Everyone is pretty much over Alexa except me

An increasing number of us have smart speakers (like Amazon Echos and Dots, and Google Homes) and virtual assistants (like Alexa) in their houses.

We actually have a small-but-growing army of such devices. There's one in our kitchen, one in our living room, one in our master bedroom, and one up in Terry's craft room/office.

At first I thought they were more about having fun than really doing anything useful.

As I've mentioned, I play Question of the Day trivia through our kitchen Echo, and sometimes I'll switch to blackjack or Song Quiz.

And of course if you ask Alexa to tell you a joke or recite a poem, she will do so, be it sometimes ever so cringeworthy.

But then we got a set of those smart lights in our bedroom. Every night when Terry and I are ready to go to sleep, one of us will say, "Alexa, turn out the lights."

And she does. Everything goes immediately dark.

This is, by now, old technology. But I am endlessly fascinated by it.

I tell Alexa to "turn on the lights to 53%," and she will turn on the lights to what I can only assume is exactly 53% of their maximum brightness.

It helps that I am easily amused. I just am. If you give me a fork and a string, I can find ways to amuse myself for hours. I laugh at almost anything and am impressed by the simplest tricks. I find life to to be a series of fun and enchanting events and experiences.

Which is why the act of being able to turn out my lights just by voicing it into existence blows me away. I will never get bored of this technology.

Alexa, give me the definition of "simple minded."

There was a time when Saturday night meant Love Boat, Fantasy Island, and folding newspapers

I am going to sound very old when I describe what most of my Saturday nights were like in the very early 80s.

More often than not, I spent those Saturday evenings:

• Watching "The Love Boat" at 9pm on ABC
• Watching "Fantasy Island" at 10pm, also on ABC
• Stuffing/folder newspapers to deliver the following morning

All three of these things are part of the distant past. The two shows, which were the very essence of cheesy late 70s/early 80s television, have long since been cancelled. And of course, almost no one reads print newspapers anymore.

Except for me, of course. We have covered this before. I still read print newspapers every day. Each morning I go outside to retrieve that day's copies of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, The Wall Street Journal, and the local News-Herald from the bottom of my driveway. I find it difficult to start my day without having read those papers while eating my never-changing breakfast of oatmeal, a banana, and coffee.

Back in 1981 when I delivered The News-Herald, there were a lot more people like me. You got the paper and you watched the evening news. That's how you knew what was going on in the world.

In those days, the Sunday paper was so large that they would deliver sections of it to newspaper carriers earlier in the week. One section would arrive at your house on Thursdays, I think? And more of it would come on Saturday.

The actual timely news parts of the Sunday paper would of course arrive on Sunday morning for delivery that day.

So, to prepare for the chore of delivering big, heavy Sunday papers, I would take the sections that had already been delivered to me by Saturday night and combine them into one, easier-to-handle chunk. Then on Sunday morning it was easier to combine that with the news and sports sections that would be dropped off by the big orange News-Herald truck that stopped at our house every day.

Folding papers was a tedious chore, so while doing it I would watch whatever little vignettes were to be offered up on The Love Boat and Fantasy Island. These shows required little in the way of intellectual engagement, which was good considering I was 11 or 12 years old at the time.

More than anything, I just thought it was funny when little Tattoo would go up in that bell tower and yell, "Da plane! Da plane!"

We were simple folk in the early 80s, you understand.

You'll forgive me if I lack the energy to be outraged by whatever it is you believe I should be outraged about

Social media is, on balance, a good thing, in my opinion.

It's also a place that many people and organizations use to try and get you to do something, whether it's buying a product, contributing to a cause, or adopting a particular political philosophy.

Heavy on that last one. Really heavy.

I have said this before and I mean it: You have every right to use your social media platforms to espouse your political views, and I don't care which platform it is. Some people feel Facebook is supposed to be about sharing pictures of your family and your pets, but who's to say what it's really "supposed" to be about?

If you want to post daily on Facebook (or anywhere else) about your views on politics, have at it. More power to you.

Please understand, however, that most people aren't likely to respond how you might want them to respond.

Many are already firmly entrenched in their politics, and little you have to say, no matter how brilliant or persuasive it may seem, is likely to move them. Most people (including you) are going to believe what they want to believe. That's just how it is.

Then there are others like me. I may or may not agree with you, but it doesn't matter. I'm simply not going to get wound up by something you bring up on social media. I'm just not.

That's no reflection on you at all. In fact, it's more a reflection on me. It does not represent any sort of moral superiority on my part, but rather a core laziness, I suppose.

I am tired much of the time. It's a "good" tired in that it stems from the fact that I get to devote all of my energies to supporting my family and engaging in leisure-time activities I enjoy. But it still means that, at the literal end of the day, I'm spent.

I have almost no spare mental or emotional capacity to devote to getting angry over whatever person, thing, or situation is annoying you. The result is that I will glance at your post and then almost immediately keep scrolling.

I apologize for this. I know you put a lot of time, effort and even passion into saying whatever you want to say. But...please forgive me for saying this...I sort of don't care.

That's bad, isn't it?

I'm not going to lie, though. I simply don't care. No matter how many times you tell me to "wake up" or stop being "a sheep" or whatever, I'm just going to move on.

Again, I'm so sorry about that. There are other things to which I've decided to devote my energies, and your candidate or cause happens not to be on the list. That's doesn't mean he/she/it is unimportant in a larger sense.

They're just unimportant to me personally.

Or at least, they're not sufficiently important for me to get mad about.

Which I suppose is kind of the same thing.

I live in a little bubble where it's easy to forget there are still people who smoke

Like many people of my generation, I grew up in a house where both parents smoked. That was just kind of the way it was. Many teachers smoked, store clerks smoked, and even your little league coaches smoked. It seemed like most adults smoked.

There was never actually a time, though, when "most" U.S. adults smoked. The peak year for American smoking, according to several sources, was 1965, when a reported 45% of Americans 18 or older were regular smokers. That figure has since fallen to about 14% as of 2019.

By all accounts, that's a good thing. Smoking remains "the leading cause of preventable disease, disability, and death in the United States," says the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Common sense tells you it's simply not a good thing to do to your body.

(I do, however, still love the quote from Ricky Romano, a neighborhood kid with whom I grew up who seemingly smoked from the time he was in early elementary school. When my friend Kevin said to him, "Hey, Rick, smoking causes cancer," Rick calmly replied, "Ice cubes cause cancer.")

Still, 14% of U.S. adults is a lot of people, something along the lines of 34 million individuals. And the thing is, I rarely see any of them actually doing it.

I work for a non-smoking company, so there aren't people standing outside of our buildings puffing away (though a few do congregate across the street to light up). No one in my family smokes, thankfully. And with most indoor public spaces now designated as no smoking areas, it's not like it used to be in the 70s when housewives would smoke while pushing their carts up and down the aisles of grocery stores.

The effect is that, when I see someone smoking or smell it as a car passes by, it takes me by surprise for a split second. There's a part of me that wonders every time, "Wait, what's going on?" Then my brain flashes back to 1981 and I realize what's happening. "Oh, he's smoking. That's right! That's still a thing!"

The point, I guess, is it's amazing how different the world is today, and how insulated our individual existences can be that we forget people still engage in an activity we associate with the distant past.

This is one of the few times that I'm mostly grateful for my sheltered life.

Happy 15th birthday, Jack

Today our youngest child, Jack, turns 15.

A bit of an awkward age, that one. I once wrote a blog post in which I said the 15-year-old version of myself is really the only iteration of me I don't especially like.

Jack seems to be handling it OK, though. He's a sophomore in high school who takes honors classes, gets good grades, plays the trumpet in band, serves as a class officer, and runs on the cross country and track teams.

All very rewarding activities, and all good for the college resume.

Socially, he's coming along about as well as any 15-year-old boy generally does. He has a small group of friends who hang out together, most of whom started learning to drive a full year before Jack will. Jack was accelerated a grade in elementary school, so he's considerably younger than his classmates.

He's anxious to start driving, if a bit nervous about the prospect of it. I tell him he'll do fine, and he really will. He's smart and he's a good kid.

All parents think their kids are good kids, of course, and in most cases they're right. I like kids. Kids of all ages, really. They're fun to talk to and fascinating to watch as they make the same sort of mistakes you did when you were their age.

There's a lot to be learned from making mistakes, and we should probably let our kids make more of them. The parental urge to keep them from all disappointment and danger isn't always in their best interest.

Fortunately(?), Jack makes his share of mistakes. What he needs to do is get the hang of learning from them and not repeating them (or at least not repeating them so often). He'll get there. Lord knows I didn't have my overall act together at age 15 the way he does.

If he remains the fundamentally decent person he is now—and I have no reason to believe he won't—Jack will do well in life. However the saying goes, nice guys generally don't finish last in my experience, at least not in the long run.

And he's a nice guy.

Happy birthday, Youngest Son Who Is About A Half-A-Foot Taller Than Me.

Having a private instructor makes me feel rich

Until recently, I had never had a private saxophone lesson in my life.

I learned to play as a fourth-grader at Mapledale Elementary School in a group setting with other beginning saxophonists (NOTE: The late Men at Work multi-instrumentalist Greg Ham used to pronounce that word, perhaps a bit tongue in cheek, as sax-OPH-oh-nists, which I just love. I will never say it another way.)

We would squeak and squawk our way through 30-minute lessons with the wonderful Mr. Chuck Baker, a saint of a man who taught elementary and middle school music and band. He is/was a clarinetist by trade but, like most music educators, could work his way around just about any instrument.

That was the extent of my formal training. Whatever else I've learned on the sax over 40 years of playing came on the job during wind ensemble and jazz band rehearsals.

Until now. Now I pay an amazing professional saxophonist named Ed Michaels the criminally low fee of $15 a week to give me lessons every Monday at 5:30pm via Google Duo.

We just started a few weeks ago and already Ed is putting me through my paces. I'm playing scales and etudes, familiarizing myself with the Circle of Fourths (which I should have known about years ago), and even learning the right way to play certain notes on the horn.

Mr. Baker, for example, taught me to play B-flat the way I believe a clarinet player does, pressing down the first finger on each hand. This is at best an alternate way of playing it on sax, and Ed is pushing me to learn the right way, which means undoing years and years of doing it the wrong way.

This is not easy at any stage of life, but maybe particularly so at age 51. But I'm getting through it.

Anyway, the point is, I have Ed, a formally trained expert on the instrument, teaching me. There is something about that arrangement I find to be very cool.

Like I'm Louis XIV having the court musician teaching me the tricks of his trade. Except I lack the power to order Ed to the guillotine.

Not that I would want to. He is a wonderfully nice and patient man who loves the sax and clearly enjoys teaching it to others.

Which is good, because that B-flat thing is giving me troubles. When I get it right, I fully expect him to give me a smiley face sticker in recognition of my accomplishment.

It is only through great struggle that I can remember your name

 

If you have seven minutes free to watch this, one of my favorite Saturday Night Live skits of recent years, may I suggest you do?

This is a takeoff on a game show called "What's That Name?" Hosted by the hilarious Bill Hader, the show has contestants John Mulaney and Cecily Strong trying to identify people's names they should remember. John cannot successfully identify his best friend's wife's name, for example, while Cecily fails to come up with the name of the wife of a fellow partner in her firm.

I can painfully relate to both.

It is a basic courtesy to remember someone's name when you are introduced to them. And much of the time I do, but only because I go to great lengths to imprint that name in my brain.

If I just casually hear their name and say hello, it is gone within seconds.

So I must repeat it to myself several times over, which leads to conversations like this:

PARTY HOST: Scott, I'd like you to meet Chuck McGlargle.

CHUCK: Scott, nice to meet you!

ME: Nice to meet you, too!

ME (to myself): "Chuck McGlargle. Chuck McGlargle. It's Chuck McGlargle. Do not forget it. Or at least don't forget the Chuck part. Chuck. Chuck. Chuck."

ME (to Chuck): So what do you do for a living, Buck? CHUCK! I MEAN CHUCK!

The next time I meet Chuck/Buck, whether it's a few minutes or a few years later, I feverishly wrack my brain to come up with his name. If I can't do it, I have to revert back to, "Hey, buddy! Nice to see you!" Or, "Heeeeeeyyy there, big guy, what's going on?"

The other person knows instantly that you have forgotten their name. Most people, like me, will simply gloss over it and move on. But I admire those who, good naturedly, will say something like, "Chuck McGlargle, we met at Bob's party." Or, even bolder, "You don't remember me, do you? I'm Chuck!"

It's not that I think you're unimportant. On the contrary, I love meeting new people, and I find virtually every person on the planet to be interesting (this is part of my personality...I sincerely think everything and everyone is fascinating).

It's just that while my body is very much that of a 51-year-old man, my mind has matured faster than the rest of me and has, for the better part of three decades, been that of a 95-year-old resident of assisted living.

I want to remember who you are, I really do. I simply lack the ability to retain this information.

It is my sincere hope that Chuck/Buck (or, if I've given up completely, "Dude," "Champ," or "Ace") will forgive me.

We always just assumed we were middle class

The Pew Research Center offers this online calculator that will tell you whether you're considered to be in the lower, middle, or upper income tier based on the part of the U.S. in which you live, your annual household income before taxes, and the number of people in your household. (If you click that link, it should open up in a separate window so you don't have to navigate away from this post.)

My personal results were just about where I figured they would be, but it made me think back to when I was growing up on Harding Drive in good old suburban Wickliffe, Ohio. We always thought of ourselves as middle class, as did everyone else on our street, as far as I knew.

I say "as far as I knew" because over time, I've come to learn there are people who secretly have lots of money but who, for whatever reason, choose to live very frugal lifestyles and only appear to be middle class.

The gauge I used as a kid for figuring out whether people were "rich" was not so much the size of their house, but how close the house was to their neighbors on either side.

On my street, there was never more than about 50 feet from one house to another, so in my mind, we were all pretty solidly middle class.

There were other parts of Wickliffe, up in "Wickliffe Heights" where I live now, for example, where people had big yards and lots of space between houses. I figured those must be the rich people.

I know better now that I actually live up here, but veterans of this area of town always laugh when I tell them what my perception of it was back in the 70s and 80s.

Of course, this is all a matter of perspective. Salaries in Northeast Ohio tend to lag behind many parts of the country, largely because the cost of living is so reasonable around here. What we paid for our house in Wickliffe might get us a two-room apartment in San Francisco. Might.

But when you start thinking globally, we middle-class folks in the U.S. live like kings and queens. The Washington Post a few years ago published a calculator that allowed you to compare your income with people in specific countries around the world.

Suffice it to say that most of us are Bill Gates in comparison with the citizens of certain nations.

So we should be grateful, middle class or otherwise. Growing up, I didn't know any better anyway, so I've always been pretty satisfied with where my family and I fall out, socioeconomically speaking.

Long live the bourgeoisie.

My love-love relationship with coffee

If you type "coffee" in the little box to the right labeled "Search This Blog," it will return nearly two dozen different posts I've written over the years about (or at least mentioning) my favorite beverage.

This is almost as many as you'll get if you search for any of my kids' names. And those kids, along with Terry, are ostensibly what this blog is all about.

The reason, of course, is that I love coffee.

I used to say I wasn't addicted, but now I know that to be untrue. I get antsy if I don't have my coffee. Not so much tired as just...antsy. I really want/love/enjoy/need that cup of joe.

Four cups a day, actually. That's how much I drink consistently. I know people who drink a lot more, and I know others who have maybe a cup a day and are horrified at the thought of four in 8-10 hours.

I also know those who never touch the stuff, which I very much respect.

I was a never-touch-the-stuff guy up until around 2011, when I hit my early 40s. As I've often mentioned, some switch flipped at that point and I went from never having coffee to having much, much coffee. That switch hasn't turned off since.

I like the smell, taste, and feel of a hot cup of coffee. I write pretty condescendingly about smokers in an upcoming post, but I understand that sort of attraction/addiction.

I make mine in a Keurig, which coffee snobs and the environmentally conscious alike treat with contempt. I have almost no standards when it comes to coffee, though, so I'll take the cheap K-cup product any time.

Breakfast for me is always, always, always the same: A cup of plain oats, a banana, and a cup of coffee.

I am a creature of habit.

And addiction.

But what a sweet, wonderful, half-and-half-infused addiction it is.

Back when we were knee deep in onesies, Barbie dolls, and crusty old sippy cups

 

A few years ago, I posted this video on Facebook, accompanied by these words:

Parents of young children, I know you're tired. I get it. I spent several years living the life you're living now. But believe me when I say you're going to miss the chaos. It's a lot of fun having older kids, but I would love to go back and relive moments like this one every once in a while. Which I suppose I could, but I might not survive if they all smothered me like this now. This was shot in late October 2001, which would have made Elissa 7, Chloe 5, Jared 3, and Melanie a little more than a year old (and Jack that proverbial twinkle in the eye).

All four kids shown in this video are now in their 20s. And as noted, our youngest was still 4+ years away from being born.

Having little kids is an exhausting business. It requires constant mental alertness, emotional investment, and physical exertion. You are part teacher, part caretaker, and part goat herder.

When we were in this stage of parenthood, people often told me to enjoy it, that someday it would be gone and I would miss it, etc. It's not that I didn't believe them, I just never really thought very far ahead in those days. It was always about getting through that particular week.

Not that life suddenly becomes a cakewalk when your kids get older, but I do find I have lot more room to breathe in 2021 than I did in 2001. Just from a stress perspective, it's better to be here than there.

But every once in a while, when it's quiet in our house in the evening, I find myself missing the chaos of two decades ago. There was always a diaper to change, a child to feed, a crier to attend to. It was all Barney, Teletubbies, Winnie the Pooh, and whatever PBS Kids had to offer up that day. It was loud, tiring, and frankly annoying more times than I care to admit.

But it was also wonderful. All of it. I realize the distance of time accentuates the positive and eliminates the negative, but even then, there was a part of me that knew I had it good.

I still have it good. I wouldn't want to go back to that time for all the money in the world.

Maybe just a 10-minute visit, though. Just long enough to hold a happy baby, do zerberts on some toddler's soft belly, and get in a quick game of Candyland.

That would be nice.

Maybe that's what grandkids are for...reliving the best parts of the maelstrom of parenthood that, in truth, passed by all too fast without you realizing it.

I wouldn't know. We're not in that stage of life...yet. But it's coming.

In the meantime, I have the memories. And thanks to digital technology, I have the videos.

For now, that's enough.

Uninformed opinions on five meaningless debates

Bagels vs. Doughnuts

I come down Team Bagel here, but only because in my mind bagels are generally healthier for you. Really, though, some bagels are so full of sugar and not-so-great stuff that this may be more of a toss-up than I realize. Still, I'll take a cinnamon raisin bagel any time you want to offer one.

Ford vs. Chevy

The reality is that I don't care. I'm not a car guy, and for the last several years I've driven only Hondas anyway. But I realize this is the eternal question for many Americans, particularly when you start talking about trucks and throw Dodge into the mix. Put me down as "undecided."

Beatles vs. Rolling Stones

I'll always pick the Beatles here, but I think of the Stones the way I think of Rush: I really should like them more than I do, and I probably would if I listened to more of their music. I just can't be bothered to do it, which suggests I'm getting old (or I'm already there).

Coffee vs. Tea

I'll take both, but I drink way, way more coffee. Like, a minimum of four cups a day, and usually it's five. I wish I could get myself into the green tea habit.

Ginger vs. Mary Ann

My wife looks way more like Mary Ann than Ginger, so my choice here is clear. This is the one in which I have the most confidence.

Happy birthday to the guy with whom I recorded an album

Today is my friend Nate's 50th birthday. He and I have been friends since high school. We always shared a love of music, technology, and sports (particularly baseball).

We also had a little two-man band together in the late 80s and early 90s. It has been a while, but I've written about the band before. We called ourselves SRO, which as I've mentioned is ironic when you consider we never played a single gig that was truly standing room only.

But we did play gigs. And we recorded an album together.

"Album" is perhaps too grandiose a term here, but we did collaborate on an 11-song cassette that a few people actually bought with real money. Of the songs on that cassette, all but one were originals written by Nate, the exception being Vince Guaraldi's "Linus and Lucy" (which we covered because Nate could play it on the piano and people love that song).

The album was/is called "Sandlot Tunes." If you have a few minutes free and no real purpose in life, you can click here to listen to some of it.

The recordings are a bit dated, limited as we were by our musical tastes at the time and the technology available to us. But many of the songs still stand up and are pretty catchy, if you ask me.

Anyway, it was a cool thing to have done, and it led to me continuing to make music now whenever I get the chance, even at the age of 51.

All of which is good for the soul.

And the mind. I may not be able to recall what I had for dinner last night, but I can just about tell you the key in which our most popular song "X-Squared" was written (A-flat, I think).

Anyway, happy birthday, Nate. Someday we'll get together again and jam.

I have almost three dozen neckties that get little to no use

There was a time when I wore a tie five or even six days a week.

When I worked at the Cleveland Clinic, for example, I wore ties Monday through Thursday (and sometimes Friday depending on what was going on), and then I would wear a full suit on Sunday mornings for church.

Nowadays, my office (like most others) has gone business casual. And with the pandemic and subsequent work-from-home routine, my dress code has loosened even further.

Even for church my usual attire now is a sport coat with open shirt collar. I'll wear a tie only when I'm giving the exhortation, which happens about five times a year.

I just went into my closet and counted 35 very nice neckties hanging in there, most of which I haven't worn in years.

Some are very formal and were bought to match a particular dress shirt.

Others are informal, including the holiday-themed ties I have for Christmas and Valentine's Day.

None are likely to see the light of day more than once or twice in a calendar year...if even that often.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. I was always comfortable wearing a tie to work. It was never constricting to me, and honestly, the days when I wore suits were easier, sartorially speaking. Just match a suit with an appropriate dress shirt and tie (there were really only so many combinations, so even I couldn't screw it up), and you were good to go.

I always thought, too, that there was something to the idea of "dress professionally, act professionally." A tie didn't make me feel stuffy, it made me feel confident and well-dressed.

Of course, no one is stopping me from wearing a tie now. I could do it whenever I want. But I know that when I go back to the office, a tie always generates a lot of questions from people. Why the tie? What's the occasion? What made you decide to wear that?

My response, by the way, never varies. Unsmilingly, I look at them and respond, "I have a job interview today." At first they look surprised, then they realize I'm just messing with them.

I kind of miss tie-inspired humor.

What was the first song or album that you bought (or downloaded)?

There comes a point in the lives of most people when they develop an interest in music, and at first it's generally (but not always) the music that happens to be popular at the time.

The first song I ever bought for myself was the Men at Work hit "Down Under." I bought it in 1982 at Zayre's, a local discount/department store, on a 45 RPM record for something like $1.75. Maybe it was less, I can't remember.

I was in seventh grade at the time and the music of that 1982-84 era really shaped my taste for years to come. I still listen regularly to Men at Work, and particularly to lead singer Colin Hay, who has had a great solo career over the last 35 years. I even met him once.

From Men at Work I quickly branched out to The Police, Steve Miller, Duran Duran, The Fixx, Flock of Seagulls, Billy Joel, and a whole host of other artists whose 45s and cassettes I would regularly purchase. These were songs that had strong melodies, interesting lyrics, and quite often the combination of synthesizers and saxophones that I liked.

What about you? What was the first song or full-length album you bought? When did you buy it, and more important, why did you buy it? Feel free to comment directly here on the blog, or on whatever social media channel you use to access us (Facebook, Twitter, or LinkedIn).

The quarter-zip fleece is the centerpiece of any wintertime Dadwear wardrobe

 

I don't know who it was, but at some point, there was a clothing designer tasked with coming up with something dads living in colder climates could regularly wear, say, from October through April.

The result was the quarter-zip fleece, and I am eternally grateful for this person's efforts.

This time of year, I wear one of these garments probably five or six days a week. I own a half dozen of them in various colors that I pair with an undershirt (always white, gray, or black) and jeans, and I'm ready to go.

You cannot claim to be a Dadwear aficionado if you don't have at least a few of these in your closet. For the record, you also need several print polo shirts, a few pairs of khaki shorts, and an array of t-shirts you wear to mow the lawn.

Let it be known that I wish to be buried in a quarter-zip fleece, even if I die in July. If you want, you can put it on me over a shirt and tie. I'm not a total goober.

I have sold my soul to Apple

Five years ago, I made the switch from an Android phone to an iPhone. As I explained at the time, it's not that I thought the iPhone was really any better than Android. I had been an Android user for several years and had very much enjoyed it. It was just that the rest of my family had iPhones, and at the time it seemed as if the world was catering more to the iPhone.

Which it mostly is.

What has really entrenched me in the Apple cult, however, is the ease of integrating various Apple devices.

On almost any given day, I actively use five different Apple devices:

• iPhone
• iPad
• MacBook
• Apple Watch
• AirPods

These are all good quality products. They serve my needs. And as I said, they are designed to play well with each other.

It's the little things about device integration that I like. For instance, whenever I'm away from my MacBook for any length of time and it goes to sleep, it will awaken instantly when I return because it senses my Apple Watch and knows it's me. I don't have to retype my password or anything.

Being a very simple (and ultimately lazy) man, I like that.

Chances are there are Android devices that will do the same, but I stopped following technological developments in that world after I ditched the Android phone, so I don't know for sure.

There are perhaps ethical reasons for shunning Apple products that I comprehend, yet (and here I freely admit I'm exercising privilege of the highest order) I choose to overlook them. I'm not sure the alternatives to Apple are all that morally superior anyway.

The point is, the Apple folks have me. And given the extent to which they have access to my personal data, they know they have me.

I'm OK with that. I mean, they give me those free Apple logo stickers every time I buy another one of their devices. How can I say no to that?

When your resumé is longer than your arm

If you visit my LinkedIn profile (which you're welcome to do if you're desperately bored and lack a viable alternative activity), you will find the "Experience" section there to be rather lengthy.

Part of this stems from the simple fact that I have been in the full-time workforce for nearly 30 years, and one is bound to rack up some experience in that time.

More to the point, though, I've worked for eight different organizations since 1991, and held more than one position within a few of them.

While this is not uncommon in today's economy, I've always been deathly afraid of being labeled a "job hopper," which I most certainly do not consider myself to be.

The sole reason I have had so many different jobs in my career is a very practical one: Since the mid-90s, I've been the sole source of income for my family of seven people. When you are in that role, as much as you want to count "professional growth" as a driver for seeking a new job, your primary motivation is a larger paycheck.

It's as simple as that. Until recently, I've always sought out higher salaries in order to provide for my wife and children. Now, with two of the kids out of the house and two more within a few years of following suit, income is not the catalyst it once was.

Don't get me wrong, I want to save up as much for retirement as I can. But for the first time in my career, I have no need to constantly calculate the next big career move.

Every day I report to work at Vitamix sets a new record for me in terms of time spent with one company. I have happily served as the organization's Director of Communications since May 13, 2013, which means I'm at 7½ years and counting.

If I have my way, I will work there another 15 years or more.

I recognize, however, that it's not entirely up to me. The company has a lofty purpose and corporate mission it seeks to fulfill, and if I'm not constantly contributing fresh ideas toward achieving strategic goals and objectives, I will be shown the door.

This sort of involuntary separation has happened once in my career, and the trauma of it is still fresh. "Trauma" may seem like an overblown word choice, but I don't know how else to describe it. Losing your job unexpectedly is a tough thing for anyone to deal with, and I never, ever want to go through it again.

In any event, I have great admiration for people like my brother-in-law Dave, who has worked for the Swagelok Company here in suburban Cleveland for 31 years. Those who have the skill and tenacity to stick with a single organization that long are to be commended, as far as I'm concerned.

Seriously, if I'm so blessed as to get to 10 years with Vitamix, I think it will be cause for a national celebration. Check with me in the spring of 2023. If I'm still there, it will be green smoothies for everyone!

Here are the life lessons we should all learn from A Guy Named Blake

One of the fun storylines in my Cleveland Browns' playoff victory over the Pittsburgh Steelers this past Sunday involved a young man playing in his first NFL game.

His birth certificate says he is named Blake Hance. But to Cleveland football fans, he will forever be "a guy named Blake."

Hance, who played his college ball at Northwestern (which, I'll go ahead and say, suggests he's a pretty smart dude), was a member of the New York Jets' practice squad when the Browns signed him on January 2nd. The team was in need of a backup offensive lineman, and they liked what they had seen of Hance.

Blake didn't play in the regular season finale against Pittsburgh, but when backup lineman Michael Dunn went down with an injury against the Steelers the following week in the playoffs, in came Hance.

I saw him sitting on the bench earlier in the game and said to no one in particular in my living room, "Hance? I have no idea who this person is."

My unfamiliarity with him didn't last long.

Hance came in and played brilliantly, particularly when you consider it was his first-ever NFL game, and in the playoffs no less! He was a back-up to a back-up. No one would have blamed him if he had had some trouble handling Pittsburgh's vaunted defensive line.

But he didn't. He and his linemates kept quarterback Baker Mayfield fully protected throughout the rest of the game as the Browns recorded their first playoff win since 1994...and their first road playoff victory since the year I was born (1969).

After the game when he was being interviewed on NBC, Mayfield gave this now-famous sound bite: "A guy named Blake that I introduced myself to literally in the locker room before the game started up."

And a Cleveland star was born. There are "A Guy Named Blake" t-shirts for sale, the proceeds from which Hance is donating to the youth football program in his hometown of Jacksonville, Illinois. Hance has been doing all sorts of media interviews and will always be remembered for being one of the heroes in the win against the Steelers.

All of which is a great story, but there's more to it. Each of us should learn something from what Blake Hance did. In fact, I'll give you three things:

• "Next man up" is not just a sports cliche: Coaches and players use this phrase to suggest that even back-up players always need to be ready to play, because you never know when your number will be called. The same is true in business and in life. You have no idea what opportunities are going to be thrown your way. Much of the great stuff that happens to you will seemingly come out of the blue. What are you doing to prepare yourself for it? You have goals and ambitions. When the opportunity comes along, how are you making yourself ready to seize them? Seriously ask yourself these two questions.
  
• You don't want to hear this, but it comes down to hard work: By all accounts, Hance has worked hard in practice and in the meeting room during his short tenure with the Browns. However improbable it seemed that he would get into a live game, it was still a very real possibility. So he put in the work, both physical and mental. You have heard this before (to the point that it may not even register anymore), but you have to be willing to put in the work. That's just the way our existence on this planet works. If you don't work hard, your chances of success are minimal. A guy named Blake worked hard and it paid off.
• What Hance did is what professionals do: To me, the highest compliment anyone can pay you in your career is that you are "a professional." In sports, the implication is that even though you're playing a game for a living, you play it the right way. You take it seriously, and that shows in the way you prepare, the way you execute, and the way you carry yourself. I don't care what your job is. If you cannot say you approach your work as a mature professional, then it's time to step back and figure out why not. Blake Hance is the professional we all aspire to be.

Well done, young man.

Your kindergarten teacher probably knew more about you than you realize

"Scott is a very mature, alert boy. He takes things too seriously and gets quite upset sometimes if he thinks he has done wrong. It is necessary that Scott not be pressured so he can relax, since he does do good work." -- Mrs. Dorothy Janes, kindergarten teacher, Mapledale Elementary School - January 29, 1976

"Scott has shown growth in his emotional stability. I have enjoyed having him in class." -- Mrs. Janes - June 11, 1976

With my mom's passing last summer, we inherited several boxes worth of photos and other memories. I didn't realize she had saved virtually every one of my report cards, including my end-of-year assessment from kindergarten.

I remember very little of this, but apparently it took me a while to get the hang of kindergarten. Actually, what took me a while to get the hang of was not immediately knowing how to do everything in kindergarten. If I got anything wrong (at all), I was on the verge of tears.

Mrs. Janes, my teacher, seemed to suspect that I was being pressured by my parents to be perfect. So she had me talk to the school psychologist. Then the psychologist talked to my mom and dad. When she found out they were two of the most laid back people you'll ever meet, she realized any pressure I was feeling was entirely self-generated, and she reported this to Mrs. Janes.

I don't remember exactly what happened next, but apparently Mrs. Janes sat me down and said, in effect, "Listen, you little freak, you have to relax. You're not going to be good at everything, and it's OK. That's why you go to school."

And from there, kindergarten was great. I didn't suddenly become Mr. Chill or anything, but I slowly began to understand that the world doesn't expect us to know everything.

My point is that it helps to have someone besides your parents who, early in life, gets you. And I'm willing to bet that, for many people, that person is your kindergarten teacher.

Teaching kindergarten is hard enough with "normal" kids. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to try and calm down little basket cases like me.

God bless the kindergarten teachers of the world. Many of us learned more than just letters, numbers, and how to tie our shoes from them (though for the record, Mrs. Janes taught me all of those things, too).

 

Here's what I learn about retirement every year during my two-week holiday break

I'm writing this post about two weeks in advance of when it will actually publish, so I'm still in the middle of a 16-day holiday vacation from work.

I used to take these two weeks off mainly to spend more time with the kids, put their Christmas toys together (and play with them), and generally just rest and recharge.

I still use the break to rest and recharge, but every year I also see it as a small dress rehearsal for the part of my life when I will no longer work full-time.

The way things are shaping up, retirement is likely a good decade-and-a-half away for me. Our financial advisor asked me when I wanted to retire, so I randomly picked age 67. And that's very much a possibility.

Many of the people I know around my age are closer to walking away from the 40+ hours a week routine than I am, particularly those who work in government jobs and teaching, and/or those who have spent most of their careers with very generous companies that have padded their 401(k)s.

For me, though, retirement is still pretty far out on the horizon. In preparation for it, these two-week vacations have taught me a few things I'll need to know when it finally gets here:

(1) I'm going to need a part-time job. I can't just stop working. I will get too bored too fast. My dad drove a delivery truck and worked as a school janitor in his retirement. I don't know what I'll do, but I'll have to do something. If nothing else, it will keep Terry from killing me as I wander around the house wondering what I should do.

(2) I'll need to have defined hobbies. I wrote about my leisure-time activities recently. They will be especially important in retirement when it comes to providing fulfillment and some sort of purpose in life beyond career advancement.

(3) I would rather not cut grass or shovel snow in retirement, if I can help it. Terry and I have talked about being snowbirds in our golden years, and that may happen. But if we're spending any part of the year in Northeast Ohio, we're either going to have to live in a condo or hire a landscaping/snow plowing service to fulfill this desire of mine. I'm down for anything, just as a long as I don't have to push a lawn mower or wield a snow shovel anymore.

My new toy (and why you need unnecessary stuff in your life)

I recently purchased this beautiful tenor saxophone. It is, by far, the nicest horn I've ever owned.

To be specific, it's a Cannonball Big Bell Stone Series T5. It comes with a whole bunch of unnecessaries: two necks, 16 semi-precious inlaid stones, and a lot of beautiful engraving.

My favorite part? It honks. And I mean that in the best way possible. I love the big tone this thing produces (particularly when you use the "fat neck"). I'm having a ball learning its little nuances.

I will occasionally play this saxophone in church, but for the most part, I play it because I love playing it. It doesn't matter if anyone else hears.

They say that boys love their toys, but the girls I know love them just as much. Those "toys" vary from person to person. They can be cool crafting supplies, vintage cars, sound equipment, books, fishing lures, rare coins, whatever. The point is, they bring joy.

They may have no seemingly "useful" function, but they bring joy.

If you have no use for joy, I'm not sure what to tell you. Your toys are just as important as the tools you use on the job. Even if they never earn you a single dollar, they nourish that part of you that can only be fed by intangibles.

So don't feel bad if a good chunk of your discretionary income goes toward something (or a lot of somethings) for which you have absolutely no practical need.

There's a part of you that's better off for having it.

COVID has reminded me of the comfort of routine

Since 1989, most Sunday mornings have been pretty much the same for me and Terry: We attend church and Sunday School.

Unless one or both of us happen to be traveling, there simply is no NOT going to church. In addition to all of the spiritual/emotional/mental benefits of attending, there is also the fact that our little congregation is getting even littler over time, so we hold down a few of the jobs that keep the group going.

Terry, for example, is the Sunday School treasurer, while my daughter Elissa is Sunday School secretary. I'm a deacon and a trustee, and I provide the exhortation 4-5 times a year.

There is nothing special in this as we have many people who are just as involved, and in many cases much more so. It's what you do in a small church.

What I've come to realize since last March when the coronavirus changed everything is that, for many years, I took for granted the comfort of our carbon copy Sunday mornings.

Because it's all necessarily different now, right? We're back to offering in-person services, but many (half or more?) of the congregation instead tune in online via livestream. And when you're there in person, you have to wear a mask the whole time of course.

There's also the fact that our congregational singing is somewhat curtailed, or at least the volume of it is. And whereas I used to play along with the hymns on my wind synthesizer, I can't do that nowadays because it's an instrument you blow into, and creating a stream of air necessarily means also creating and releasing a stream of potentially infectious respiratory droplets. I get it, so I don't play.

Our Sunday School closing period used to be a lot longer in that we would go around the room and mention the names of people who could use prayers and/or who had some good news that deserved thankfulness and praise. We still do that, but it's all gathered and distributed electronically now, rather than verbally.

The fact is, we're doing what I would say is a very good job under the circumstances, but it's still not the same. I had no idea I would ever miss that "same" until it was gone. Like everything good in our lives, I suppose.

There is a fine line between being in a rut and taking comfort in routine. I'm looking forward to putting COVID-19 in the rearview mirror so I can experience the difference again.

I actually have hobbies now and that's an accomplishment

I have long lamented my inability to relax. It's not that I feel constantly stressed out (that actually happens relatively infrequently). It's just that I always have this drive to accomplish something, to check something off the to-do list, to make the most of my time.

You could argue very convincingly that relaxing is making the most of your time, and that as humans we need our relaxation. I just hate to have chores/tasks hanging over my head, so I'm always running to get stuff done.

Or at least that's how it was for many years. I'm still like that to some degree, just not as hardcore as I used to be. Ever since I finished my master's degree last summer, I've made an effort to engage in true leisure time activities.

And I have a few now. Like playing my saxophone, for example.

I bought a gorgeous new tenor sax recently (I'll blog about it sometime soon), and I'm enjoying regular playing and practicing time. Over the holiday break I read a book that is apparently much revered in saxophone circles called "Developing a Personal Saxophone Sound." It was a revelation to me.

The book goes into very technical detail on how to create the sort of tone that professional players make. I never understood how they did it until now, and it slowly dawned on me that in 41 years of playing the instrument, I learned only how to blow into the instrument and finger notes.

Only now am I learning to make music and really control the horn. It's a long process, but I'm enjoying it.

I'm also reading other nonfiction. I made it through Hew Strachan's 350-page "The First World War" over the break and am currently enjoying "The War Poems of Wilfred Owen," which my daughter Elissa and her boyfriend Mark gave me for Christmas.

I also walk quite a bit, as I've mentioned, and am continuing my immersion into the core classical music repertoire.

None of these activities gets the dishes washed, the bathroom cleaned, or the laundry done, and that's a good thing. They feed the soul, which is what we all need.

I will not, however, collect stamps. Tried that back in the early 80s and it's not for me. But classical music CDs? I have a couple hundred of those, to the point that the CD rack in the basement is ready to tip over.

I couldn't be happier about it.

I'm not saying my way is the right way to load a dishwasher, but it kind of is

I am the main dish washer in our house, in large part because I don't cook. I take dish cleanliness very seriously.

Thus, I have put a great deal of thought into how best to load our dishwasher so that every last cup, plate, bowl, and spoon is sparkling clean the next morning when I unload them, no matter what is smeared, stained, or caked upon them when they go in.

I run our dishwasher overnight, by the way. Do you do that? One of the last things I do before going to bed is making sure everything is loaded, then I pop in a detergent tablet, ensure there's plenty of that rinse liquid or whatever it's called in the little chamber, and start the 3-hour and 1-minute "normal" cycle with "extra dry" option on our LG dishwasher.

This routine works for me.

I recognize there are probably multiple ways to load a dishwasher to get everything clean, but being an American, I'm going to discount all other methods and instead assume that mine is superior. And that anyone not loading the dishwasher my way is some sort of communist not to be trusted.

Anyway, my approach is probably not uncommon. Plates and bowls go into the lower rack (plates on the left, bowls on the right). I don't put anything in the slot against the far left side of the rack, because water apparently doesn't get there and nothing placed in those spots gets especially clean.

The silverware thingy is also on that lower level, and it's pretty much self-explanatory. I put the business end of utensils (i.e., the bowl of spoons, the tines of forks, etc.) in first. Not sure if that's the prescribed way, but it's how I do it.

The upper level is mostly for glasses/mugs, but also for any dishwasher-safe plastic containers I don't particularly feel like hand washing. The right-most row is for tall things like Jared and Melanie's post-workout shake bottles. The wider middle row is there to accommodate any larger cups and smaller bowls that require more space.

There is also a pull-out top drawer where I place dirty spatulas, ladles, spoons, and other implements that would otherwise take up too much room in the rack below.

Everything needs to have direct exposure to the rotating water arm. If it's blocked in any way, it's not going to get clean.

There will always be things you have to hand wash. Suck it up and live with it. Do not force feed them into the dishwasher. My family needs reminding of this from time to time.

If your dishwasher is worth its weight in the gold you used to pay for it, everything should come out looking brand new.

This is, it should be noted, the only semi-useful advice I will ever give you on this blog.

These are the characters I encounter on my morning walks

I walk almost every morning, and I always do it along one of six or so predetermined routes. This is my routine, and as a consequence, I often intersect with others who have their own routines.

Back when we lived on East 300th Street, the person I most frequently came across was Cologne Guy. He was an older gentlemen who took a brisk daily walk along Route 84. We would exchange friendly hellos, and as I ran past him (I was running back then), I would always get a sniff of his English Leather cologne. It was not unpleasant, but I never understood why he made himself so fragrant before going out on a walk.

In more recent years I've often seen Relentlessly Waddling Lady. She is not a fast walker, but she is a persistent one. She is also very nice. I don't see her much in winter, though.

There is also Hound Dog Guy, and here I find myself a bit confused. Hound Dog Guy walks his dog a lot, though it turns out the dog is actually a beagle mix. At one point my family and I thought it was a hound dog, but even after we got some clarity on the breed, the Hound Dog Guy moniker was too well established to discard.

Anyway, I see Hound Dog Guy quite a bit, but I also regularly see a guy walking around my neighborhood without a dog, and I honestly don't know whether it's Hound Dog Guy without his dog or another man altogether who just happens to look like Hound Dog Guy. This has gone on for years and I still can't say for sure whether this is one man or two men who look alike.

Farther down my street is Nightgown Woman, though I only see her if I get up later than normal, as she tends to walk a bit later in the morning. In the summer she wears her nightgown while she walks. Really. I think she just wakes up, gets out of bed, and heads straight out the door to walk, appearances be damned.

One of the most enigmatic figures is Walking Jewish Lady. I don't say this to be disparaging in any way. She gets her name from the fact that I'm fairly certain she is one of the Orthodox Jewish people who live on the west end of Wickliffe. She wears a head covering that almost looks like a nun's habit, and she always walks in a skirt or dress.

And she walks a lot. I see her all over the place and I know she recognizes me. At most, though, my friendly "good morning" is met with a slight smile from her and never any sort of verbal reply. This could be a cultural/religious thing (not talking to a strange man), and she certainly is not rude about it. In any case, she is an impressive walker.

Lately I've seen Small Running Girl quite a bit, though I shouldn't call her "girl" in that she is clearly not a girl, but rather a young woman. It's just that I use "Lady" and "Woman" in a lot of these character names and she immediately became Small Running Girl in my head. She is slight of stature but unflappable in her running as she traverses up and down the hills around my house. Back in my running days I was her, except I'm taller and not female.

I see and say hello to many others as I walk, depending on the time of day, but these are the regulars. I wonder if they have a name for me? I would be fine with Walking Sweatshirt Guy.

Jiggle the handle, kids, you have to jiggle the handle

If you live with another person, or several other persons, there are things they do regularly that annoy you.

That's just how it works. It could be something simple like not putting their plate in the dishwasher, or leaving the cap to the toothpaste on the bathroom sink.

We had seven people living in our house for several years, so there were many of these little botherances. I once wrote an entire post urging my children to pick up blankets off the basement floor. Another post featured photos of messes left by my family around the house for someone else to clean up.

For the record, neither of those things was ever truly resolved.

Now we're down two people, yet there are still things about which I feel the need to constantly remind the denizens of this house. One of those is jiggling the handle on the toilet in the kitchen bathroom.

That toilet hasn't been right in years. Even installing a new handle/flushing mechanism wasn't enough to make it so that it would reliably flush, fill back up with water, and be ready for the next user.

Unless the previous occupant of said bathroom is considerate enough to wait an extra few seconds to ensure everything is working well with the toilet and the water isn't going to run forever and ever, chances are the half-full tank will not be ready to sufficiently dispose of whatever the next user deposits into the bowl.

It's just a few extra seconds. And if you find the handle is very loose and the flap in the tank is clearly not seated correctly, all you have to do is jiggle the handle.

Just jiggle the handle. That's it. Then you can go on your merry way.

Recently I walked into the kitchen bright and early at 5:30 in the morning and I heard that toilet running. I'm always the first one up, so there couldn't have been anyone in that bathroom.

And there wasn't. The toilet had been running all night because the last person to use it the previous evening had not followed the instructions above, even though we've tried to convey those instructions in the most understandable of terms.

Relative to life's truly big problems, this is a minor one in the extreme. Yet it frustrates me, because the solution is so simple.

Just jiggle the handle, kids. You have to jiggle that handle.

I have taught four kids to drive through a patented method of controlled fear

Later this month our youngest son Jack turns 15, which means he'll be able to get his temporary driving permit this summer. He is eagerly looking forward to this.

Which, interestingly, isn't the case with a lot of kids these days. Federal Highway Administration data show that, in 2018, only about 25% of 16-year-olds became licensed drivers, and barely 60% of teens overall had their licenses by age 18. This is a noticeable decrease from when I was a teen (circa 2000 B.C.), and the reasons for it vary.

But Jack is one of those who is counting down the days.

As a parent of four licensed drivers who collectively have had their share of accidents, I will say the advantages of having your kids drive at least slightly outweigh the disadvantages. The convenience factor alone is enough for me.

Our four oldest have all gone through the same ritual when it comes to their early driving experiences. I take them down to the high school when the parking lot is deserted, usually on a Sunday afternoon. I then have them get into the driver's seat and get a feel for the accelerator and brake pedals, and then start them driving laps around the school.

Laps and laps and laps. First one way, then the other.

I have them pull into and out of parking spaces.

We do this a few times. At the end of the third or fourth session, I tell them to drive us home.

I will never forget the reaction Elissa, our oldest, had to this instruction. Wide-eyed, she looked at me and said, "Like, on the road?"

Yes, as this is the generally accepted method of operating a motor vehicle in Ohio, and presumably in other states.

This first time on the road, even if it only covers the three-quarters of a mile from the school to our house, is always exciting and a little nerve-wracking for them, but they always do it well.

It is admittedly also a little nerve-wracking for me, but I try to hide it.

In fact, that's my primary approach to teen driving education: Keeping calm. I don't want them to get rattled, so I never act like I'm rattled.

But I'm often rattled. Oh yes, I'm very often rattled.

Still, to date, there have been no fender benders or pedestrians maimed during Dad Driving Lessons, so on balance, it has gone as planned.

After I take them out several times, Terry often takes over as instructor and gets them truly ready to take their driving test. It's like I take the raw lump of coal and begin the rough process of shaping it into a diamond, but my wife is the one who truly gets them from "semi-competent" to "test-ready."

We're a good team that way.

One time I lied on the radio...and you can hear it here

I'm pretty sure other cities have equivalent programs, but there is a long-running local TV show in Cleveland called "Academic Challenge." Each episode, three-person teams from local high schools compete against each other by answering questions on history, math, science, general knowledge, etc.

I was on the Academic Challenge team when I was in high school, and we won our match in 1987 against Copley and Magnificat high schools.

Back then, you only appeared on the TV show every other year. In the off years, you could compete in the WERE radio "Whiz Quiz."

The Whiz Quiz was similar to Academic Challenge, except there were only two teams per episode as opposed to three, and of course it was on radio instead of TV.

My senior year was one of those off years, so we went on the Whiz Quiz to compete again Akron St. Vincent-St. Mary (Lebron James' alma mater, though it should be noted that Lebron was still a toddler at the time, so he was not in attendance).

The show was live, and that particular week it was broadcast from Baldwin Wallace College (now University).

As team captain for Wickliffe, one of my jobs was to give quick bios about my two teammates, Diane and Nate, and myself. As we were driving to BW and discussing that little "meet the team" segment, our advisor, the legendary Mr. J. Patrick Penrod, said to me, "You know, you can say anything you want and no one will know."

I could make up stuff about the three of us and just say it? Live on the air? I was in!

Diane and Nate very wisely wanted to keep their bios entirely factual, but I decided I was going to run with it. When it came time to introduce us, I ran down their impressive academic and extracurricular resumes. Then I got to myself.

Most of what I said was true, but at the very end I added, "In the fall of this year I will be attending Yale University to major in baroque symphonic composition."

This, if you haven't gathered, wasn't the least bit grounded in reality. I was going to John Carroll University and I knew it. And I don't think it's possible to major in "baroque symphonic composition."

You can hear a recording of the whole thing by clicking on the following link. Our team intros start exactly at the 10:00 mark, with my little fib coming around 10:39: https://soundcloud.com/scott-tennant-192532351/wickliffe-vs-akron-st-vincent-st-mary-were-whiz-quiz-1988

We went on to win by a pretty decent margin, as I recall.

If that had been the end of the story, it would be a good one. But there's an interesting coda to it.

That episode was recorded in March 1988. Fast forward about five months to my first day as a student at John Carroll. I walk into my very first class in the Jardine Room. As I enter, I look to my right, and who do I see sitting there? Why it was Joe Rinaldi, captain of that St. Vincent-St. Mary team we had defeated on the Whiz Quiz.

I looked at him, he looked at me. He recognized me immediately. For a second he looked confused, and then he asked me, "Did you lie?" I laughed and admitted I had. For the next four years any time I would see him on campus, he would say, "Liar!" Or, "Hey, it's the liar!"

He meant it in good fun, but he also conceded that the idea of going up against a team captained by someone attending an Ivy League school had been a little intimidating.

We psyched 'em out? All the better. Mission accomplished.

My heart appreciates my obsessive walking routine, but my gnarled feet do not

Last month, I mentioned that I'm planning to do a two-week, 250-mile walk from Dansville, New York, to Olmsted Township, Ohio, this coming June.

In order to prepare, I walk 5 miles every morning, rain or shine.

Or, given that it's January in Cleveland, "snow or shine." And if we're being honest, there ain't a lot of "shine" here on the North Coast these days.

Once the weather breaks in March, I'll start doing progressively longer Saturday morning walks, culminating in May when I plan to do back-to-back 18-milers as a sort of dress rehearsal for the real thing, which starts June 4th in Dansville.

But for now, it's 35 miles a week without fail. Most mornings I'm up at 5am, and once I get dressed to walk, feed the cats, scoop out their litter boxes, sweep around those boxes, go out and get the papers from the end of the driveway, get some water, and put on my walking shoes, I hit the road.

Given that I walk at a pace of anywhere from 14:30 to an even 15 minutes per mile, I finish almost every walk in somewhere between 1 hour, 10 minutes and 1 hour, 15 minutes.

This is obviously a healthy habit, and I pass the time listening to my beloved Battles of the First World War Podcast and various types of music.

My feet are the ones paying the price.

I was born with wide feet ("Fred Flintstone" feet, I've often called them), to the point that I definitely need a 2E width in most shoes and as much as a 4E with some brands.

Not every shoe comes in widths, though, so for years I've worn lots of shoes that were simply too narrow for my feet.

The result is permanent calluses and rock-hard heels that aren't exactly attractive to begin with.

Now, throw in all of this walking, and the devastation that is my feet is just hideous to behold.

I would show you a picture, but I value our relationship too much to subject you to that.

Terry got me one of those heel scrapers and Cracked Heel Repair ointment, and I do use them from time to time. But if you don't do it every day, it only helps so much.

My current walking shoes are 4Es that I probably shouldn't have bought, as they're really, really wide even for me. One side effect is that I have a nagging blister on the back of my right heel that is currently covered by a band-aid. I also have a deep crack in one of my big toe calluses that doesn't exactly feel great, but I've kind of learned to live with it.

I like to think I'm a cardiologist's dream and a podiatrist's nightmare.

I really should do something about this situation before Wilma and Pebbles start to notice.

I still really like getting the mail every day

Back in February 2013 when I was unemployed and had vast chunks of time to fill every day, I wrote a post mentioning how much I looked forward every day to running out to the mail box to retrieve the mail.

Now, nearly eight years later, I am gainfully employed and still enjoy getting the mail.

Mind you, it is almost always disappointing. Most of the time it's just ads and bills. Getting something truly exciting in the mail is a relatively rare occurrence.

Which is why I still like going out to get it. There's always the possibility that something great will be in there. And the relative greatness of whatever it is is enhanced by the fact that most mail falls far short of expectations.

It's the anticipation.

Of course, I've ruined even that small bit of excitement for myself by signing up for the U.S. Postal Service's Informed Delivery program. Every morning I receive an email showing me scanned images of each piece of mail that is supposed to arrive in my mailbox later that day.

In our case, "later that day" usually means "really later that day," as I believe we're at the end of Eddie the Mail Guy's route, and it's only on occasion that he swings by our house any earlier than 5pm. So I end up seeing photos of the mail I'm supposed to get a good eight hours before I actually get it.

And even when something good is on the way, I'll admit it's less exciting to see it on a computer screen than it is to open the little mailbox door and fish it out.

But I can't help myself. Those emails are among the best things to pop into my inbox all day.

This is sad, I know, but if you're going to mock me, please do so in a letter and mail it to my house. I can't wait.

The real slog of winter begins now, but it's still going to be a great year

We here in Northeast Ohio get snow in December, and sometimes it's a lot of snow. But I never feel like "real" winter has begun until New Year's Day.

This is the point when the holidays wind down and the long, cold, gray reality of a Cleveland winter sets in. Living on the shores of Lake Erie, we will see precious little sunshine for the next few months. And in the meantime we're likely to get at least a couple of blizzards, a lot of ice, and generally sub-freezing temperatures.

Which by the way is fine. I love living here, and that kind of weather is just part of the deal. I'm not complaining at all.

In fact, I'm feeling good today. It's the start of a new year, and like every year before it, I choose to see it as a time of opportunity and possibility. I am in most ways an incurable optimist.

This is not a case of me being a Pollyanna, or at least I hope it isn't. It's simply making the deliberate choice to be excited for whatever lies ahead over the next 52 weeks.

If you think this year is going to be a good one for you, you're probably right.

And if you think 2021 is going to be a bad one for you, you're also probably right.

It's not a platitude, it's a fact: You, like most folks, are going to be about as happy as you make up your mind to be.

But you know what would make me especially happy? If you made up your mind to grab a shovel and help clear out my driveway the next time Mother Nature dumps a bunch of the fluffy white stuff on it.

I choose to believe snow is beautiful. I also choose to believe it's even more beautiful when it doesn't get in the way of me backing my car out of the garage.