:

(1) It comforts me

I know the caffeine in coffee is supposed to rev you up and give you energy, but it actually seems to have the opposite effect on me. Coffee makes me feel relaxed and content, much like alcohol does for many people. I drink a cup and I just feel...<insert relaxed sigh here>

(2) It tastes and smells SO DARN GOOD

I've mentioned before that this is the part that baffles me. Ten years ago, the taste of coffee repelled me. Now? Much like wine, I suddenly love it. I can't explain the switch, but I love it. I take mine with two tablespoons of half-and-half. And I never, ever get tired of the scent or the flavor.

(3) It keeps me from eating so much
As chronicled in this blog ad nauseum, I try to eat well and maintain some semblance of a healthy weight. Coffee, relatively low in calories even with the creamer I add to it, keeps me feeling full, and therefore presumably deters cravings I might otherwise indulge with sweets, processed junk and all manner of culinary nastiness.

Oh coffee, you do so much for me. How can I ever repay you? By drinking you, that's how. I will show my appreciation by continuing to drink you in mass quantities.

Most people think the music they grew up with was the best

I became interested in popular music sometime in 1982, as I recall. It was a bit of a strange time to be getting into music since we as a society were still holding on to the last vestiges of what passed for rock in the late 70s and very early 80s, and we were just starting to get into the New Wave stuff that I liked.

Then came 1983, which I still consider to be the greatest year for music in my lifetime. Michael Jackson's "Thriller" came out that year and is still the highest-selling album of all time, but '83 also saw The Police's "Synchronicity," Men at Work's "Cargo," Def Leppard's "Pyromania," and a host of others that I convinced my mom to drive me to the mall so I could buy.

And of course I bought them on cassette. That was the medium of choice at the time. I also bought a lot of 45 RPM records. Kids, ask your parents what those were.

Anyway, the point is that, to me, that music was wonderful. It had melody, it had style, and I still listen to it. But to others, the early to mid-80s were probably a terrible time for music, either because they had come of age in the 60s or 70s (or earlier), or because they were too young at the time to appreciate it.

Not for a second would I claim that "my" music – or anyone else's – is the "best" music ever. The Beatles are great. I love them. But there are other artists whose music I enjoy just as much. I like a lot of the modern stuff my kids listen to now. And my car is always stocked with classical music CDs, because I have a long drive to work and nothing occupies it better than a Beethoven symphony, you know?

Some music we like because we connect it to a specific period in our lives. But for the most part, I like a piece of music simply because it's enjoyable. Because it moves me. Because I like the experience of listening to it. Doesn't matter if it came out in the 1950s or the 2010s or the 16th century, because I enjoy what I enjoy.

So you'll excuse me if I cringe the next time one of the old fogeys of my generation or earlier says, "This crap today is horrible! Our music was the best!" Or better yet, I'm going to hit them over the head with their own cane. That should teach them.

Coming to you live from a time when snow seems fun and desirable

A NOTE FROM THE BLOG: Yeah, so just like Wednesday's post, I wrote this one back in November when it seemed safe to assume that, by the time you read it, there would be snow on the ground in Northeast Ohio. There's not. It will in fact be a bit rainy and topping 50 degrees this weekend. Not your typical early-January weather here. So, yeah...much as I asked you to do on Wednesday, if could you just go ahead and imagine a whole bunch of snow on the ground right now, and also imagine yourself feeling sick of it and desperate for spring, I would be so appreciative. Seriously, who knew?


One of the interesting things about producing these blog posts so far in advance is that I'm often writing about future events that seem distant to me but are reality for the people who actually read these words.

Like shoveling snow, for instance. You want to know when I'm writing this? November 16th. Yeah, nearly two months ago. It's November 16th as I type this sentence, and to date I have not seen a single snowflake.

Therefore, I can think and talk fondly of snow. The fact that it's a hassle and that I get sick of it long before mid-January is forgotten for the moment. Christmas is 39 days away and snow seems romantic and fun right now.

But it's not romantic and fun. It's cold, slippery and frustrating. At least to me. And the act of removing it from my driveway -- sometimes many times over in the space of a single week -- is in no way something in which I want to engage.

But right now, there's a part of me that can't WAIT for the first big snowfall.

What's wrong with me? I know what's coming and I know I'm going to hate it. But I long for that first day or two when everything is white and clean and wintry.

The problem, of course, is that then I want the snow to go away, but it doesn't. It hangs around. For a long time. It gets dirty and ugly. And it keeps on coming.

We used to have a snowblower, but it quit working and we haven't replaced it. So until we do, it's just me (and sometimes Jared, if I'm not doing it at 5 in the morning) out there grimly shoveling away.

Ugh. I'm becoming such a snowbird. There's no doubt that I'll be traveling south for at least part of the winter sometime in the next several years. It's inevitable. I'm an Ohioan and I'm not 20 years old anymore. It's what we DO.

Anyway, I'm going to hold on to my snow naivety for just a while longer. In the meantime, please know that I feel for you guys in January who don't want snow around any longer. Really, I do, because in a couple of months, I'll BE you.

The stark, barren reality of January

A NOTE FROM THE BLOG: So when I wrote this post back in November, I guess I just assumed that early January would be snowy and cold and miserable in Cleveland. And while it is kind of cold this week, the snow has been almost non-existent. It has been the mildest of mild winters thus far, which makes this post seem a little...irrelevant. So please do me a favor if you're someone who lives in my area: As you read this, pretend you're looking outside and there's a big blizzard. It will enhance the experience for you and make me feel better about everything at the same time. Thanks so much.


T.S. Eliot said April is the cruelest month, but my vote is for January.

At least here in Northeast Ohio, January is just a brutal, seemingly endless month. It starts on a high note with the new year, but then it drags on and on with snow, cold and the realization that spring – REAL spring, with warmer temperatures and everything – is still weeks and even months away.

Some of the worst snowstorms we get here on America's North Coast happen in January, usually about the third week or so. Not sure why, but that seems to be the peak of winter for us. And even after we pass it, it's not like we can look forward to a rapid change in our weather.

Because then comes February. Which may be even crueler than January. More cold. More gray. More snow. And even though it's a shorter month, this year we get an extra February day to endure. Thanks, calendar!

I shouldn't complain, of course. I choose to live where I live and I love it here. Nothing beats the Midwest in summer, as far as I'm concerned, and it really is worth enduring the rest of it to enjoy that May-September stretch.

But man, getting there is tough. Or at least it seems to be tougher as I get a little older. Is this why people up here all eventually flee to Florida, at least for the winter months? I used to think that was hilarious. Now I think, "Hmmm, Florida..."

Seriously, Terry and I have talked about moving south one day. Maybe not to Florida, but the Carolinas do seem nice. But that would still be years away, certainly after Jack graduates (and he's only in fifth grade right now).

And it would be a huge adjustment for two people who have lived in the same zip code their entire lives.

But with every morning where I have to shovel the driveway, and every time I have to pull on boots, a jacket, gloves and a hat, it seems more and more appealing.

Man, I'm freezing. Only, what, 64 days until spring? I can't wait.

Not that my opinion counts for much, but consider this an endorsement for Weight Watchers if you're looking to get healthier

Did you, like an estimated 47 bajillion people around the world, make a new year's resolution to lose some weight? Then I'll give you some advice that's probably worth what you're paying for it.

There are lots of ways to drop weight, but they all come down to the simple formula of calories in/calories out. If you expend more calories than you take in, then you will, absolutely without doubt, lose weight. That's the basic mathematical and biological principle at play here.

Which sounds relatively easy, doesn't it? But you've probably found it to be far more challenging than a simple equation. Especially if you adhere to the Standard American Diet, a phrase that lends itself to one of the most appropriate acronyms of all time.

Weight has long been an issue for me. I've talked about it on this blog from time to time. I've certainly never been what you would call morbidly obese. Far from it. But I spent a good chunk of the 90s and 2000s carrying too much extra flesh, both in terms of how I wanted to look and from a strict BMI perspective.

At some point back in the mid-90s, Terry introduced me to Weight Watchers. I tried it a few times and it never failed to work. I always, always lost weight when I was "on plan," in WW parlance. The problem was sticking with it, which is course always the problem with weight loss. A shockingly – and perhaps dismayingly – small percentage of people who lose weight manage to keep it off for any appreciable length of time.

But that was never the fault of Weight Watchers. The blame for my regains lay solely with me. Weight Watchers is, for my money, not only the ideal way to lose weight, but also to keep it off.

Why? Well, for one thing, the Weight Watchers people take a holistic approach, meaning they care about the whole person. Yes, they'll help the number on the scale go down, but they also go to great lengths to ensure you're both healthy and happy: Food, Fitness and Fulfillment are the three Fs in the latest version of the Weight Watchers plan.

I should mention that Weight Watchers underwent a major overhaul over the last few months, changing up their plan drastically to ensure that members concentrate on what they call both scale and non-scale victories. The plan does seem to evolve once every five years or so, but in my mind, it's always for the better.

There are many things I like about Weight Watchers, but here are three that stand out:

• Nothing is "off limits." People will say to me, "Can you eat that with Weight Watchers?" And I'll say that, yes, I can eat absolutely anything I want on the WW plan. There are no "restricted" foods. But everything has a SmartPoint value, and you only have so many SmartPoints to expend in a given day (though you also have a weekly cushion you can dip into as needed). Therefore, while you're "allowed" to eat that huge slice of chocolate cake, you have to ask yourself, "Is this worth the points it's going to cost me?" Maybe it is, and that's fine. But it's a question you need to ask about anything you put in your mouth.
• Fruits and vegetables are "free." That is, they don't cost you any points, so you can load up on them (within reason, of course, but that "reason" gives you an awfully wide berth). I rarely feel hungry or deprived with Weight Watchers as a result of the freedom to eat these zero-point foods virtually to my heart's content.
• Absolutely no one is going to judge you if you struggle, regain weight, etc. I find Weight Watchers meetings to be true "judgment-free" zones. Your leader is there to help you, and that leader is always also a Weight Watchers member. They know exactly what you're going through.

Do you have to track/weigh/measure your foods? The way I do Weight Watchers, yes you do (there's a "Simply Filling" Weight Watchers track that has less of that type of work involved, but I've never really tried it and frankly don't think I'd be any good at it). But tracking and measuring is such a valuable exercise, and one to which you become accustomed very quickly, that it never seems like a burden.

Do you have to stay "on plan" the rest of your life? If you want to keep the weight off, then yeah, you do. But trust me, the benefits of feeling great, looking great, and knowing you've improved your health exponentially outweigh the fleeting joy you get from any sugar binge.

For what it's worth, I lost 43 pounds on Weight Watchers from December 2012 through the spring of 2013. I gained some of it back in 2014 but have been on plan since Fall 2015 and am feeling very comfortable at or under my goal weight of 185 pounds. And I track and measure every day. After a while, it gets much easier and instinctive, trust me.

Anyway, I'm not Oprah or anything, so it's not like I'm some sort of influencer. And the Weight Watchers people certainly aren't paying me to talk them up. I just love how being a WW member makes me feel, and it's something I wanted to pass along to the readers of this blog, about whom I care very much and for whose continued attention I am extremely grateful.

If you have additional questions about Weight Watchers that you'd like to ask privately, please don't hesitate to email me at scotttennant@oh.rr.com.

All is quiet on New Year's Day

I find this to be one of the stranger holidays (New Year's Day, I mean). For a few reasons, I guess:

• For one thing, the real celebration happened last night. New Year's Day itself just kind of feels anticlimactic. We were excited for the new year last night, we celebrated when the ball dropped, and now...well, I'm just not as jacked up about it. The new year is here. Hooray.
• Also, it has been exactly one week since Christmas. And Christmas is the absolute king of holidays. Having another holiday just seven days later, and one for which it's not quite clear exactly what you're supposed to do, makes New Year's Day really pale in comparison.
• There's also the fact that my family doesn't have any New Year's Day traditions. No special dinner or anything. We just sort of...exist. The winter school break is winding down, we're still cleaning up from Christmas, and we generally don't have any plans.

Well, actually, I guess I do have one personal tradition: I always go for a run the morning of New Year's Day, whether it's a scheduled running day for me or not. And when I do this, I always (always) listen to U2's "New Year's Day" as I run. It's a good song, and the mood of it fits my concept of what New Year's Day represents (or maybe I've fit my concept of New Year's Day to the song...I'm not sure).

Anyway, it's 2016 now, and you and I are still getting together a few times a week in the little corner of cyberspace occupied by this blog. I appreciate that. Seriously, I really appreciate that. You're a busy person. You have lots of things to do and lots of choices to make when it comes to how you spend your time. And many of you choose to read my little posts every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, so thank you. That's a very nice thing for you to do.

And happy new year. Whatever that's supposed to mean today.