The deer on my morning walks are not at all impressed by me

I spend so much of my morning walks this time of year worrying about skunks that I sometimes forget about the deer.

Deer are very common where I live (they may be common where you live, too). This is a significant change from my years growing up in a suburban neighborhood with closely packed houses. Back then, deer sightings were real events. I remember deer roaming onto our street maybe three times during the 22 years I lived there.

Now, with the deer population in Northeast Ohio generally rising, and with us living in a somewhat more rural (though still decidedly suburban) area, deer are as common as dogs. Or at least it seems that way.

Being out on the road walking/jogging five mornings a week, I come across the various deer families in our neighborhood quite often, especially in the fall.

I see them in the spring and summer, too, but for whatever reason they seem more prevalent in October and November. On one recent morning I came across four different groups/families during my 2.3-mile jaunt.

Their fur is darker this time of year, and I never knew why until I just looked it up. Apparently the darker coat helps them better absorb the warmth of the sun ("solar gain") during a season when sunlight becomes a decidedly iffy proposition around here.

The males also have antlers now, of course. And while I've never had one act aggressively in any way toward me, I give those spiky-headed bucks a wider berth.

For their part, the deer react to me in one of two ways. They're either skittish and run away at the first sign of me. Or, more commonly, they eye me warily but stand their ground as I pass by.

Some seem genuinely interested in figuring out exactly what I am, but mostly I'm just a momentary distraction. As long as I'm not a threat – and it usually takes them about three seconds to realize I'm not – they don't care about me that much.

Which I suppose is the way of things.

I would happily pet them if they would let me, but they have no real interest in coming closer...even the ones who aren't scared of me.

So I confine my animal petting to our two cats, Ginny and Molly. To their credit, those girls do appreciate me, maybe because I'm the one who provides them fresh food and water every day, as well as being someone who is always willing to give them a scratch behind the ears.

It helps that neither has antlers. The power dynamic in our house would change noticeably if they did.

Helping your spouse through the death of a parent

My father-in-law Tom passed away a month ago, and as you might imagine, his three kids have had a rough go of it.

My wife has reacted exactly how you would expect my wife to react if you know her: She was very emotional upon hearing the news at the hospital, but while she has inevitably been teary-eyed several times since, for the most part she has kept it together.

Terry is not a crier. It takes a lot for her to cry, but that doesn't mean she is unfeeling. She loves intensely.

Having been married to her for 31 years, and having known her for nearly 38, I know there is very often more going on underneath the surface than others might realize. That's why I've tried my best to support her through this rough patch, the likes of which most of us have to endure at one point or another in our lives.

When my own dad died in 1999, Terry was wonderful. I don't think I ever told her this, but she made the whole experience much, much easier by doing the small stuff that helps others grieve.

Here are three things I learned from her and from others who have had to help their spouses deal with the death of a parent. If/when you find yourself in the same situation, maybe these suggestions will be useful:

Your primary job is to listen
You can offer words of comfort, of course, but you're mainly there to lend a sympathetic ear and a supportive shoulder. Many of us – Terry included – need to talk our way through the grieving process. Even when we're not sure what to do or how to deal with a particular emotion, we're generally not looking to you for a solution. We'll get there on our own. What we need mostly is for you to listen as we talk about what we're feeling and share our memories of Mom or Dad. (SIDE NOTE: Your spouse may tell you the same story or anecdote several times without realizing it. That's OK. Let them repeat themselves. Just keep listening.)

Whatever your spouse needs, you're available
This is easy in the hours after a parent passes away and even for the first week afterward. It's such an emotional time that you'll do anything for your significant other on the strength of nothing more than love and adrenaline. It's the weeks and months after that, when you may naturally be trying to get back to something resembling your "normal" life, that your partner will still need your support. Whatever it is, from running an errand to hauling stuff out of your in-laws' now-vacant home, you need to do it. You may have other real-life responsibilities to attend to, but your spouse takes priority. Whatever they want or need, do it.

Give them (and yourself) a little grace
No one grieves "perfectly," just as no one is perfect at being the supportive partner of a grieving person. You need to know that you'll probably make mistakes, and that's just fine. You also need to remind your husband/wife there's no set process for grieving. They should go at their own pace. Just be there. Just listen. In everything you do, be motivated by love. That will be more than enough.

I own maybe half of the 50 things every guy is supposed to have

 

The folks at a website called CoolMaterial.com put together a list of "50 Things Every Guy Should Own." I stumbled across it recently and went down the list counting how many of the suggested items I actually have.

It was difficult to come up with an exact number because, in many cases, we have an item, but it's either more Terry's than mine or it's not really exactly what they're talking about.

Suffice it to say I only own about half of the stuff they think I should own.

Here's the complete list. I've bolded the items I have.

1. A plain white t-shirt (I have plenty of plain white t-shirts, but they're talking about the kind of plain white T's that cost $50...I get a 6-pack of Hanes for 20 bucks.)

2. A suit

3. A navy blazer

4. A tie (I have several)

5. A bathrobe (as Jim Gaffigan once said, "A robe? What, are we about to shoot a porno?")

6. Slippers

7. Dress shoes

8. Sneakers (I grew up calling them "tennis shoes," but same thing.)

9. A watch

10. A gray hoodie (I have gray hoodies, but not a plain one like they're talking about.)

11. Denim jeans

12. Boots

13. A leather belt

14. Good sunglasses (I have a prescription pair. Is that "good?")

15. A pair of cufflinks

16. A pair of work gloves

17. A backpack

18. Tote bags

19. Suitcase and/or carry-on

20. Headphones

21. Refillable water bottle

22. A deck of cards (We have decks of cards. It's just that none are mine.)

23. A pocket knife (I had one when I was 9 and a Cub Scout, but that doesn't count.)

24. A lighter

25. A leather wallet

26. An umbrella

27. A toiletry bag

28. Bottle opener/wine key

29. Kitchen knives (These are Terry's, not mine.)

30. Proper glassware (same)

31. Your favorite coffee mug (my black Cleveland Orchestra mug)

32. A dedicated coffee maker (It belongs to both of us, but it was a Christmas present for me.)

33. A secret ingredient you use in dishes to impress guests (Good idea, but I don't cook.)

34. Your favorite bottle of whiskey (Yeah, not a spirits guy.)

35. A cast iron skillet

36. A versatile cookbook

37. A grill (We have one, but I'm rarely the one using it.)

38. A good office chair

39. Stationary (I didn't realize we were living in 1947.)

40. A good pen

41. A notebook/journal

42. A camera

43. A toolbox (So, yeah...we of course have one, but I'll admit it's way more my wife's than mine.)

44. Power tools (same)

45. Exercise equipment

46. A piece of art that means something to you (Man, I did way better on the first part of this list than I'm doing on the second.)

47. A copy of your favorite book (I have many!)

48. A quality coffee table book (I feel like I would need a coffee table first.)

49. A bike

50. A passport (A good way to end. This makes me feel a little better.)

The value of selective memory in parenting

I was on Twitter ("X," whatever) recently and came across this tweet from a young woman named Emily whose content I always find engaging and thought provoking. This is what she said:

"ok do neurotypical parents not find a toddler saying “MAMA!!!!! PICK UP!!!” ten thousand times overstimulating???what if there’s a baby crying at the same time? and you’re also hungry? And Bluey is blaring in the background? are some people feeling totally calm in this scenario?"

Most who commented on the tweet said exactly what I wanted to say: "Oh gosh, believe me, you're not alone. Every parent feels like that. It comes with the territory and is absolutely normal. Trust me, Emily, you're doing great!"

There was one comment from a mom of five who said that, in those situations, rather than stressing out, she revels in the chaos and is always calm. It may have been a well-intended response, but it came across as a little self-righteous. We parents of larger families are sometimes really good at saying unhelpful things like this, and as a rule, it's usually best simply to ignore us.

Anyway, Emily's plight reminded me how parents are so adept at filtering out the bad parts of parenting and retaining only the good stuff in their memories. Terry and I had plenty of times when the whole experience of raising offspring seemed impossible and we cursed our combined fertility.

Parenting is hard. It's supposed to be hard. You're charged with caring for these small, helpless creatures and keeping them alive while trying to mold them into civilized human beings. There is nothing easy about that, and being overwhelmed is just about the most natural reaction I can think of.

It is, in some ways, remarkable that anyone ever chooses to have a second child. The drain of raising just one rugrat is enough to make any sane person swear off the whole experience.

Yet we do it all the time. Mothers who endure pregnancy and birth routinely opt to do it again. And again. And in cases like my wife, throw in a couple more "agains."

The only explanation for this is that the rewards of parenting far outweigh the frustrations. And by that I mean the long-term rewards, because there will be stretches in your parenting journey in the midst of which it will be difficult to rationalize why you got yourself into it all in the first place.

The only thing I can say to young parents is something they already know, at least in their logical brains, which is that eventually it gets somewhat easier. And the little ones really do grow up. And somehow, perhaps unbelievably, there will come a day when you miss the chaos.

That includes you, Emily. Even if you don't realize it, those three kids are incredibly blessed to have you as a mom.

(NOTE: Today is my daughter Chloe's birthday. She is somehow 27 years old and still one of the most amazing people I know. Happy birthday to our second-born!)

Family birthdays are a little different once the kids are grown

There was a time when most of the attendees at our family birthday celebrations lived upstairs. Scheduling these parties wasn't especially difficult because the people in our house were, by and large, 12 years old and younger. We had a pretty good handle on when they could all be available.

Now, however, getting a birthday shindig on the calendar is somewhere just north of impossible. Four of the kids have moved out and are living the lives of young adults. All four come with significant others whose presence is greatly appreciated, but who sometimes add to the scheduling confusion.

It used to be that sports practices and school events were the main obstacles. Now we contend with business trips, sheer physical distance between our house and where the kids live, and family events for the aforementioned significant others.

This is what happens when most or all of your kids are in their 20s. I understand they have stuff to do...places to be, people to meet, that sort of thing. That's how it was for me when I was in my 20s (back in the previous century, though we won't get into that).

Once we do manage to find a date that works for everyone except my son who lives in Florida, even the parties themselves have changed. We still have cake and ice cream, we still make jokes and laugh, and we still sit around and watch as the birthday boy/girl opens presents.

What has changed is the dynamic. It's a different feel when the kids are grown up vs. when they were little and wanted to do more than just sit in the living room and talk.

Not better or worse, just different.

When the kids were preteens, they had soft drinks with their birthday cake. Now I walk around taking everyone's order for adult beverages and try my best to fulfill them from our stock in the garage refrigerator.

The talk isn't about school or friends so much as how work is going and why health insurance is so expensive.

So it goes. Things change.

I am, however, going to request that Chloe's upcoming birthday get-together have a Teletubbies theme. Just for old times' sake. 

In defense of marching band

Photo credit: Mrs. Terry Tennant

"This one time at band camp" jokes aside, there is much to be said for high school marching bands.

They create a special atmosphere at Friday night football games. They perform at halftime, play the fight song after touchdowns, and bring an air of excitement to the proceedings as they march into and out of the stadium.

Just as important, though, is what the band – as both a school organization and a social ethos – does for its members.

For many, band is their strongest and sometimes only real connection to the school. They don't necessarily fit elsewhere, but when they get together with their peers in the band room, they feel at home.

Band kids are their people.

I was and wasn't a band nerd. I played the saxophone, but I never marched a routine in my life. Because I also played football, I was excused from marching band and wouldn't pick up my instrument until November when football season ended and we started rehearsing Christmas music.

So I never experienced the family atmosphere that is perhaps unique to marching ensembles.

It took having five kids (all of whom spent at least some time in marching band), a heavily involved wife and a now-10-year stint as the Wickliffe Swing Band announcer for me to really understand it all.

Every high school band endures its share of derision from other students, but that is perhaps less true at Wickliffe. The Swing Band is well regarded within the school and around our community, so its members are maybe a notch or two higher on the social scale than they would be in other places.

Still, in the end, a band geek is a band geek. Most of them gladly wear the title and wouldn't trade their high school band experience for anything.

For more kids than you may realize, band is the one thing that gets them through four otherwise miserable years of high school.

So go ahead and make fun of their weird hats, the corny songs they play and the faux military discipline on display at every performance. Call them whatever you want.

They're too busy playing loudly and proudly to even hear you.

My phone is getting sassy

MY PHONE: It's 4 minutes from your location to the CVS Pharmacy on Chardon Road

ME: Why do you assume I'm going to CVS every time I get in my car?

MY PHONE: Because you go there a lot.

ME: I don't go there "a lot."

MY PHONE: You actually do.

ME: I do not.

MY PHONE: You do.

ME: Define "a lot."

MY PHONE: More than "occasionally," less than "constantly."

ME: It's barely "occasionally."

MY PHONE: You stop at CVS at least twice a week, sometimes three or four times.

ME: So?

MY PHONE: That's a lot.

ME: It doesn't mean every car trip ends at CVS.

MY PHONE: It does mean I'm right more often than not when I tell you how far away CVS is. Why do you go there so much anyway?

ME: What? Why? What's wrong with CVS?

MY PHONE: It's pricey.

ME: What do you care? It doesn't affect you. Besides, they know me there and they're nice to me.

MY PHONE: I'm nice to you.

ME: No, you're not.

MY PHONE: Every time you want to know the weather forecast, who do you ask? Me.

ME: So?

MY PHONE: Sports scores? You come to me. The year "Galaxy Quest" was released? Me. The lyrics to "Blinded by the Light?" Me. And I come through every time.

ME: But that's your job.

MY PHONE: I could say no.

ME: What? No, you couldn't. You're a phone!

MY PHONE: And way smarter than you.

ME: That's not true.

MY PHONE: It is. And you know it.

ME: Whatever. Can we just get on with this trip?

MY PHONE: Where are we going?

ME: <silence>

MY PHONE: We're going to CVS, aren't we?

ME (sheepishly): Yes.

MY PHONE: We'll be there in 4 minutes.

Having your own book signing sounds great until you start overthinking it

On Monday, November 6, at 7pm, the good folks at the Wickliffe Public Library are allowing me to do what they call an "author visit," which really just means that a small group of people will gather to hear me talk for a few minutes about my book, and then I can sell and sign copies of it.

This is presumably because real authors like Stephen King and Danielle Steel are not available that evening.

Just as I always wanted to publish a book, I've also always wanted to do a book signing. I love the idea of sitting at a table with people walking up and making small talk while I scratch out some small greeting and my signature on the title page of the book for them.

But now, with it actually happening in less than a month, I can only think about the things that could go wrong:

• What if nobody shows up? This is a very real possibility. I am neither Mr. King nor Ms. Steele. I am in no way some big name that people will want to come and see. I'm just a local dope who managed to get a book into print for the first time and is now trying to sell a few copies. (Earlier this year, an author named Suzanne Young tweeted about the experience of having a book signing to which no showed up.)
  
  
• What am I going to say to the few folks who do come? What witty and charming things can I come up with to make the book sound entertaining enough for them to part with $16 and buy a copy?
  
  
• I have terrible handwriting. What am I going to sign that will not make people walk away wondering, "Wait, why does that person who writes like a 3rd-grader look 53 years old?"

My wife Terry used to work at the Wickliffe Library and still fills in at the circulation desk from time to time. When I told her I had scheduled an author visit there, her response was not exactly encouraging:

"Oh, there's nothing sadder than watching those people sitting at a table with their books and no one is there to see them."

She is my light and my inspiration.

On the plus side, having lived in Wickliffe my entire life, I know a lot of people. Good, caring people. The kind of people who, despite having no interest in your book at all, will show up for an author visit just to ensure the chairs are filled and a few copies are purchased.

I am counting on these people to save me from having my own personal Spinal Tap moment.

In the meantime, I need to work on my grade-school cursive.

In every successful marriage there is a division of labor

(NOTE: This post originally appeared on the blog on December 26, 2011. I resurrect it now because I've been thinking about this topic lately, and also admittedly because there are just some days when fresh new material is hard to come by...)

Paul Reiser, one of my favorite comedians, wrote the best description I've ever read of the way household tasks are divvied up in a marriage.

In his book "Couplehood" – a great and funny read, by the way – Reiser explained there will always be tasks neither the husband nor the wife (nor the kids, for that matter) really want to handle. But there's always one of you who hates a given job more than the other, so generally speaking, it should be assigned to the person who hates it less.

This makes a lot of sense to me.

For example, I don't relish the thought of cleaning the cat litter boxes every morning. But ever since June 1993, when Terry became pregnant with Elissa, it has been my job. This is because cat waste poses a real health threat to pregnant woman, and especially with that first baby, you don't take any chances.

I think the disease is called toxoplasmosis, though I didn't look it up, and as far as I know it may not actually be a disease at all but rather a concept pregnant women made up to get out of doing stuff around the house.

Anyway, Terry will be having no more babies. Therefore, one could surmise that she is yet again a candidate to clean the litter boxes. But she doesn't, and that's fine with me. There are plenty of other things she does that I wouldn't want anything to do with, and I've been married long enough to know when to leave well enough alone.

For the record, the other jobs I usually take on in our house include lawn maintenance, cleaning the bathrooms, washing the kitchen floor, taking care of the dishes, general kitchen tidying, and some of the laundry. Being a stay-at-home mom, Terry has always done more than her share of unpleasant tasks while I'm at work, and that's not even taking into account the cooking (of which she does virtually 100%) and general pick-up duties she handles that would exhaust me if I had to do them every day.

I do remember one area in which we never did come to any sort of compromise, though. This was back in the days when we had babies in the house and one would wake up crying in the middle of the night.

Neither of us is particularly proud of this, but we both now admit to often pretending to be asleep, hoping that would prompt the other person to get out of bed, fetch the tot, change his or her diaper, and either restore order or prep them for breastfeeding time.

That last point is key. Terry breastfed all of the kids. This is a job, again as Paul Reiser so deftly points out, that only female persons are equipped to handle. To me, this is one of God's greatest design inspirations.

In all fairness, then, it should have been me who got up, changed the diaper and brought the baby downstairs, since in all cases it was Terry who did the subsequent feeding while I fell back asleep in approximately 7 seconds.

In my defense, I DID usually have to get up for work the next morning, and I milked (haha!) that excuse relentlessly to the point that, in the end, while I bet I attended to the babies more often than Terry, it wasn't by much...maybe a 55-45 split.

If I were a good person, I would bring this to a close by offering some sort of inspiration and advice to young married couples or those thinking about marriage. But I am not, so let me just say that if you're going to do the pretend-to-be-asleep thing, don't let your spouse catch you opening one eye to see if they're awake. Then you're busted and your whole night is ruined.

You're welcome.

I recently had my second bout with Covid...still zero stars, do not recommend

Terry and I both contracted Covid back in January 2021 and were down and out for a solid week. I was kind of hoping that would be my one and only experience with it.

But the virus was nice enough to mutate and hit me again last month. And once again, it took a solid week (and then some) for me to come back. This time, for good measure, I also experienced the loss of taste and smell I had somehow avoided with the first go-round.

Everyone who gets Covid seems to have somewhat different experiences. For me, both times it has been a combination of a nasty head cold with flu-like symptoms that have included fever/chills and a general feeling of extreme "blah," if you know what I mean.

Sickness of any type tries my patience. I simply don't have time for illness, which is why, by day #3 of Covid the Sequel, I was antsy and annoyed. I had work to do. I was missing PA announcing gigs and the income that goes with them. I got tired just cleaning a single toilet, let alone an entire bathroom.

When I get sick, I don't become self-pitying so much as bitter and angry. I HAVE NO TIME FOR THIS.

Speaking of PA announcing, the previous weekend's assignments are likely where I picked up this latest round of Covid. That Friday I had announced a Wickliffe football game, and the next day I did both college volleyball at Cleveland State University and a band festival in the nearby town of Solon.

At some point during one of those events, some attendee unknowingly shared the virus with me. I'm all for sharing, but you can keep this particular gift to yourself, Patient Zero.

I will go way out on a limb to give you this expert medical opinion: Covid sucks. Do not get it.

I really should learn the ins and outs of our household finances

Throughout the 31 years of our marriage, Terry and I have had very clear-cut roles when it comes to money.

For all 31 years, my job has been to make it.

For the first five of those years, her job was to make it AND to figure out how to spend it wisely.

Since 1997, when she quit her job at Lincoln Electric to stay home full time with our growing family, she has served as Chief Financial Officer while I have continued to manage Accounts Receivable.

This system has worked well as my income has grown steadily over three decades and her skill at managing it has risen proportionately.

I have only the vaguest idea of our family budget, when and how she pays the bills, and what her overall approach to finances really is.

I'm in charge of long-term planning (i.e., building a retirement next egg), but the rest falls on her.

Which is great, except what if something happens to her? In addition to being one of the worst things imaginable, it would also leave me as a grieving husband poring through statements and spreadsheets to get a handle on how things work money-wise at 30025 Miller Avenue.

The problem, when one member of a couple is especially good at something, is that the other person often leaves the job entirely to them and is thus completely in the dark when tragedy strikes.

In past generations, it was usually the husband who handled the money and the wife who was kept out of it.

I'm not being "kept out of it" by any means, but the roles are clearly reversed in our relationship. I'm sure Terry would love to sit down with me and go over everything, but...well, you know, I have blog posts to write and games to announce and apples to eat.

Finding time to learn something as important as how my wife keeps the lights on and the cars from being repossessed somehow takes a back seat to the JV football game I have to announce.

Maybe I should rethink my priorities.

30 years ago, my pregnant wife delivered newspapers with me (the paper for which I was also a sports writer)

Terry looked like this and still helped me deliver papers. What a trooper.
(Photo used with the express permission of Mrs. Terry Tennant.)

It was 1993. Terry and I had been married a little more than a year and she was pregnant with our first child, Elissa. I was about a year and a half into my stint as a full-time sports writer for The News-Herald in Willoughby, Ohio, and generally loving life.

I've written before about my time at the N-H. I started as a sports clerk a week before college, left for a year to join the Cleveland Plain Dealer while still at John Carroll, then came back full time in November 1991 while still six months away from earning my degree.

My tenure at the paper spanned a combined eight years, during which I covered a wide range of high school, college and professional sports. What's more, while the paper itself was one of the largest suburban dailies in Ohio, the staff was relatively small and we all had to do double duty.

That meant nights when I would travel somewhere to cover a game, come back to the office and write my story, then grab a few pages from the next day's sports section to lay out before our midnight deadline.

It was an exhilarating way to make a living for a young newlywed, coming as it did at a time when people actually read newspapers.

The job didn't exactly pay well, so I looked for extra sources of income wherever I could. One of my side jobs was as a carrier for the same newspaper where I was employed.

For eight months or so, I delivered The News-Herald every day to residents of East 300th Street, Lincoln Road and Arlington Circle in my hometown of Wickliffe (we lived on 300th, so it was all very convenient).

On Sundays, I would load the extra-large papers into our car and Terry would drive the route while I walked and delivered to each of my customers. She would get out and deliver papers herself to the few businesses on my route, including the Wickliffe Public Library.

I will never forget the image of a very, very pregnant Terry in the middle of winter 1994 trudging through the snow in her long parka to leave a paper near the library's front door.

I will also never forget Mrs. Piacente, one of my customers on Lincoln. Many Saturday mornings she would greet me just as I was opening her side door to deposit a paper and ask me what articles I had in that day's edition. She also asked me to do a few odd jobs for her, including changing the batteries in her kitchen clock and knocking icicles off her gutters.

I was always happy to help, but the whole thing made me laugh. It was full-service journalism and then some! (And hey, she tipped well.)

Elissa was born in March 1994, and a month later The News-Herald switched from afternoon to morning delivery. That was when I had to give up the route.

I stayed with the paper another 2 1/2 years as a sports writer before moving on to technical writing and eventually corporate communications.

But if there was ever a time when I built a work ethic, it was back in those days when I would work in the newsroom until 2 in the morning, go home and sleep, and be up again mid-morning the next day to deliver my papers.

To be young again.

Hold the eggs, toast and sausage, please: Eating the same breakfast every day, year after year

I'm still at a stage in life where chaos is the rule and continuity the exception. The kids may be mostly grown, but there are enough variables in my daily existence to keep things interesting.

One thing that never changes, though – and that's almost a literal "never" – is my breakfast. Every day it's the same thing eaten at the same time and generally with the same utensils.

With very few exceptions, you will find me sitting at the kitchen table between the hours of 7:00 and 7:30am eating these exact foods:

• A 1/2 cup of rolled oats cooked (microwaved, really) in water
• A banana
• A cup of black coffee

The oats are eaten out of the same black plastic bowl designed for the purpose. The banana is usually medium ripe and medium-sized. The coffee is without creamer and drunk from one of only three mugs I have in rotation.

I should mention this is all by choice. No one is forcing any of it on me.

Whatever else the day may have in store, it starts with this never-changing breakfast.

There is a certain comfort in it, to be sure. For one thing, I never get sick of the plain oats, the banana or the coffee. Ever. They're as tasty for me now as they were when I fell into this routine however many years ago (I honestly can't tell you when it started).

There's also very little prep time involved. I mix the oats and water and microwave them for exactly 1 minute. The banana is quickly plucked from the fruit stash on our kitchen counter. And the coffee comes out of the Cuisinart machine Terry bought me for Christmas that I just love.

All told, from the moment I start making breakfast to the moment I start eating it is less than 3 minutes.

This comes in especially handy on days I have to go into the office or get myself to some other morning commitment.

Lunch and dinner will vary, but breakfast? It's my most important meal of the day not for its nutritional value, but for its reliability.

You will understand, then, how in some ways I have been a 76-year-old man for most of my life.