I changed all of my passwords, which wasn't fun but I'm glad I did it

For years I used virtually the same password for every website and IT system on which I had an account.

I say "virtually" because sometimes it was just that base password, while other times I added numbers and/or special characters as directed by the site.

But really, once you had discovered one of my passwords, you weren't far from getting to most of them.

Any IT security expert will tell you this is bad. Actually, any 8-year-old will tell you this is bad.

It's one thing to have an easily guessed password when it comes to my ESPN Sportszone account (the worst a hacker could probably do there is switch my "Favorite Team" setting to the Pittsburgh Steelers, which while horrifying and morally wrong is still relatively mild). It's another to be using that same password to access your bank accounts.

I keep a list of all of my/our passwords, so I looked it over and changed every one that used that same password and its variations. There were dozens and dozens and dozens of instances. It took a few hours over a couple of days to get through them all.

In some cases I not only had to go through the password changing process on the website itself, but also log out and log back in to the associated app if it's something I use on my phone.

All (and I mean all) of my passwords are now unique and full of words, numbers, and characters that likely mean something only to me. Or they mean nothing at all.

That way, should one password be compromised in an all-too-common data breech, none of the others will be threatened.

If you're someone who uses the same password and close variations of it over and over, I suggest you go through a similar process. It's a little tedious, but it's safer.

And you'll feel like an actual responsible adult. Even at age 51, there's something to be said for that.

I love our white cats, but...

I did not grow up having heard of a lint roller, a genius device without which I now could not live.

It has become an indispensable part of my life owing to a decision Terry and I made way back in September 2007.

We went to the local humane society with the intention of bringing home a female cat, preferably a calico. Instead, we returned with two white male cats, whom we named after the Weasley twins from Harry Potter, Fred and George.

Happily, these two guys are still with us as they approach the ripe old age of 14. They are the oldest of our five cats and pretty much fixtures in our house.

Fred, in particular, is my buddy. He has slept at my side most every night since joining the family, and is just overall a good guy (if a bit overweight and off-puttingly fragrant at times).

As I type this post, I'm sitting in the computer chair in our room after George just spent time laying in it. I am wearing black pants.

The moment I get up, I guarantee you my butt will be covered in highly visible white cat hair.

Every article of clothing I own eventually gets covered in white cat hair. You don't notice it on light-colored garments, of course, but it really stands out on the dark stuff.

So I'm constantly lint-rollering my clothes, at least the parts of myself I can easily get to. There are almost always at least a few of these white hairs on my back.

It is in some way a small price to pay for two guys who have given us many years of love and joy, and hopefully many more to come. But if I had a nickel for every time someone pointed out the white cat hair on my clothes, well, I could probably buy a ticket for a first-run movie.

And nowadays, that's saying something.

We used to stupid and illegal things down by the railroad tracks

There was a period of about two years back in the early 80s when my friends and I spent a lot of time on or around the railroad tracks not far from my house.

What was the attraction of "the tracks," as we called them? They were just railroad tracks surrounded by woods.

Well, as I look back on it, there was actually a lot going on there.

For one, there were those woods (which are now gone, by the way). Young boys, for the most part, enjoy being in and around wooded areas. Not sure why, but that's just the way it is in my experience.

Second, there were the railroad light towers that we weren't supposed to climb but did anyway. That was fun.

Third, and probably worst of all, there was the occasional stopped train.

Back in those days, trains had cabooses on them. And more often than not, when there was a stopped and abandoned train, the caboose would be unlocked. So we would go inside.

This was both illegal and stupid. I'm shocked we never got caught.

There wasn't really much to do inside these cabooses, so we would just lay on the beds or sit at the little metal table. We did also occasionally steal flares.

Illegal and stupid.

And we would light those flares just because we could. At that point, we could have been arrested for trespassing AND theft.

There were also these little explosive things with metal tabs that you could put on the rails and, when a train came along and ran over them, they would emit a satisfying boom.

One time (this is a true story), my friend Mike and I were kidnapped at the tracks by two older kids from Eastlake. And when I say "kidnapped," I just mean they wouldn't let us leave because they had been doing something illegal and were afraid we would go and tell the cops about it. I can't even remember what they had been doing.

And besides, we had no intention of snitching on them. We just wanted to go home.

Eventually they let us go, but it did add to the adventure and mystique of the tracks.

Sometimes we would take 1- or 2-mile walks down the tracks just to see what we would find. Within the stacked blocks at the cinder block factory near the Worden Road overpass, for example, there was a little area where a homeless person had clearly been living. There were ketchup packets and other items of detritus (great word) in there.

We probably didn't call him a homeless person, though. I'm sure we referred to him as a "bum" or a "hobo."

There was also a little dirt road that ran alongside the tracks on which a police car could fit. I know this because, several times, a Willowick or Wickliffe police officer would be driving across the tracks on East 305th, look to his right, and see us playing on a light tower or something about 200 yards away.

So he would turn down that dirt road to try and get to us and we would scatter appropriately. Someone would yell "COP!" and we would take off in different directions into the woods. None of us was ever caught, though I do remember some close calls when we didn't notice the oncoming squad car until it was almost too late.

Anyway, the best thing to be said about our time hanging out at the tracks was that none of us was ever seriously hurt by jumping onto a slow passing train or arrested for whatever illegal activities we engaged in.

There are no dumber people in the world than young boys, but man, now that I think about it, we had a great time.

The hardest parental adjustment? It's going from zero kids to one kid.

NOTE: I hope you don't mind me recycling this post from September 2015, but it's something I'm occasionally asked about by young parents and those who plan to become parents. I still stand by my assertion here.

I've heard it said among people with three or more children that having that third child was the hardest leap for them to make.

The argument goes that when you have one or two kids, there is always a parent available to address any child-related crisis that might arise. And that suddenly, with three kids, you're outnumbered. You switch from man-to-man coverage to more of a zone defense.

Which I suppose is true.

But hands down, the biggest jump is going from the state of being childless to the state of parenthood. It's that zero-to-one adjustment that is, by far, the most life-changing.

Right? You parents remember what it was like when you were rookies. Life before the first kid and life after the first kid could not be more different. Everything – and I mean everything – changes.

The speed at which you complete even the most ordinary tasks decreases exponentially. Just going to the grocery store requires an effort akin to climbing Mount Everest when you have a baby in tow. There are endless supplies to take along. Your diaper bag fills up the cart even before you start actually selecting items off the shelves.

The spontaneity that was once a feature of your young, carefree life is gone, seemingly forever. You don't just up and DO stuff. You plan. You figure out whether you need a babysitter. You schedule everything around feedings, diaper changes and naps (yours and the baby's).

One minute you're deciding on the spur of the moment to go and see a movie. The next you're plotting out your life in three-minute increments through the end of next year.

And you know what? It's wonderful.

I'm not kidding, it's awesome.

Yes, yes, it's exhausting and all. And I mean exhausting in every possible way: mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally.

But it's all worth it. Heck, it's MORE than worth it. I cannot describe to you the joy that comes when you're entrusted with raising a small human to adulthood.

It's work, but it's good work, you know? It's satisfying work. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be willing to donate major organs just for the chance to take a 20-minute afternoon siesta.

And you'll love it. Parenthood is the single most fulfilling and exciting thing I've ever done.

It all starts with that seemingly innocuous jump from zero children to one. It's a big one, but it's a fun one. Don't be afraid.

The smell of pipe tobacco, four decades later

You know what they say about certain smells triggering the deepest memories? It's true, in my experience, and recently I was powerfully reminded of it.

I've told you how I go out walking very early most mornings, which generally means I don't come across many people. I was walking around 5:30 in the morning the other day when the scent of burning pipe tobacco suddenly filled my head.

Someone nearby was clearly smoking a pipe. I surmised it was someone standing on the porch of one of the houses I was walking past, though it was still so dark I couldn't make out anyone.

No matter, though, as that smell instantly transported me back to a very specific time in the late 1970s. I would wake up on a Saturday morning and go into the kitchen, and almost inevitably my dad would be sitting at the table playing solitaire (the real kind, non-electronic) and smoking his pipe.

He kept the tobacco in a zip-up leather pouch. Sometimes I would open the pouch and take a big whiff because I loved the smell of it. It didn't smell quite as good when it burned, but it still wasn't nearly as unpleasant as the unavoidable stench of cigarettes that was seemingly everywhere back then.

I also associate a certain sound with that smell—the sound of shuffling cards. Dad had a lot of experience playing cards, so he was a very good shuffler.

Shuffling cards and pipe smoke. Those were the Saturday morning sensory soundtrack of my youth. For a few seconds as I walked, I was taken back to that time.

My dad has been gone more than 20 years, but as far as I was concerned, he was right there with me. It was 1978, and the only two things ahead of me that day were a morning of cartoons and an afternoon playing with my friends.

It only lasted a few seconds, but it was nice. In a moment I snapped back to reality and turned my attention back to the World War I podcast to which I was listening. The rest of the walk was that much more pleasant, though.

Heartfelt thanks to the person who was smoking that pipe. It's not a healthy habit, but I'll admit, you made my day.

I didn't used to require a running fan to sleep at night. Now I do.

 

I am, by and large, a very good sleeper. I fall asleep quickly, and for the most part I stay asleep.

I do, however, have two requirements:

1. The room must be relatively cool. I do not sleep well in the heat at all.
2. There must be a fan running.

#1 has always been true for me. #2 only became a thing within the last decade.

I don't recall how it happened, but at some point I turned into one of those people who must have white noise in order to sleep. There is a small white window fan on the floor near my side of the bed that I switch on every night as Terry and I are settling down.

I realize I'm not alone in this and that many people also like to have a fan going at night. I just wish I still had the same championship-level sleeping ability that one time allowed me to get three full hours of sleep while laying on my friend Kevin's concrete driveway in the middle of a hot summer night (this is absolutely true).

Maybe it's because I've hit middle age, I don't know. The fact is, to get the rest I need, that fan has to be humming along all night.

My son Jared is the same way. It is not the only curse I have passed down to him, but along with my addiction to nasal mist, it is among the worst. I'm sorry, buddy.

It's the people you don't see onscreen who make your favorite movies and TV shows possible

It is important to establish at the outset that I am anything but an expert on this topic. Only through strange and varying circumstances have I had the chance to look behind the scenes at how Hollywood really works.

I have visited the sets of exactly two movies and maybe a dozen television shows in my life. I've met some of the stars of these shows, and for what it's worth, they were almost uniformly polite and pleasant people.

But even I—someone who can generously be described as "unobservant"—could immediately tell that the real heroes of these productions are the people whose names you ignore in the end credits.

The prop masters. The gaffers. The production assistants. The carpenters and electricians. The craft services people.

The whole edifice rests on the labor of these folks. And trust me, they do labor. A lot.

The hours they spend on set are long, sometimes hard, and usually boring.

From what I can tell, none of them is getting particularly rich. And as much as some complain, they keep coming back for more because they love it. They love being part of this crazy industry.

One time I got to watch the cast and crew of the show "Modern Family" shoot an outdoor scene that took place at a carnival. They rented out a local park and set up real carnival rides and booths. All of this work, I was told, had happened overnight.

Who do you think handles this stuff? The stars? You think Ed O'Neill was out there erecting a ferris wheel at 3 in the morning? He was not. It was a bunch of people whose identities you will never know.

Speaking of that ferris wheel, I enjoyed the fact that there were mannequins in every seat to make it seem (from a distance) as if real people were riding it. Stuff like that is common in movies and TV and, for my money, is so cleverly done.

Anyway, I have no point today other than to suggest that, the next time you're binging some show on Netflix, you should pause the credits and read the names of these real people who did the real work to make your show come to life.

They are, in my limited experience, a jaded lot with dark senses of humor. They are the complete opposite of star struck. Indeed, they pay no notice to the actors on set. At best, they treat the talent like co-workers. At worst, those pretty boys and girls who can't get their lines right or hit their marks on time are the reason the whole crew is going to have be on set until well past midnight again, and they are rightly resentful of them.

They are, in short, my absolute favorite kinds of people. God bless them all.

The eldest child who can't possibly be as old as the calendar says she is

 

There are many things that date this photo, including:

• The fact that I have all black hair
• My stone-washed jeans
• I'm reading a print newspaper (OK, I still do that every day)
• The little girl I'm holding—somehow, inexplicably—is suddenly 27 years old 

That little girl is our oldest daughter Elissa, who is celebrating a birthday today. It is always a milestone when your oldest turns a new age because, you know, this is new territory for her/him and for you. Neither of you has been here before, so it's always a new adventure.

My in-laws, Tom and Judy, liked to tell the story about Elissa's birth. They were in the waiting room at the hospital when I came bursting out, still wearing my scrubs, and said (seemingly all in one breath), "It's a girl! She's beautiful!"

And she was beautiful. She is beautiful.

She has been my buddy since long before she can remember. For a couple of years when Terry worked days and I worked nights, I took care of Elissa all day long. We went everywhere together. We had scheduled feedings and nap times (hers, not mine, unfortunately). We watched countless episodes of Barney and Winnie the Pooh.

Then, as children are wont to do, she grew up. It has always been a bittersweet thing to me that my children have grown. Heavier on the "sweet" than the "bitter," of course, but still...

Today I wish nothing but the most awesome of birthdays to the pretty little girl who made me a daddy and later went on to become a pretty grown-up girl. She is dynamic, hilarious, talented, and so incredibly full of life. I'm not sure I ever had the spark she does.

And today she's another year older. Happy birthday, Lissy. I still think of you when I read the paper sometimes (that's a true story).

I really need to get back to the dentist

For several years, you could set your watch (or at least your calendar) to my dental visits.

You're supposed to get your teeth cleaned and examined every six months, and many times I was back in that chair six months to the day after my previous exam.

I brushed and flossed religiously. I had the world's best gums.

Then COVID hit, and I haven't gone back since.

Mind you, all it takes is for me to pick up the phone and make an appointment. It's that easy. I just haven't gotten around to doing it.

That's what happens when you disrupt my routine as this virus has done. I fall to pieces.

And I'm pretty sure I have a filling that needs replaced.

It makes me wonder how I'll react—how we'll all react—when our lives get back to semi-normal. Routine things like remembering to schedule a dentist appointment may take a minute to get the hang of again.

It sounds silly, but I do think there's going to be an adjustment period. And maybe that's OK.

What's not OK is this molar of mine. It's getting worse by the bite. I'm calling now.

I am the James T. Kirk of suburban dad walkers

A few months ago, I told you about the two-week, 250-mile walk I plan to do this coming June. The walk will take me from Dansville, a village in Western New York, to Olmsted Township, Ohio, the headquarters of my employer Vitamix.

It all has to do with our company's 100th anniversary, and the reasons for it are explained in that linked post above.

As you might imagine, with less than 11 weeks to go before I begin this journey, I am walking a significant number of training miles. Usually 40+ miles a week, which includes what are now double-digit-mile Saturday/Sunday long walks.

When you're going to be logging 15-20 miles a day for 14 consecutive days, your body and brain need time to adjust. A 250-mile walk is no joke.

I am pushing myself through this training schedule in a way I have not pushed myself since I ran my one and only full-length, 26.2-mile marathon back in 2001. Some days my body is up for the challenge, other days not so much.

But I still walk through the not-so-much days because I have decided I cannot fail. I will not fail.

It quickly becomes a battle between me and my body. And it's very much like an episode of Star Trek.

ME (Capt. Kirk): Legs, the pace is slowing. Give me more.

MY LEGS (Engineer Montgomery "Scotty" Scott): WE CAHN'T GIVE ANYMUHR, CAPTUHN! THERE'S NUTHIN' LEFT!

ME: You will increase the pace. NOW.

MY LEGS: YOU DUN'T UNNERSTAN', CAPTUHN. WE'RE GIVIN' YA ALL THEY'VE GOT!

ME: So help me, if you don't start walking faster this minute, I will take off these lycras and let you freeze in the icy 30-degree Northeast Ohio morning.

MY LEGS: BUT THEN YUH'LL BE NAKED, CAPTUHN!

ME: Then maybe you'll learn your lesson! I am James Tiberius Kirk, king of the suburban streets! You will listen to me and you will listen good! Kirk out...

With that crisis solved, I suddenly hear from my eyes, the Lieutenant Uhura of my body whose job it is to communicate potential crises.

MY EYES: Captain, I detect steep hills ahead. Given that we just did a tough hill workout yesterday and the legs are reporting trouble, perhaps we should change our route.

ME: Another mutinous crew member! I will not wuss out. Keep your little warnings to yourself, Lieutenant.

MY EYES: Fine...jerk.

ME: What did you say?

MY EYES: Nothing, Captain.

ME: That's right you didn't.

As I hobble into the driveway and enter my home, this is when the Mr. Spock of my life, my wife Terry, enters the picture. I report to her proudly that I have completed today's long walk, though I may be experiencing intense leg fatigue, which is really nothing.

By the way, this seems like a good time to show you a video. One of the places Terry and I visited on our honeymoon back in 1992 was Universal Studios in Orlando. While there, I coaxed her into recording a simulated "screen test" in which I played Captain Kirk and she played Mr. Spock, and we were digitally inserted into scenes with many of the original Star Trek characters (or at least as well "digitally inserted" as theme park technology could support back then).

Terry not only had to act, she also had to wear pointy Vulcan ears. It was one of the top 5 greatest moments of my life. Take a look:

Wasn't that great? I will admit my portrayal of Kirk will not win me any awards, but really, I feel like Terry as the Vulcan was the real star anyway.

Terry hears my tale of woe and responds in true wet blanket, Mr. Spock fashion.

TERRY: Maybe you should take a day off.

ME: I will hear no talk of days off! Do you know who I am? I say when it's time to take a day off, and no one else. Now excuse me while I go smother my legs in Ben Gay

And so on. This all happens constantly, and I'm happy to say that, so far, I am injury-free and pushing ahead.

It could all still end badly, of course, but I will continue going where no middle-aged dad has gone before (except for the ones who have).

Our cats Fred and George are getting old. I hate going through this again.

Fred and George (actually, from left to right, George and Fred) not long after we got them in 2007

In addition to having five children, Terry and I also have five cats.

I have written about them before. There are enough of them that it's rare to be in a room of our house without at least one cat joining you, if not more.

Terry bought a tiny picnic table for squirrels (that's a 100% true sentence) to which she attaches ears of corn for our backyard squirrels to eat. When one of them comes up on the deck to partake of this corn, some or all of our cats will congregate at the back door to stare at it intently.

The only one who seems like he could take or leave the activity of squirrel watching is Fred. Fred and George are our white twin brother cats, and they will turn 14 this May.

The way I describe them these days is that they are both, in their own ways, starting to look bedraggled. That's a strong word in general, and it's a very apt one for Fred and George.

As I've mentioned, Fred chose me as his person some years ago. For most of the past decade and a half, he has slept beside me at night. He comes into the bathroom when I'm taking a shower, and he will start purring when I come near him, even before I actually pet him.

A quick Google search suggests that the average indoor cat lives 13 to 17 years. We are now within that window of time for Fred and George, and I'm seeing signs of decline in both.

Fred walks more gingerly down the basement steps than he used to. He has always had a bad habit of licking himself raw in certain places, but now he has prominent bald patches on both his head and his back.

The other morning I went down to the basement for my daily litter box maintenance and found Fred peeing on the floor right next to the litter box. I was not pleased.

There are other things, but suffice it to say that our two oldest cats are a lot closer to the end of the line than the beginning of it.

In some ways that's OK. It's just the way of things. But I hate this process. We take care of them the best we know how, but this will all inevitably end in a sad moment at the vet's office. I hope that moment is still several years away for Fred and George, but it does cross my mind more often these days.

Pet owners know what I'm talking about. When they're such a big part of your life, losing them hurts far more than you would think. It also makes me reluctant to get more pets in the future, but we'll cross that particular bridge when we come upon it.

For now, I'm going to go pet Fred and listen to his abnormally loud purr. It's the least I can do for an old friend.

Live music is probably what I miss the most

I've heard the question asked often over these past 12 months: What's the one thing you miss the most since the outbreak of the pandemic?

The answers are often predictable, though no less poignant and heartfelt. People miss getting together with family and friends. They miss visiting their elderly relatives. They just want to go the movies or a ball game again with a crowd all around them.

There are many things I miss about which I comfort myself by keeping in mind that this will all eventually end. Some elements of our lives may change forever, but we'll still end up a lot closer to our previous "normal" than we are now.

For me, that will mean a return to Severance Hall.

Severance is the home of the world-renowned Cleveland Orchestra, an ensemble to which I am a subscriber. In fact, this was supposed to have been the year when I went all in with my commitment to the group.

Whereas in the previous few years I bought partial season packages of six or seven concerts each, my original plan for 2020-21 had been to attend a full slate of 13.

I was excited.

For one thing, these concerts are occasions when I get to spend a few hours with one of my two oldest daughters, Elissa and Chloe. They switch off on which concerts they attend with me. It's fun not only for the shared experience but also for the conversation (as well as the intermission wine I always buy them).

Nearly as important is the magic of the music. I use that word "magic" intentionally because I don't know how else to describe the sound those musicians onstage at Severance Hall produce.

It's one thing for me to listen to my classical CDs (I have nearly 200 of them), but quite another to hear these famous works performed live by world-class musicians. I never tire of it.

The Orchestra delayed the start of the season until January, then again until this month. They fully intended to do in-person concerts starting right about now by taking a long list of precautions to keep everyone safe.

But eventually it dawned on management that, even with the most stringent of measures, it made no sense to put an older audience at risk by having them together in one indoor venue, even with partial capacity.

So the season has gone fully virtual. I listen to the recorded performances the Orchestra puts out every other Thursday, and I enjoy them, but it's just not quite the same.

Someday. Someday we'll be back for in-person concerts. And when we are, that very loud sigh of contentment you'll hear coming from the balcony section will be mine.

Dear random number that texted me...

Thank you for the invitation! That is so very kind of you. Your wonderful words of greeting ("hello baby, come") immediately put me at ease and made me realize I had just made a new friend.

I would be happy to "hook up," as you call it, though I'm not 100% sure what that means. I assume it means we will be doing the sorts of things that friends do, like bowling, flying kites, crafting, book discussions...that sort of thing.

I have to tell you, Laura—may I call you Laura?—your text made my day. It's not often that someone from an unknown Los Angeles number texts you out of the blue with the intention of striking up a friendship, and I can only conclude that you are a selfless and giving person.

One thing, though, Laura, and this is important: I have to ask my wife if it's OK for us to go out and do stuff together. I can't imagine she would say no (who would be against friends getting together?), but I've been married 29 years and I just feel like you should get permission from your wife before engaging in this "hooking up" thing.

Again, I'm not sure what it is, but I'm excited to find out!

Here's my thought: You fly here from L.A. on, say, a Friday. We'll take in a movie Friday night and grab dinner. Then you can sleep over our house and we'll have all day Saturday to do whatever we want. We have some great museums here in Cleveland, and I wouldn't want you to come to our fair city without a trip to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

I'm sure Terry wouldn't mind cooking us dinner Saturday night, after which (assuming you have the energy for it) we'll be looking at 3 or 4 uninterrupted hours of board games. I know, I'm pumped about it, too! We have a whole closet full, though I must ask that we include Life and Pay Day on our list. You can choose the rest.

On Sunday morning we'll go to Sunday School and church, of course, then I can drive you back to the airport. Along the way we'll stop at our local public library where Terry occasionally works. It's a real gem and I would be so proud to show it off to you.

Of course, I'm riffing here and these are just ideas. You may have other things in mind for us to do, in which case please feel free to throw out suggestions.

I'll tell you, Laura, your text has really restored my faith in humanity. As a middle-aged man with a credit card and a stunning vulnerability to flattery, I cannot imagine anything going wrong here.

Write back soon!

Happiest of birthdays to the girl in the flowered shorts

 

I have posted this photo on Facebook a time or two before because it always makes me smile.

Actually, it kind of makes me laugh. It's so very 80s, from our shorts to our hair to my yellow Chevette. It is, in some ways, that decade summarized in one image.

The best part about it is the pretty girl smiling for the camera. Her name is Terry, and she is my wife.

Of course, when this picture was taken, we didn't know that's where things were headed. We just knew we really liked each other and we had a good time together, so...that was enough.

I believe this was taken in the summer of 1986, maybe four months or so after we had begun dating. That was the year we both turned 17.

Now we're a few years older. A lot older than 17, anyway.

And today is another birthday for the incomparable Ms. Terry Tennant. On the list of the best things that have ever happened to me, she is definitely in the top 1.

It is very, very difficult to imagine a life even half as good as the one I have now without her in it.

She deserves a lot more than she'll actually get today, though trust me, the kids and I will make sure she knows how appreciated she is.

There is not another human being like her. God made just the one and decided there was no need to tinker with the formula. Everything He made is good, I know, but I feel like she's extra good. "Good plus," if you will.

Happy birthday, then, to the funniest, kindest, smartest, most beautiful person I know. She puts her heart into everything, and brightens the day of everyone she meets.

There's a real knack to that, you know. And the only person I've ever seen really pull it off is the girl in the flowered 80s shorts.

I write exactly one check and use exactly one stamp each month

The checkbook sits on our computer desk, usually buried under a stack of papers and seldom touched.

Open it to the ledger and you will find that so far in 2021, we have used three checks. All three were written by me.

As our good friend Harry Styles sang, it's a sign of the times, friends.

Terry has always handled our finances, and as I've noted many times, she handles them well. Back in The Day (whenever that was exactly), this entailed writing out a long series of checks to utility companies, banks, and all manner of organizations of which, as the family breadwinner, I was only vaguely aware.

Jerry Seinfeld once remarked on the fact that whereas men wrote a couple of checks each month, women went through, like, a book a day.

This was not far from the truth, albeit way back in the 90s.

Now, of course, Terry pays all of our bills online. Not only is there no actual currency involved in these transactions, there's no actual, tangible anything. It's all electronic. It's fast, it's efficient, and it's convenient.

It seems the only reason for us to maintain paper checks around the house right now is Ed Michaels.

Ed, as I mentioned not long ago, is my saxophone teacher. He is an accomplished musician, nice guy, and all-around amazing tenor player. I love learning from him.

Ed is also old school. He and I do online lessons Mondays at 5:30pm at the low, low cost to me of just $15 a week. I pay Ed a month in advance, and I do so by mailing him a check, at his request.

Whereas Ed is good at using Google Duo for our lessons, he prefers that monthly check in the mail to, say, Venmo or PayPal.

So once every four weeks, I make out a check to Ed, address an envelope, take my monthly stamp from the book in the file drawer, and stick it on that envelope. Because we so rarely do this kind of thing nowadays, it feels like a long, laborious process.

So spoiled we are.

I'm OK with it, though, if only because it's a nice link to a past that feels increasingly distant. I wrote my first checks at the age of 18. In fact, that checking account I opened at Ohio Savings Bank as a teenager is still our primary checking account to this day.

Going further back, I also collected stamps for a brief time when I was something like 10. Stamps had (and still have) a mystique of their own, and philately is a worthwhile hobby, as far as I'm concerned.

So thanks, Ed, you chronologically gifted musical genius. If it wasn't for you, I'm not sure I would still remember exactly what to write on a check. I hope I never forget.

One of my fatal flaws: Cleaning up messes my kids make

Any parent with a lick of common sense knows what to do when a child leaves a dirty dish in the living room or their clothes on the floor.

You call them back and you make them clean it up.

Otherwise, how will they ever learn to be responsible? How will they become well-adjusted adults who can be relied on to clean up after themselves?

I absolutely get the logic here. I'm just not good at following through on it.

Quite often, someone in our house will make some sort of mess. I will walk through the room, observe the mess, and proceed to clean it up.

Later, a scene like this will take place:

TERRY (to child): Are you going to clean up the potato chip crumbs you spilled on the couch?

CHILD (after much grumbling and walking over to the couch): They're not there!

TERRY: What do you mean they're not there?

CHILD: The crumbs are gone.

TERRY (after a moment's thought and a scowl): SCOTT!!!! DID YOU CLEAN UP THE POTATO CHIP CRUMBS?!?

In most cases, yes, I did.

I shouldn't do this. I know it. It's just...I have no patience for messes, it takes effort to go and get the child and make them clean it up, and honestly, I'm going to do a better job of it anyway.

This is a terrible philosophy. I'm going to be 90 years old and my kids will call me saying, "Uh, Dad, I spilled juice all over the couch. Can you come over and clean it up?"

And I will. Let it be known, too, that that couch will be like new in 15 minutes.

Do yourself a favor: Embrace the Ides of March

At some point in your education, you might have been assigned to read Shakespeare’s “Julius Caesar.” But even if you weren’t, there’s a good chance you’re familiar with one of the more popular phrases from the play, “Beware the Ides of March!”

The line is spoken by a soothsayer who warns Caesar to be careful on the Ides of March, which nowadays we recognize to be today, March 15th. The Ides of March is believed to be the day when Julius Caesar was betrayed and murdered by close friends on his way to a meeting of the Roman senate.

If you would like to watch that scene dramatized, click here to see the way it was depicted in the 1953 film version of “Julius Caesar" (which by the way starred a young Marlon Brando as Marc Antony).

Historically, the Ides of March occurred in the middle of March, but in the calendar of Rome during the time of Caesar, March was the first and not the third month of the year. According to religious and social practice at the time, it was a time of reckoning observed by paying your debts to start the new year afresh.

Not a bad idea, really.

If, like many people, you made New Year's resolutions you have since abandoned, consider today to be a do-over. Whatever bit of self-care needs attention in your life, make today the day you start paying attention to it (even if you've tried and failed before).

Whether it's something spiritual, physical, emotional, or related to your career, the Ides of March offers a clean slate on which you can draw whatever picture you would like.

You could do that any day, of course, but there's something inspiring to me about observing a time of self-renewal on the same day as the ancient Romans.

Beware the Ides of March? No. Embrace the Ides of March!

It's a stop sign. You have to stop.

 

I walk in the morning. Usually very early morning. That was when I used to run, too.

Back in my running days, though, I don't think I ever noticed how horribly people drive as much as I do now that I'm walking.

(Fair warning that this is an old man rant and you should get off my lawn immediately.)

When I'm walking in areas without sidewalks, I naturally give oncoming cars as wide a berth as possible. That's not only what you're supposed to do as a walker, it's also the smart thing to do.

As I tell my kids when I'm teaching them to drive, always assume people are going to do something stupid. You will seldom be wrong.

The most blatant offense, in my experience, is the way drivers just roll through stop signs. I mean, they barely tap on the brakes sometimes. They just go, almost as if the stop sign isn't there.

This is stupid, illegal, and selfish.

Now granted, when I see this, it's usually something like 5:30 in the morning. Drivers see no other cars around (and oftentimes it's clear they don't see me despite my reflective clothing), so they probably think nothing of it.

Two things about that:

(1) I am not aware of driving laws being suspended during the early morning hours. Please correct me if I'm wrong.

(2) You may assume there are no other vehicles or pedestrians in the immediate area, but you don't know that for sure. You just don't, no matter how much you think you do. A car or a walker/runner can be in a blind spot right at the moment you're looking, and without realizing it you will suddenly be barreling down on them as you blast through the stop sign. I have seen this happen, both to me and to others.

You're obligated to stop at the sign, no matter what time of day it is and no matter what you think you see around you. Just stop. It will add maybe 4 seconds to your day.

Plus, seriously, IT'S THE LAW. I hate to sound self-righteous about this because in no way am I the perfect driver, but really...just stop. Treat that stop sign the way you used to treat it during driver's ed when your instructor was sitting next to you.

And while I have your attention, use your turn signals, too, OK? No matter which direction you're turning, no matter what lane you're moving into, no matter if you think there is no traffic around and no people to be seen, use the turn signal. Please don't be That Driver.

Stop at stop signs and use your turn signals. That's all I'm asking.

I'm so demanding!

I was Daddy. Now I am Dad.

When I launched this blog back in 2011, it was titled "They Call Me Daddy."

After I took a hiatus and re-launched it, it became "They Still Call Me Daddy."

Then, a few years ago, I went with the more self-descriptive "5 Kids, 1 Wife."

What I only just recently noticed, though, is that the blog's meta tag search description still reflected the old names. Some of my posts on Facebook include this short description of the blog:

"A father of five's account of life as a husband, PR professional, and of course, a daddy."

The part about "daddy" doesn't really make sense anymore since the blog's title has changed, so I edited the description simply to say "and of course, a dad."

It also doesn't make sense anymore because I no longer have anyone calling me Daddy.

To all of my children, I'm just "Dad."

Well, Jared calls us "Scott" and "Terry," but that's only because he's sarcastically funny like me.

The last one to call me Daddy was Jack, who logically enough is our youngest. I think he stopped using that moniker once he turned 9 or so.

When I hear "Dad," I think of my own dad. Because that's what I called him.

He called me "Bear," by the way. Or "Slug." I don't know that he ever really explained the origin of either name to me. That was just what he called me and I never thought anything of it. You can literally count on one hand the number of times in my life I ever heard him refer to me as "Scott."

Anyway, the Daddy-to-Dad and Mommy-to-Mom transition is an unheralded milestone in the parenting journey. And maybe it's unheralded because no one wants to admit their kids are growing up so fast or that they themselves are getting older.

I'm OK with it, I guess. I often miss the Daddy days, but not the associated diaper changes and spilled drink clean-up that went with it.

All things considered, this dad is good with "Dad."

The one reason I don't mind the snow sticking around

 

Twenty-nine years ago this month, Terry and I bought our first house. That means I've been cutting my grass for nearly three decades.

I have a love-hate relationship with lawn mowing.

On one hand, I like the exercise. By the time I finish cutting our grass, I've walked somewhere between 2 and 3 miles. It's a nice way to get those steps in.

Conversely, it's not exactly what I would call fun. On those humid July days when it's already 85 degrees at 10 in the morning, the last thing I want to do is get out there and push the mower around.

To be fair, I don't really push the mower. It actually pulls me, as it's self-propelled and I always crank the speed up just a hair beyond my comfort zone to get the whole thing finished more quickly.

I like the results of lawn mowing, I just don't always fully embrace the process.

To paraphrase author Dorothy Parker, who famously said she hated writing but loved "having written," I am a much bigger fan of "having mowed" than "actually mowing."

As I wrote this post two weeks ago, there was still plenty of snow covering my yard. I don't know what it's going to look like on March 12th as you read this, but the fact is, mowing season is coming, and it's coming soon.

Some years I begin cutting the grass as early as March 20th. Other years, rain and other factors push the start date as far back as late April.

Usually it's somewhere in between, both for me and for my son Jack, who cuts our neighbors' grass.

Once we start cutting, that grass inexorably grows, and we can't stop again until November.

Bottom line: I'm pretty much done with winter at this point, but if it wants to stick around a tad longer and delay the start of the 30th mowing season of my life, that's probably OK.

Gender reveal? Cool. Just be safe. And sensible.

I've said this before, but it bears repeating for context: We did not find out the gender of any of our kids until the moment they were born. We enjoyed the surprise and wouldn't have done it any other way.

But that doesn't make ours the "right" way. If you want to find out, go for it! Nothing wrong with either approach.

Still, if you're going to plan a gender reveal event, I trust you're going to show some common sense. The list of gender reveals gone wrong started out funny, but now it's getting tragic.

There was quite a bit of coverage recently of the young father-to-be who died when the device he and his brother were rigging up for their gender reveal exploded. Before that was the woman who died when something similar happened at an actual gender reveal party.

Both cases are tragic beyond words. And there have been others.

You probably don't need to be told this, but whatever clever gender reveal idea you come up with, it probably shouldn't involve explosives or hazardous chemicals of any kind.

Consider what my co-worker Alyssa did recently. She had her ultrasound results placed in an envelope without her husband or herself having seen them. She gave the envelope to her sister, who the next day opened it, read the gender, tied the appropriate color bandana around Alyssa's dog (it was blue), and sent the dog outside where the whole family was waiting. It was a fun and creative way to do it.

And most of all safe. Let's always go with safe.

Famous people I've met who would never remember me in a million years

Many people have a story about an encounter they've had with a famous person, whether it was in an airport or restaurant, at a sporting event, or wherever.

And by the way, I always say you should never judge celebrities based on your one encounter with them, good or bad. You're not always at your best (or worst), and there should be some understanding on our part that in the end, they're people just like us.

Anyway, for whatever reason, I've had the opportunity to encounter a few famous types. I have friends and co-workers who have met far more stars and world-class athletes than me, but I'm going to say I've met more than the average person.

And by "meet," I mean you have to shake their hand and/or have direct conversation with them, no matter how brief.

Here's my list:

Jennifer Lopez, Owen Wilson, Sarah Silverman
I met the three of them on the set of a movie in which my company is pretty heavily integrated. The release of the movie, titled "Marry Me," has been pushed back a few times and is now set for February 2022. The photo at the top of this post is Sarah and me. She might actually have a faint memory of me because we talked for a good 10 minutes on the set and she once did a skit about Vitamix on "Saturday Night Live." She was nice. Owen Wilson was also nice, though I didn't get to speak with him for nearly as long. As for J-Lo, she was sitting in a director's chair and I just walked up to her, introduced myself, and quickly said how excited we were to be involved in the film. She was soft-spoken and polite to me, but clearly I wasn't supposed to do this. I think I interrupted her while she was studying her lines or something. I chalk it up to being a hayseed Midwestern PR guy who didn't know any better.

Gerard Butler

Met him a few years ago at the Sundance Film Festival. He drank lemon curd directly from one of our Vitamix containers. That's a true story. He was extremely friendly, in part because he had clearly been imbibing that evening. I asked if I could send him a Vitamix to use and possibly post about on social media. His response was, "You sure can!", only he inserted an extremely bad word in gerund form between "sure" and "can." It was in his Gerard Butler Scottish accent, which made the whole thing even better.

Sting
I wrote about the encounter my nephew Mark and I had with the Sting-ster a few years ago. It was July 1996 and we met him before a concert. I have seen Sting play live 10 times in the past 33 years, but this was the only time I actually got to shake his hand and briefly converse with him. He was a little distracted in that he was about to go out and play a show in front of a big crowd, but he was also used to these little meet-and-greets and was very nice about the whole thing.

Octavia Spencer
Had my picture taken with this wonderful actress a few years ago after she gave a speech in Cleveland. I was one of maybe a hundred people with whom she shared a handshake, a moment of small talk, and a quick photo. And then I moved on. And so, I'm guessing, did she.

Colin Hay
My roster of truly famous people gets really thin really fast, but I enjoyed meeting Mr. Hay, the former lead singer of Men at Work and someone whose solo work I've followed and listened to regularly for three-plus decades. This also happened with Nephew Mark, and it was after a show Colin played at the Winchester in Lakewood, Ohio. Terry always makes fun of the fact that in the photo I took with Colin, he has a sour expression on his face, while in the photo of Colin with Mark, he was smiling broadly. I choose to think he was just overwhelmed meeting his #1 fan (me).

Bob Barker and Meredith Vieira
This was when I was a contestant on The Price Is Right and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, respectively. I will not go into detail here, since Terry will once again accuse me of bringing these experiences up at every possible opportunity. I will only include links to The Price Is Right video here and the Millionaire video here. And that's it. Really, I won't say anything else about this.

Dave Koz
Dave is a big deal in the smooth jazz world. A supremely talented saxophonist. You either know him or, as in most cases, you don't. But I think he led Arsenio Hall's house band for a while. And he used to appear regularly on "General Hospital." And Terry and I have become friends with him, so he counts. He's the only person on this list who definitely does know who I am.

Bernie Kosar
My Cleveland friends certainly know who Bernie is, as do football fans from around the country. He was the face of the Browns' franchise in the 80s and early 90s, and he is a big fan of Vitamix. In fact, if you saw Bernie five years ago and then looked at the photo on the right, you almost wouldn't believe it's the same person. He has really slimmed down and now works to help others understand the value of proper nutrition.

Hockey Players You May or May Not Know
Gordie Howe, Mario Lemieux, and Marty McSorley. This was when I was sports writing. All very nice gentlemen. The first two are famous as two of the greatest hockey players of all time. The third was famous for punching people. Covering hockey taught me that in 95% of cases, the fighters are the nicest guys you'll ever want to me. Off the ice, that is. On the ice, they are likely to cause you permanent facial damage. I met Marty off the ice and he was a delight to talk to.

Other Athletes That, Again, You May Not Know
And again, this was from my sports journalism days. Carlos Baerga, Kenny Lofton, Dennis Eckersley, Johnny Damon, and Warren Sapp are on the list. There were probably others, but we're really starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel now, so let's stop.

The point is, almost none of these people would (or could) ever remember who I am, but I remember all of them. Such is the nature of fame.

♪♪ "Thank you, thank you, thank you for saving Candy Land!" ♫

 

In 1996, Hasbro released a computer game called Candy Land Adventure. As you might imagine, it was based on the classic board game Candy Land.

(NOTE: I had always assumed it was just one word: "Candyland." Wikipedia suggests that spelling is acceptable, but officially it's two words: "Candy Land." They say you learn something new every day, and today this is my something.)

We had a CD-ROM copy of Candy Land Adventure for our Windows PC, one of dozens of computer games we bought for the kids when they were little. We often reminisce about these games and the fun times we had playing them.

The kids usually think back to their days playing one of several Harry Potter games we owned, but for me, Candy Land Adventure holds the most nostalgic value.

I would play Candy Land Adventure with one of the kids on my lap. When they were toddlers, they preferred having me control the mouse. Eventually, as they got older, they would take control themselves and I was only there to sit, watch, and laugh with them.

This was not, you understand, a game you could play for 5 or 10 minutes and then move on. It was a linear narrative game that always began the same way and ended the same away. To get from start to finish usually meant a good 45 minutes of game play.

I sometimes wished the game would go faster so I could move on to whatever was next on that day's to-do list.

Now, of course, I would give almost anything to have the chance to play that game again with a small child on my lap.

A classic case of not knowing what you have until it's gone.

I will say, though, that even then the Candy Land Adventure music (which for the time was very good) kind of got to me. There was at least a part of me that understood we were making memories, even if there were leaves to rake or dishes to wash.

Recently I found a YouTube walk-through of Candy Land Adventure that took me back a quarter century. It was fun watching game scenes I hadn't thought about in years.

I screen-recorded the last song in the game, when the various Candy Land Adventure characters would get together and thank you (musically) for saving Candy Land. Thus the title of today's post.

I sent that video to our family text chat. Elissa responded simply: "Thank you for that."

And I'm pretty sure she really meant it.

Should we stay or should we go? The big question for emerging empty nesters

When people ask how old our kids are and how many still live with us, I like to say we're "empty nesters in transition."

And we are. The two oldest live on their own, while the younger three are still with us in the house. In the next few years, we'll see at least one more leave if not two.

Actually, if you think about it, all parents are "empty nesters in transition" from the moment their first child is born. The minute that kid comes out, you begin your job of training them to live and thrive on their own.

Over the past year, Terry and I have had our first serious and semi-detailed conversations about what happens in the next phase of our lives. We've been doing this kid thing since 1994, and while you never finish being a parent, we'll probably be well and truly on our own within the next decade.

We've talked about moving. We've talked about being true snow birds and spending the winter months somewhere down south, though the thought of that makes me feel 80 years old.

We've also talked about staying in this house, where we've already lived for nearly 18 years, a while longer. Yes, it's bigger than we're going to need, but the upside is that you can repurpose rooms however you want. Terry has already commandeered one upstairs for use as a craft room, and I would love eventually to have an office/music practice room.

Within the past few days as I type this, we've had two guys over the house to talk about redoing the basement floor and the master bathroom. These are the types of expensive projects you don't necessarily undertake if you plan to sell your home any time soon.

So for now, here we'll stay. And for now, we'll enjoy the ups and downs of having older kids in the house with us. It's not a bad stage of life to be in, really.

The one athletic skill I wish I had? Being a good ice skater.

In that brief time of my life during which I competed in scholastic sports (7th through 12th grades), I quickly became aware of my own limitations as an athlete.

I had speed. I was fast, which is useful in a variety of sports.

Until my freshman year of high school or thereabouts, I also had height. I reached my final adult height in 7th grade, then I just stopped growing. If you know me now, you will laugh at the fact that I played center on our middle school basketball teams.

I also had some small degree of power, as evidenced mainly in how far I could hit a baseball or softball, or run over a smaller defensive back in football.

And that was about it.

The list of the things I lacked athletically was far longer. I have never been particularly coordinated, I wasn't born with natural upper-body strength (and never had much desire to put in the work to develop it), and I wasn't blessed with the type of body positioning and spatial awareness that most sports stars have in abundance.

My 8th-grade football and basketball coach, the legendary Mr. Lowell Grimm, once said to me, "Tennant, you're an enigma."

And he was right. I am not only left-handed, I am very left-handed. To the point that I was far more comfortable as a running back carrying the ball on plays that ran to the left than those that ran to the right. In basketball, I could grab rebounds and occasionally block shots, but I was lucky to sink one out of every 10 free throws.

So when I stepped into a pair of ice skates for the first time in my life at the age of 22, I was kind of hoping it was something that would play to my strengths and cover up my weaknesses.

It was not.

Ice skating (and doing it well) is an amazingly impressive feat to me. I can get moving on skates and keep moving, and I can kind of do the snowplow stop if I'm not moving too fast and have sufficient distance in front of me.

But I cannot skate backwards, I cannot do crossovers, and I cannot do the sideways hockey stop. I have tried all of these things over and over and over, and I simply do not have the ability to pull them off.

I think that's why I like watching hockey so much. Even after 30 years of intently following the game, I can't get over how well those guys skate. They make it look effortless.

I make it look painful.

On the plus side, however, I'll bet none of them were ever as proud as I was to be called an "enigma."

Do you have one go-to game you play on your phone?

Recently I had to pick up my son Jack from school. He was going to be a few minutes late in coming out, so he told me to "just park and play that little Yahtzee game on your phone."

It would be funny if he wasn't so spot on, because that's exactly what I did while waiting for him.

I'm not a big phone gamer, but I'll go through phases in which I download and playing certain games for a time. There was a cribbage game that used to command a lot of my attention, along with a solitaire app, a game where you kick a football insane distances, and good old Wordscapes.

These games have come and gone off of my phone, but the one that remains (and that I still play at least once every day) is a very entertaining version of the dice game Yahtzee.

Of note is the fact that this game actually spells it "Yatzy." Presumably, the good people at Hasbro have a trademark on the official spelling.

No matter, since it's the same game in which you continuously roll a set of five dice to score points by creating various combinations (three of a kind, four of a kind, full house, small and large straight, etc.) The most valuable hand, of course, is a Yatzy/Yahtzee, in which the same number comes up on all five dice.

For whatever reason, I never get bored of this game. My high score is in the 600s, a feat I never expect to accomplish again. Against long odds, I rolled something five Yatzy/Yahtzees. It was crazy.

I know a lot of people like to play Words with Friends, Candy Crush, Angry Birds, and a whole host of phone games that have stood the test of time. For me, though, it's all about that relatively bare-bones but oh-so-entertaining Yatzy app.

I am in fact going to play it right now.

The cocktail table arcade game in the living room

My wife, a gift-giver extraordinaire, bought me this for Christmas. It is an authentic, cocktail table-style arcade game unit that includes several versions of Pac-Man along with my second-favorite video game of all time (Galaga), as well as Galaxian and both versions of Dig Dug.

It has been a hit in our house from the moment it was unveiled Christmas morning.

Actually, I should clarify that it has been a hit mostly with me, Terry, and Melanie's boyfriend Jason. We're the ones who play it the most.

It should also be clarified that, while it's technically "mine," Terry logs the most time on it. She has always been very good at Dig Dug. Over the last couple of months, she has progressed to expert level.

I enjoy it not only because it's so much fun, but also because it takes me back to the years when I was a regular visitor to our local game rooms...say roughly 1981 through 1984.

I remember Tuesday nights at Food and Games (later Fun and Games) at Willo Plaza where, for a $3 cover charge, there were unlimited credits on all games in the arcade and you could play them to your heart's content for three hours, no quarters/tokens needed.

We also frequented Up to Par and the game room closest to home, Galaxy Gardens.

Whenever I wanted to go to Galaxy Gardens and lacked the funds to support my video game habit, I would simply stop at the home of one of the customers on my paper route and collect whatever money they owed. For those who received the newspaper every day, the amount was $3.10. I could last a full 90+ minutes at Galaxy Gardens with three bucks, depending on the games I played, so it worked out nicely.

That's assuming I remembered to mark the customer from whom I collected as "paid" in my records once I got home. That wasn't always the case, which led to more than a few embarrassing visits to collect from customers who had already paid me that week.

Anyway, my quest on our new machine is to get to 200,000 in Galaga. Once you get past level 20 or so in that game, it is nothing but chaos. The best gamers back in The Day could get way past that, but it's a challenging and worthy goal for my 51-year-old self.

Well, that and breaking the habit of trying to insert a token into the machine when I want to start a new game. Even 40 years later, that's a tough adjustment to make.

We're in Fake Spring here in the Midwest

The calendar suggests we are only 16 days away from the start of spring in the Northern Hemisphere.

Anyone who has lived for any length of time where I do on the southern shore of the Great Lakes knows this is feeble cause for celebration. We all have vivid memories of heavy March snowstorms. Heck, we have memories of heavy April snowstorms (and once or twice, considerable snow in early May).

Spring is one big con for those of us in Northeast Ohio and others who live in similar latitudes. Sure, it slowly gets warmer. Very slowly, actually. But the best thing you can realistically hope for is consistent temperatures within 20 degrees of freezing and maybe not quite as much rain as we usually get.

And again, that's only if the "spring" snowstorms don't rear their ugly head and make it feel like one long extension of February.

This is a cynical way of looking at things, I know, but it's also an eminently sensible one. Calendar Spring is a lot different from Real Spring, which doesn't happen here until mid-May or so. And even then it only lasts 4-6 weeks, because you get to mid-June and suddenly it's 90 degrees. No transition period or anything, just boom...hot summer.

So to my fellow denizens of Cold Weather Territory, I say don't be taken in by the travesty that is the vernal equinox.

We ain't out of the woods yet.

The picture in the basement

 

I'll start by apologizing for hitting on such a heavy theme (death) two days in a row, but this one is actually kind of nice.

The beautiful lady pictured at the top of this post is my mom, who passed away last summer at the age of 88 and left behind the sort of legacy we all hope to leave behind someday.

Right after she died, I was tasked with writing her obituary, which was an honor. She had a lot of siblings and other relations, so it was good to have my brother and sister there to copy edit for me and make sure I had all of the connections right.

One of the things the funeral home requested (and which you always see in newspaper obits) is a photo. I hadn't given this much thought until the moment I actually had to come up with one.

How in one photo do you sum up a person's life? In some ways it's impossible, but I thought this image worked about as well as any.

It's actually a cropped photo of Mom holding my great-niece Ella right after Ella was born. Whoever took the picture was standing while Mom was sitting. She's looking up into the camera smiling, and she clearly loves the chance to hold another great-grandchild.

This image became The Official Picture of Mom's Passing, because it started showing up everywhere...in the funeral home announcement, in the newspaper, on Facebook, etc.

A framed copy of it sits on the bookshelf in our basement. Because I pass through there several times a day for various reasons, I see the photo all the time. And almost every time, I say, "Hi Mom." I really do.

I do it of course because I wish she was here in person for me to say hi. But I also do it because it makes me happy. For a very brief second, it's like she's there sitting in her chair at home watching TV as I come through the front door for a visit.

It's a small thing, but like I said, it makes me happy. At some point after you lose a parent, those small moments start meaning the most.

Hi Mom!

Two important things you can do to comfort someone who has lost a loved one

If my mother-in-law was still with us, today would have been her 78th birthday.

She is not here, however, as we lost her to lung cancer last summer.

This kind of thing is obviously not unique to my family or anyone else's. Death is a part of the human condition, and people have been dealing with it in their own personal ways for thousands of years.

I think it's the milestones you encounter in those first 12 months after a person passes away that are the most difficult.

First they're gone one month. Then two. Then three. Then comes a major holiday like Christmas, your first without them. Then comes their birthday. And then comes the one-year mark since they've been gone, and you can't believe it has been that long already.

There are at least two things Terry and I learned when our mothers passed away within three weeks of each other.

One is the value of a meal. When a friend experiences the loss of a loved one, you may see a rush of people stepping up to provide a home-cooked dinner for them or a gift certificate for food delivery, and you may think, "They don't need more food."

In our experience, there is no such thing. For at least the next few weeks, the last thing that person is going to want to do is cook. They can always freeze what you give them. Trust me, the meal you provide will be greatly appreciated and gratefully consumed. Food is, interestingly enough, one of the greatest gifts you can give.

The other lesson is this: After the initial rush of condolences and the memorial service, you will go back to your normal routine, but the person who lost the loved one is still experiencing a lot of pain. Reaching out to them a week later, or two weeks later, or a month later (or on one of these milestone days) just to say hello, see how they're doing, and asking if there's anything you can do for them, is the kindest of gestures.

And again, if you haven't been there yourself, you don't know how highly appreciated it will be.

So happy birthday, Judy, even though you're not here so we can give you a card and a gift.

And remember, little things mean a lot when you're trying to comfort someone who is just beginning the grieving process.

It's Ron Howard's birthday. I care, you don't, and that's probably how it should be.

NOTE: I don't like to recycle content, but this particular topic is on my mind every March 1st, without fail. Why does Ron Howard's birthday stick in my brain? I don't know, but following is what I wrote about it almost exactly six years ago on March 2, 2015.

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I am quite possibly one of only a handful of people outside of Ron Howard's family who know without being told that yesterday was his birthday.

Every March 1st (I'm not kidding, every March 1st), my wife and I have a conversation that goes something like this:

ME: Hey, guess what today is?

TERRY (thinking for a second to recall whether it's one of our kid's birthdays or something): I don't know?

ME: It's Ron Howard's birthday!

TERRY (clearly unimpressed): Oh...thanks.

Why, you might ask, do I have Richie Cunningham's birthday memorized? Because I just do. Because that's me: I fill my head with meaningless facts and dates about which no one cares. And I do so at the expense of remembering more important things, such as my children's names and my wife's favorite Starbucks drink.

NOTE: The whole Terry's-favorite-Starbucks-drink thing actually caused me a bit of pain and suffering a couple of months ago. I was going to Starbucks to buy treats for the family, and I asked her what she wanted. "You should know what I want," she said. "What's my favorite drink at Starbucks?" And I was sure I knew, except for the fact that I didn't. Well, I knew part of it. She had to remind me of the rest, which was not the right answer on my part, let me tell you. (For the record, she likes a grande skinny caramel macchiato with whip.)

But anyway, I know all sorts of useless stuff. It makes for a nice party trick, and I'm good to have around in case an impromptu game of Trivial Pursuit breaks out. But in most real-life applications, my knowledge and skills do not apply.

You probably know people like me: Not necessarily intelligent, but a brain overflowing with raw data. It's the truly talented people of the world who actually do something with this data and turn it into something useful. People like me simply recite it back on command, which like I said is kind of impressive the first time or two you see it, but after that is a bit repetitive.

One of the things I know without looking up is Ron Howard's birthday. Every March 1st, he's the guy I'm thinking of. The calendar turns and I get the itch to watch reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.

Like the one where Opie tells Andy about a mystical character named Mr. McBeevee. And Andy thinks Opie is just making him up, but he's really not. And then Opie gets threatened with a spanking when he insists that Mr. McBeevee gave him a quarter, and it turns out in the end that Mr. McBeevee is a real-life telephone lineman.

That episode? I could tell you every line of dialogue. My computer password at work (i.e., something extremely useful to me)? I had to think for almost two solid minutes just now before I remembered it. It's not easy being me.