On the Town with Miles and Landon

Traditions. Love 'em. I think I may be Jewish.

One favorite is "Grandson's birthday meal out with Geeg & Pop." It started several years ago, when Miles was half the man he is today. Our convoluted life style prohibits celebrating Landon's birthday during the month that he was born, but he rolls with the punches. Lunch at"Friendly's," December 4th, worked fine for him.

Last week, Miles fit us into his busy schedule, to celebrate his 6th birthday at "All Aboard."

As to what happened at these feasts, well,............what happens with Geeg & Pop, stays with Geeg & Pop.

It's tradition.

Suffice to say, Landon's luncheon included some clandestine activities.

Merry Christmas everyone.

WHAT I'VE DONE...........

Many things, not the least of which (maybe it is) is posting 100 blog entries. Yet, on occasion, it has been suggested that I lead a boring life. True, I've never been to France, still I protest, "au contraire!"

I have vacationed on the shores of Miami, Puerto Rico, and Martha's Vineyard.
I have been to numerous ball parks from New York to San Francisco, from Boston to Baltimore.
I been been to several World Series games; one of them heartbreaking.

I accumulated and dissipated an eclectic 300 plus vinyl record collection featuring such artists as Biff Rose and The Rotary Connection.

I have eaten horse meat. And kangaroo.

I railed thru Canada.
I have cruised the subways of New York and the seas of the Carribean.


I have attended concerts provided by such luminaries as The Chambers Brothers and the legendary High Priestess of Soul, Miss Nina Simone.
I have been to broadway.
I have been ON Broadway (intermission of "Hair," 1969.)



I played little league for two years, curiously never hitting a home run, but I did slide into third base countless times for triples, the most exciting play in baseball.


I have survived an intense allergic reaction to a perfect storm of food ingredients and atmospheric conditions.

I helped create and sustain an imaginary baseball league for an embarassing number of years.

I helped raise a family.


I simultaneously endured and thrived in a 35 year career of middle management, an exhausting masquerade.

I danced at daughter's wedding.



What have I done lately? Well, that's a different story. Not much, I suppose, but as I have stated here numerous times before................I'm content.



I read, I walk, I search for bargains in grocery stores and thrift shops.

I marvel at the accomplishments of my daughters.

I adore my grandchildren.

I share the bliss of daily life with my bride.



I retired. I had to, in order to have time to count my blessings.



Merry Christmas. Share the love.

It's Where the Heart is..........

In another time, in another medium, as a reaction to an unfortunate medical episode, I wrote:


"Turn out the lights, put all the kids to bed.
Life as we know it is over.
Peter Pan is dead."

.......................


I was getting up from my computer chair about 4 weeks ago, and my back felt uncomfortable. The discomfort lasted about 10 days, occasionally growing to intense, spasmodic pain. I still suffer (silently of course) when getting up after sitting for extended periods of time.

Earlier this week, I hurt my neck, apparently from over zealously putting on my sneakers.

I have asians in my aging armor.



So, when I return home soon, I will see my Physician's Assistant to monitor my high BP, visit my Dentist to insure that adolescent years of orthodontistry are not wasted, share some quality time with my Urologist to control my kidney stones, check in with my Allergist to secure the future for Peter Pan, and .........................see a chiropractor for the first time. Pardon the repetition, but...oi vey; I have asians in my armor.



Blah, blah, blah. Truth be told, this whining has just been an excuse to revisit Peter Pan, and to create a suitable surrounding for "asians in my armor."



All that is important in the above is my admission, my affirmation, my acknowledgement, that home is where I am headed when I return to the great state of Connecticut, the serenity of New Milford, the comfort of family and friends.
It's where the heart is.............



P.S. Props to Sara for providing webcams and introducing "Skype" to us. The world is a very small place, and there is a degree of home wherever we are.

Junior High

Old news by now, but Miles'recent introduction to kindegarten has rekindled some previously repressed memories for me. No, not my first day of school; visions of that particular event, ripping me from my mother's womb, remain suspiciously buried under years of never received therapy. Still, I have to admit I recovered nicely. My elementary years were quite successful. I was smart, popular; a leader of fine young boys and girls. If you don't believe me, ask Mrs. Gould , my 4th and 5th grade teacher.



Actually, the repressed memories that have drifted to the top of my head relate to my first day of Junior High. (Mommy?)
Woe was me.
First of all, the result of some geographic mean practical joke, most of my friends went to a different school. I was a stranger in a strange land. Mulling around in the school playground, trying to be even smaller than I was (I wanted to disappear,) I bumped into a female amazon creature; one whose behavior, complexion, and language were foreign to me
"Watch it f#%ko," were the first words uttered to be me in this wholey unacceptable environment. Oi vey.

I wonder where my guardian angel was that day, as I also wonder where she was when they told me I couldn't go home for lunch; I ws jailed for the entire day, Monday thru Friday. Where was Willie when I was assigned seats alphabetically instead of by size, so I sometimes ended up in the back row, where it was determined that I couldn't see so so well. Was she visiting a sick friend when it was decided that I should get braces? Was she on a leave of absence while I took a leave of my senses, reverting from a confident little hot shot into a four eyed, metal mouthed puny little spunkless mouse?

Yet, maybe she hadn't abandoned me; maybe Willie adhered to the theory that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Truth be told (and it must be told,) I survived. Eventually, I thrived.
Not in Junior High, a putz on JHS 145, Joseph Pulitzer; but later in life.
Sure, I skated thru high school, lollygagged thru college, and demeaned myself selling sheets and towels in my early adult years.
But look at me now; an embarassment of riches. I forgive you, amazon girl. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. If I had my druthers ( and admittedly I have my druthers more often than most, though not this time,) anyway, if I had my druthers, what doesn't kill you would make you stronger and also taller.
So, hey, I'm short. But I'm happy. I laugh loud and often; smile broadly with pride and affection for my family. I done good.
And so it goes...................

Celebrity Beach

Andy Rooney and Jerry Seinfeld were at the beach recently, where I overheard the following conversation:

Andy: Do you ever think about all the things you can put in a salad? The list is unending, really.
Jerry: Whatever.

A: I like mostly vegetables; plenty of crisp lettuce. Not Romaine. Really ripe tomatoes too.
J: Yeah.

A: I like lots of ingredients; cucumbers, radishes, carrots. I used to like celery, but then I found out was allergic to it.
J: Really.

A: Some people add fruit to their salad. Apples are good, but they turn brown soon after you slice them.
J: Do you ever add sand to your salad?

A: No. That would be wrong. I recently tried avocado. I didn't think I would like it, I don't like guacamole. "Guacamole," that's a funny word, isn't it?
J: Hilarious.

A: I didn't know what to do with the avocado; it didn't come with instructions.
J: You have to peel it and remove the pit.

A: Oh. I ate the pit. I didn't like it. I had to go to the dentist. Now I drool alot because my teeth are out of alignment.
J: Well, now you know.

A: Mmmmm.
J: I just buy salad in a bag. You should try it.

A: Does it come with the dressing in the bag?
J: No. That would be wrong.

A: I like croutons, crumbled blue cheese, and something crunchy. A festival of tastes, textures, and colors.
J: Whatever.

Day of the Iguana

Warm weather has returned to the gulf coast, so naturally I am once again spending a significant amount of time at the beach. I perform my duties as Part Time Beach Patrol Monitor.
One day earlier this week, late in the afternoon, a seemingly nice young couple strolled on to the nearly empty beach. The man was carrying a couple of chairs; the woman was cradling something (a baby?) in her arms.

But that was no baby. She was cradling an iguana.
I immediately went off duty . I don't want nuthin' to do with no iguana.

So this lady takes her iguana down to the shore and puts it in the water.
I"m thinkin' she best be bathing or baptizing that beast; I don't want no freakin' iguana released in my ocean. Lady returns to her beach chair. Alone. WTF?????

As I'm considering my options; leave the beach, sell my condo, the beast looms over a small knoll at the shore line. I take option one, and not so calmly gather my things and head to cocktail hour on my elevated deck. I don't know how fast iguanas move. I don't want to find out.

I have been to the beach since, but I tread lightly into the ocean waters. There are no more iguana sightings; there is no evidence that an iguana has ever been here. (Does anyone know what iguana crap looks like?)

My paradise has been restored, my mind is at ease. I am back on duty. I am currently investigating a large man who wears a bandana and a thong. I don't understand the thong; his ass never even winks at the sun. He arrives wearing a sarong, removes said item and sits in his chair. When he leaves, he discreetly redresses with the sarong, puts on a normal bathing suit underneath said sarong, and departs. Fashion statement? European? Terrorist? I bet he owns an iguana.

Hey, my life is so balanced. Tuesday I give myself a lousy haircut. Wednesday, I get a free cap for donating blood.

And so it goes...........

THANKS AGAIN

We still have over 5 weeks until Thanksgiving. That's good. Nobody knows me here in Florida. That's good too. Thank God (and Willie) Marion and Jude left yesterday.

Had a little mishap while cutting my hair this morning. I was done; I had a given myself just a trim, primarily using the #3 attachment. Then I decided to trim a few missed hairs in the front. Unfortunately, I decided this while my guardian angel wasn't looking, and after I had already removed the #3 attachment.
Oops.

Oh well, Thanksgiving is far off, nobody knows me, Jude and Marion are gone. Plus, I've got a couple of nice caps to wear. So, thanks again Willie. My cup is half full.

Hey, you folks up north; you know your cup is half full if, when you're caught in a terrible blizzard, you're just happy because snow doesn't smell like crap.

My Guardian Angel

Recently, at a Sunday mass, I was struck by a panic attack. My cell phone was in my pocket, not in the car, where I usually leave it when entering a church. Ohhh, the horror, the embarassment if my phone rings. (It plays "This Old Heart of Mine," by the Isley Brothers.) I stewed and fidgited; I received no benefit from the good pastor's sermon that day. I said a quick prayer to my guardian angel, and impatiently waited for an appropriate time to discreetly exit the celebration.

As I gently opened the door to depart, I immediately checked my phone. I silently thanked my angel; the phone was off; it wouldn't have mattered if anyone had tried to reach me. As I walked to my car, it occurred to me that I had displayed little faith in my angel. My fears were clearly unfounded. My guardian did more than just assure that my phone wouldn't ring in church; she has pretty much assured that it will never ring, by blessing me with an almost dormant social life and an extremely limited network of friends and acquaintances. Good job!

My guardian has provided evidence of her care several times lately.

We had home phone troubles. recently. After taking the wrong path by buying a new phone, (It didn't have an answering machine; it had voice mail. What's the difference? I am also somewhat electronically challenged. I'm not going to pay my phone provider $2 a month for voice mail. I returned the new phone.), I determined we would be best served by purchasing a new battery for our old phone. (I had initially rejected this option because the battery costs as much as a new phone.)

SO....................I headed to the local WalMart. However, my bride (probably encouraged by my angel) suggested we go to a furniture store first. On the way to the furniture store, stopped at a traffic light, we noticed a Grand Opening Celebration for ............................."BATTERIES PLUS!"


Too late to make a long story short, (I'm not even half done yet), but we got our replacement battery. Because it was a grand opening, we got a 30% discount, a free t-shirt, AND a free flashlight because the newbie clerk gave us the wrong bag! Thank you guardian angel!

I hope she didn't go to too much trouble for this one. I fear she had this store created solely for my momentary need for a battery. I can't imagine a store that sells batteries, and just a very few plusses, will thrive to be a business bonanza. Still, I will take of advantage of their inevitable "Going Out of Business" sale.

My angel; let's call her "Willie," short for "Wilhelmina," outdid herself this week. As I was walking and profusely sweating one particular morning, (I really should get a handkerchief to wipe my brow) my steps were particularly angry as I ruminated over an unexpected $75 plumbing expense. No doubt about it; I'm going to have to go cheap on a "new" a suit for Sara's wedding. (My old suits no longer fits my newly sculpted physique.) I headed to the local thrift stores.

First store we go to has a nice, dark suit. The jacket fits; the pants, amazingly maybe a little short, but seviceable. (Who owned this suit?) The price: $12.99. But wait,.......there's more.

A small sign in the dressing room announced that all clothes were half price in two days. I returned the suit to the rack. I returned to the store 2 days later and the suit was still there. (Willie had no doubt made it invisible to other short potential buyers.)
Purchase price: $6.49! But wait, ...... there's more.

I know some of you are skeptical of some of my claims; I admit to misdirecting you on occasion, but I swear this is true. Upon returning home and trying on the suit for a skype fasion show, I checked the pockets. Pleased with my bargain, but still disturbed by the plumbing bill, I was euphorically surprised and amazed to find........... a handkerchief in the back pocket; one to use as walk, sweat and ruminate.

And so it goes.............

TACO IN A BOWLING ALLEY

A cool cat taco walks into a bowling alley, brimming with delicious ingredients, looking hot and radiant. Spicy beef, assorted veggies, shredded cheese, sour cream, guacamole sauce from south of the border.

"This place smells like feet," she says.

The teenager behind the counter remains unperturbed.

"How you doin,"? he responds, smooth as a Rabbi blessing a bagel bakery.

Smitten, our taco heroine answers, "I love the smell of feet."

And they lived happily ever after, ever laughing, ever smiling.

Hence the now popular phrase: "Happy as a taco in a bowling alley."

WHAT I DID THIS SUMMER.......

Not much really; pool patrol was practically a full time job, though not as controversial as beach patrol. I read a few books, saw a few movies. I continued to walk 4 miles a day and accept accolades for my tan and weight loss from all circles of acquaintances.

I didn't go to Slovakia.

I lunched with my Hubbell friends on a couple of occasions. For future visits, I must remember to tone down my enthusiasm for retirement. Some of those folks are pretty disgusted with their work situation; I'm not sure my grin, tan, and weight loss were truly appreciated. They fear for their jobs and I was smiling like a taco in a bowling alley! Oh well.................



We hosted our third annual G family reunion. I bought a pop up canopy for the occasion. It set up easily, as advertised. Unfortunately, I broke it when taking it down. I returned it to WalMart, fully prepared to argue that the product was defective; that it was in fact not idiot proof. I hoped to coerce an unsuspecting employee into calling me an idiot. I envisioned changing the name of the store to JIMmart. Alas, they accepted the return, no questions asked.



I created a new game with Miles and Landon, though Miles is the only one who plays. (And sometimes Julie.) Whoever sees me wearing something other than a bathing suit yells "Bingo!"
You've got to catch me pretty early in the morning to win.

It occurs to me that a variation of this game could have been played with my father. If you ever saw my dad in a bathing suit you would yell "BINGO!" Not much of a game really; Helen Keller would have as much a chance as anybody. Dad was not a bathing suit type of guy.

What else? Couple of trips to New York. Yankee Stadium; I behaved. Also went with Julie and the boys for the train ride experience. Julie disappeared for several hours doing God knows what, but we perservered. Good times.


Interestingly, I didn't play much baseball. I witnessed Miles morph into "Aqua Boy," choosing, more often than not, the pool over our field of dreams. I did, however, finally get Landon to actually catch a ball with his glove. The leather remains a foreign object on his hand, but he throws really well.


Oh yeah, I got a hair cut. actually, I cut my own hair. No remarks like, "dude, what's with the 'do?" I guess it looks okay.


I almost blogged about Tom Watson several week's ago. A 59 year old professional golfer, he almost won a very prestigious tournament. He didn't, but he gave new hope to men of my age. No doubt about it, 59 is the new 29.

This week, my baby became a somewhat reluctant participant in the circle of life as a mother of a kindergarten student. Miles is now susceptible to a world of outside influences. He will soon be coming home with new words, new atitudes, new buttons to push. Hang on; Miles ' Big Adventure has just begun..............

That's about it. I live, I love, I look forward to spending every day with my bride and Julie and her family. I look forward to Amy and Sara's next call, next visit. My almost endless summer continues. Florida awaits.

And so it goes...............

My Heart Swells..........

Not with high blood pressure; I'm the picture of health. Rather,, my heart swells with pride, my fingers tickle this keyboard with inspiration: MY GRANDSON, THE SWIMMER!

Miles recently finished swim lessons. I'm not good with details, but I think he's a Level 4. In order to pass, he had to master several strokes and develop endurance.
He was the youngest in his class.
He was the smallest in his class.
He was the only one who passed!

My heart swells with pride because I know he couldn't have done this without...............well, ......me.

I don't suggest that I have any particular prowess with regard to swimming. I only learned when I was over thirty, and I couldn't swim 50 yards if my life depended on it.
But, let's be real - swimming requires tremendous athletic ability.

You are very welcome, Miles.

Plus, the availability of a pool is conducive to improved swimming habits.
Again, you are so very welcome, Miles.

Julie has already chronicled Landon's swim lesson experiences. He made tremendous strides towards overcoming his fears of water and drowning.

"Attaboys" to both my grandsons, my buddies, my pals, my inspirations.

My heart swells with pride, but not surprise. In my eyes, they cannot only swim, but also walk on water.

GREATEST HITS

I've been a member of the blogger community for a year now. Time for a reflective look back at some of my more popular entries, voted on by ................me. Time for another example of my shameless display of self. I apologize to no one; neither for my self promotion nor my diminishing relevance. (My next post was going to be an open letter to Bob Elliott of "Bob and Ray" fame.)

Here ya go..............

And they Lived Happily Ever After (06/29/08)






Props (07/28/08)





Double Wave (08/17/08)






Anniversary (08/23/08)





Religion and Politics (08/26/08)





Shameless (09/09/08) - Not a particular favorite, but it did garner the most responses; 38




The Greatest Story Ever Told (12/05/08)

The Other Greatest Story Ever Told (12/07/08)

And So it Goes (01/16/09)

A Simple Act of Human Kindness (03/04/09) - My personal favorite





One of My Favorite Things (05/10/09)



Manners (06/18/09)








So, here's the deal. I'm taking a hiatus; this blogging business almost seems like a job these days. I'll blog if so inspired, but me thinks the days of weekly entries are behind me. I don't have much more to say. I guess I've got writer's....something. (I can't think of the word.)

So, block some out some to reminisce with the blogs listed above. It's been fun.

And so it goes..............

OPTIONS

There are two primary ways to become a father: have kids or become a priest.

I have to admit that, after a long day at work being repeatedly bludgeoned by an A-hole boss, there weere days that working directly for a higher power seemed pretty sweet. Comfort the needy, do a little magic, live with a buddy; not a bad life. But, no regrets. Three girls, three pearls. I am a happy, proud, thoroughly satisfied, embarassingly content, Father, Dad, Pop.

Happy Father's Day to me, to my few male readers, to us all.
Happy Father's Day to my Dad and my Father-in -Law.

Thanks for all of the life lessons.

Manners

Julie and Kirk's boys try very hard to mind their manners. They have learned that they have a better chance of getting what they want by prefacing their requests with an extremely polite "please." It has pretty much become second nature for them. They are taught (prodded) to say "thank you" to me and Geeg every time we play with them. That's fine, but, truth be told, Miles and Landon are my friends. I enjoy playing with them; I enjoy their company. They are on a very short list of my very best friends.


No thanks are necessary, but I do appreciate their parents' desire to maintain good manners from their children.

Therefore, I propose the following responses to our play time; alternatives to the mandatory "thank you." -

1. Hey Pop! Ain't no sunshine when you're gone.......

2. Dude, you rock my world!

3. Hey Pop! When I grow up, I want to be just like you. (Only taller.)


4.... (Let's go to the video .........)








5. You're funner than Geeg.

6. Hey Pop! Are you god?

7....Back to the tape............






8.




9.




Miles, as you can see, is a director's dream. He shows up on time and takes direction well. Landon, on the other hand, is a bit more tempermental. He's also something of a "method actor," more inclined to improvise rather than take orders. He was supposed to say " you rock my world," but instead he chose to say..................

10.

Cut! That's a wrap. Thank you buddy Miles; thank you Landon, pal o' mine....BFF for sure!

New Diet

I'm considering a significant change to my eating habits; an all chicken diet. Not because of health or weight loss concerns; just revenge.

I hate birds. I will devour their relatives for revenge.

My life is good. The pool is open. As bad a job as I did closing the pool last September, I did an absolutely splendid job of getting it ready for this season. I'm enjoying the pool; the boys are enjoying the pool. Eventually, the real adults in this house will enjoy it too.

But the birds, filthy, disgusting birds: they use our pool as a toilet. To consider watching a flying freak open his little fowl ass cheeks and drop a bird turd is unpleasant to consider, but more unpleasant to visibly witness.

God damn birds.

Want to be my friend? Buy me a Kentucky Fried Chicken dinner.

Want to be my enemy? Buy me a bird house.

God damn filthy, stinking mother(loving) birds.

Creature Comforts

As an infant and toddler (and, okay, as a little boy), I gained comfort from a blanky with a silk edge. Somewhere along the line, blanky was replaced by a baseball glove.

The first one I remember was a very loose, flexible model; very dark with no player's name on it. I was seven.

I remember my first "superstar" moment, during a punch ball game in the alley behind the houses of Bartley, Eddie, and Donald. I made a leaping grab over the yard fence that protected the garden of a crabby neighbor. (Obviously, it was a very short fence.) Not only was I a superstar, I was a super hero. If the ball had gone in the garden, we wouldn't have gotten in back. I literally saved the game!

By the time I needed a new glove, I was a little more savvy. I got a Willie Mays model. I still have it. I'm fondling it as we speak. This was the first glove I really took care of; oiling it, setting the pocket by placing a ball in the middle of it and tying it up with string. Never had a pet, but I loved that glove. I suppose, since I still have it, I still do. This 50 year old glove is prominently displayed (much to Geeg's chagrin) in our bedroom, with a baseball signed by the NY Giants of 1957 in its pocket.

Next glove arrived at the age of 12; just in time for my brief Little League career. Again I provided evidence of matured savvy. No longer was the player's name a priority. I got a Stan Musial model, but it had the "H" web feature I craved. I used the glove thru Little League, sandlot games, and softball games, for over 25 years. I love this glove too, and, much to Kirk's chagrin, it hangs, not so prominently, in his garage.

Still another glove hangs in the garage; one that I won at a Little League raffle. A Brooks Robinson model that features a "sixth" finger instead of a web. Nice, but not one I would have chosen myself. Still, it was a wicked divergence from my reliable "H" model. (It also serves as a reminder of the day I met Bob Garibaldi, a Giant phenom at the time, whose careeer fizzled before it began. Oh well...)

Given this history of baseball gloves, it is not surprising that I was pleasantly pleased when Landon expressed a desire to have a glove of his own. I have been playing catch with Miles most days, and he has finally begun to appreciate the fact that a glove can actually help catch the ball!

Landon has been seeing his brudder"s improvent so he's ready to give this silly looking hand elongator a try.

We tried some little gloves that we still have here; gloves that Amy, Sara, and Julie got at a "glove Day" at Shea stadium many years's ago. Landon didn't think they were good enough, and he's was right. Too stiff, too big, too not Landon's.

Several days passed before I had an opportunity to do anything about Landon's desire. (We only have one car, and Geeg has a much more active schedule than I do.) But when I finally had the chance, I headed to my favorite local store.................Goodwill.

I was lucky; I found the same model glove Miles has, except it is two-toned. (And it has the name "Mason" written on the inside.) The glove is in great condition. I am not embarassed,

rather I am proud to announce that I bought this glove for one dollar.

Landon was sleeping when I got home. I waited patiently, eventually catching up with him as he was heading up the stairs. I asked him to come down, and I gave him the glove. in return, I received the most spontaneous most sensational, most sincere, "thank you" I ever got from my youngest grandson.

Priceless.

We quickly went out to play catch. Admittedly, the glove is still a hinderance, but Landon continues to give his all in his attempts to catch the elusive ball. Truth be told, Landon doesn't love his glove the way I love mine; no chance it will be replacing Gee any time soon. But, hey, he's only 3 years old. My first love affair with leather didn't occur till I was 7.

BTW, Miles is getting really good with his glove. It used to be that playing catch was almost a punishment; he always wanted to hit. Now, catch is fun - for both of us. And, it's really catch!

Each one of us throws the ball in the general vicinity of the other, and we both catch the ball most of the time; well lots of times. (Well...some times.) Miles loves to make diving catches. He'll be a superstar soon, probably seen on "Sportscenter." Landon is learning from a very patient Miles, so he'll be a superstar too.

PLAY BALL!!!

SIBLING RIVALRY

I've never experienced it, I suppose because of the significant difference in age between myself and my older sisters, and the even more significant difference in gender.

I have, however, witnessed such rivlary. Close up. And personal. The latest manifestation is in process.

Julie's road towards marital bliss is well documented. I am not revealing any secrets when I remind you that she and Kirk lived together, then got engaged, then bought a house, then got married. Slightly unorthodoxed, but all's fair in love and finance.

Apparently, Sara was paying close attention to that series of events. Her recent engagement was preceded by the purchase of a house with her boyfriend AND her boyfriend's brother. Not satisfied with this simple act of "one upmanship," Sara has elected to immediately follow her engagement with a trial separation, as she and Amy jet off to Paris.

Is this some sort of perverse reverse Benjamin Button timeline/time warp, or just a long lost Quaker tradition?

Oh well, lots of luck to the happy couple, and the future brother-in-law.

(I wonder what Amy's engagement will be like............)

Bon voyage, Amy & Sara.

Vive la France!

HOME AGAIN

Last week I was relaxing on the beach, enjoying the gentle surf, and a cool ocean breeze. So, it is ironic that I had to travel 1300 miles north for a breath of fresh air - Miles and Landon.

Though just a little shy at first, they have been pure delight, sheer joy, totally entertaining. And so well behaved! (Except for a mild meltdown related to an unforgivably washed apple.) A definite ego booster; they like me, they really like me! (I like them too.)

And how they've grown; bigger and better versions of the little boys I knew 4 months ago. Their athletic prowess is amazing! Miles is still a running blur; Landon is the fastest penguin I know. But it's their baseball skills that most impress. Hitting, throwing, catching; they do it all! When did they learn all of this, and who taught them?

I suppose there are many definitions of home; where you own property, where you pay taxes. I recognize that home is where your family is. (Still, Florida will always be a significant home away from home, especially when Marion and Jude are wintering there.)

It's good to be home; good to see Miles and Landon, Julie and Kirk, Sara and John.

I look forward to seeing Amy next week.

I look forward to seeing my extended family in the coming weeks.

We have a sign in Florida that says "Life is Good at the Beach."

I need another sign that simply says "Life is Good."

One of My Favorite Things

When a woman embarrassingly trips, burps, or farts, I like to sing "She's a Lady," the Tom Jones hit.

It's my signature move.









Happy Mother's Day, ladies.

All by Myself

Day 1. Celebrated new found freedom with 2 beers and a cigar on the beach. Went home to use the bathroom. Didn't bother to close the door or flush the toilet.


Day 2. Without the ol' ball and chain, walked and ran early in the morning, at my own pace. Felt kind of lame collecting shells solo. Returned to the beach for sunset; also lame as a solo activity.


Day 3. Went to church. I delayed the mass by offering peace to an inordinate amount of people. I enjoyed the interaction.




Day 4. Spent the day at a car dealership. They will talk to anybody for a long, long time, until they determine you are a lonely loser.


Day 5. Considered spending the day with a Real Estate Agent, but I couldn't trust my abilities to fend off sales pitch. I'm weak and lonely. (My wife, my wife, why have you forsaken me?)


Day 6. Well since my baby left me I found a new place to dwell. It's down at the end of Lonely Street, Heartbreak Hotel. You make me so lonely baby, I feel so lonely. I feel so lonely, I could die.

So if your baby leaves you, you've got a place to dwell. Just take a walk down Lonely Street, to Heart break Hotel.






Very obviously, it's time to go home.

Beach Party!

Late afternoon, I am once again performing my lonely beach monitor duties.

Some young people are playing volleyball; 5 guys and a couple of girls. They're not very good, and several times the ball lands near my beach property. Each time I cheerfully return the ball; all part of the service.

Eventually, they actually asked me to join their game, to even up the sides. I informed them that I wasn't nearly as young as I looked, but they persisted, so I played.

Three games; my team won two of them. Truth be told, I was awesome! Still, the kids were great in their own way; amazing how they can navigate the beach with their crutches and wheel chairs. Especially Blind Billy!

After the games, I entertained them with some card tricks and juggling. (They weren't inclined to frolic in the water.)

Unfortunately, this is when the truth came out. They befriended me because they wanted me to buy them beer.
This is not part of the service. I refused and left in a huff, as any self respecting, self appointed, Temporary Beach Patrol Monitor would.


Unfortunately also, I left some of my dignity at the beach that day, shouting that my "friends" had cooties. I'm not proud of this episode, but I persevere. TBPM; my beat is 16th avenue.





(Dark enough for you, Big Sister?)

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I wore a sport jacket to church yesterday; first time down here this year. I was slightly taken aback when an usher said "hello" to me as I entered. Hmmmm.

It's a nice jacket, purchased recently at a local thrift store. I have to assume it was once owned by a short man with an eye for fashion. Apparently, he favored pastel colors and checked prints. He's probably dead now. Oh well.

I was surprised, and initially disappointed, when the priest and his minions headed down the aisles to bless and tinkle us with holy water. My first thoughts concerned the damage the water could cause to my "new" coat, but I quickly reconciled that, for the faithful, holy water is a fine substitute for dry cleaning. I quickly dismissed my original strategy of ducking the shower, and chose to brazenly accept the drizzle head on.

I am blessed with so many things, now including my new jacket; dry cleaned by the Lord.

Oh yeah, and the coat only cost twenty five cents.



I also got 2 shirts that day; one casual, one for exercising. Geeg got a dress, a beach cover up, and a pair of pants. She splurged and paid for everything; one dollar and fifty cents; 6 quarters.

What a country! I should have retired years ago!

GO AWAY!

As previously stated, Geeg and I have tried to make some healthy life style changes. Significant amounts of weight have been lost because we eat less than we used to. A key factor towards that end is to have less food in the house.

We have become legendary in our efforts to save money by buying clothes and furniture in Thrift Stores. Rest assured that none of the money saved is used to buy groceries. While our refrigerator and kitchen cabinets remain better stocked than Amy's, they no longer bulge with goodies.

We have simplified. We are minimalists.

Unless we are with people. Unless we entertain or are entertained. On those occasions, chips, appetizers, hearty meals, wine, dessert, after dinner drinks - the whole nine yards.

And, if we are the entertainers, leftovers, the scourge of the serious dieter.

We had a guest for dinner Wednesday night. We faltered, we flashbacked.

I was ashamed and appalled when Geeg came home early from choir practice last night, and caught me red handed in bed with a bag of chips. Oh, the humiliation, oh how far the mighty have fallen.

So, it is with heavy heart the that I request that you all just go away and stay away. Tempt me no more with the opportunity to indulge in the heady aroma of chicken parmigiana, Italian butter cookies, tortilla chips with just a hint of lime.

No, wait. Who am I to contradict Barbra Streisand? People, people who need people, are the luckiest people in the world!

Bring your appetites; I'll curb mine. Was it Nancy Reagan who encouraged me to "just say no?"

I can and will live wthout gluttony. Family is the bread of my life, friends the water.

(Which explains why I'm thirsty all the time, but rarely am I hungry.)

So, we'll walk this morning, maybe a little farther than yesterday. We will eat a little less. We will enjoy the memories of occasions with family and friends, and look forward to many more.

THIS SPACE FOR CORRECTIONS

Prior to wading into the world of blog, I occasionally entertained (myself) with rhyming poems, ditties. One such effort proposed a personal weight loss program; 23 pounds in 23 months. As the 23rd month (June) rapidly approaches, I must provide two pertinent corrections, with apologies for my poor proofreading skills. I thorough review of my notes reveals that I intended to lose 2.3 pounds in 23 years. Obviously, any more accelerated wight loss program would be dangerously unhealthy.
I am happy to report I am well on my way towards meeting my intended goal!

No, I'm kidding. (I'm a kidder.)

I am pleased and proud to report that I have lost 23 pounds during my winter here in Sunny Florida! I did it the old fashioned way; less food, more excercise. No liposuction or amputations involved. Daily beach time has proved beneficial since alcohol is discouraged (it's illegal), and the seagulls make it very uncomfortable to eat since they are inclined to pester and steal food.
An almost daily regimen of 100 crunches and a 4 mile walk with Geeg (who also is losing weight) also contribute to my success.

I've not yet been mistaken for Brad Pitt, perhaps because I can't grow a mustache. A description of "ripped" is probably a gross exaggeration, but I have lost most of my Buddah Belly. Alas, I remain pleasantly plump, but the new life style should provide more positive results.

No recent photos will be provided.
Today's gospel was about St. Thomas, AKA "Doubting Thomas."
Blessed are those who believe without seeing.

(Special thanks to "Double L," my inspiration.)

Dear Pope Benedict

It is Benedict, right? (You guys change so often.) How was your Easter? Your big day to shine; great photo ops for you and your red shoes!



I'm wondering if it's time for another Vatican Council. I think Pope John XXIII had a fairly successful one. (Will there ever be a Pope John XXIV? Twenty four is my favorite number.)

As an avid church goer, I have some suggestions:

1. Maybe a little less pomp and circumstance. You've come a long way, baby, but let's lose some of the colorful robes. I think a priest looks his best; pious and dignified, in a simple black suit. It's okay to keep the collar.

2. No second collections. If you need extra money, just ask us to put more in the basket the first time. Coming around for seconds seems like a cheap retail trick. You're too good for that.

3. Minimum age for altar persons. They should be old enough to defend themselves, or at least old enough to negotiate. (Have you seen "Doubt"?)

4. Consider "best practices" from other religions - a common approach to "continuous improvement" in other industries. One of my daughters can get you some information regarding the Quakers if you want.

5. Let's settle the whole "communion" issue. Take a poll of folks that have chosen the religious life. Not "cafeteria catholics" like me, but Priests and Brothers. (Don't include nuns; they can be fanatical. (Have you seen the movie "Doubt"?) Ask them if communion is in fact real, or just a symbol. Please publish the results.

6. I applaud John for switching the third person of God from a ghost to a spirit. That showed real insight. I suggest you get the best "bang for your buck" with the kids in our tribe and play up this "spirit" notion. Not so much religion, but mysticism, magic. I encourage you to request assistance from David Blaine on this matter. You may already be familiar with His work; I suspect he is the second coming. Perhaps you would prefer to work with Cris Angel, even though "Angel" is his name, not his lot in life.


That's all I've got. I'm good with most of the commandments and the sacraments. I'll skip the abortion question for now, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on euthanasia. (Could solve a lot of problems, especially here in Florida, the unofficial home of "I've fallen and I can't get up.)

ANGELS IN THE OUTFIELD

Two little boys playing catch with their Grandpa at the Little League field across the street.

Miles and Landon.

Actually, there are angels everywhere I look. Toddlers frolic in the surf, giggling endlessly.

Miles and Landon.

Brothers oohing and aahing in the WalMart toy department.

Miles and Landon.

Little guys getting restless in church, but pulling it all together to offer a sign of peace.

Miles and Landon.

Three sisters rolling their eyes and tossing dagger stares at each other in a restaurant.

Well, that was a long time ago...................

Boys flying kites, riding bikes, throwing sand, kicking soccer balls, stuffing donuts in their mouths................................Miles and Landon.

Happy Easter. I think I'm just about ready to go home.

Beach Patrol

Palm Sunday weekend. The sun is strong; there's a party on the beach. It's unusually crowded.

Even as the late afternoon exodus commences, the proximity of my stake in the sand remains uncomfortably close to a pair of chatty middle age ladies. They are discussing their relationships; I cannot help but overhear. My book remains open; the pages remain unturned.

Betty, divorced, is dating a kind and considerate widow. Unfortunately, she sees no future with Barney; he's too set in his ways.

Wilma is enthralled by many attributes of her beau,, Fred, but she has some concerns. He is short and dumpy.

I take umbrage at this description, and, in my head, quickly review my duties and responsibilites as Self Appointed Temporary Beach Patrol Monitor. I conclude that it is appropriate for me to come to the defense of the maligned absent Fred.

I rise up to my full and formidable height of just under five and one half feet, and approach my neighbors.

"I couldn't help but overhear," I explain, "Fred sounds like a nice guy. So what if he's short."

Wilma was taken aback, but quickly recovers and defends her position.

"You don't understand," she says, "he's really short. He's only four foot two."

Now it is my turn to be taken aback. "Oh my, that is short, but short people need love too," I weakly argue.

"He weighs 312 pounds," exclaims Wilma, almost triumphantly.

I am losing enthusiasm for my point of view, but I persevere, reiterating that short, fat people usually have great personalities.

"I think he killed my dog," she replies.

"You think, but you don't know for sure," I say. "Sounds like conjecture."

"He's a Yankee fan," Wilma shrieks!

Stunned, I counted to 10, then tempered and edited my response. (Unedited, my response would have been "crucify him!" After all, it was Palm Sunday weekend.)

Aw heck, I didn't count to 10, I didn't temper my remarks. Short, fat, dog killing Yankee fans don't deserve to walk the face of the earth.

I encouraged Wilma to change her locks and phone number, and apply for the Witness Protection Program.

Opening Day; hope springs eternal. Now batting, Pablo Sandoval, switch hitting rookie third baseman, who also plays first base and catcher. Remember the name!

GO GIANTS! IT'S MY TURN, BABY!!!

AMOS & ANDY

Andy is my brother-in-law. I'm Amos, the "wannabee" working on my tan.

(Alternate titles considered for this blog were "Driving Mr. Daisy" and my bride's suggestion, "Anus & Andy." I think I'm insulted.)

Andy has been our house guest, on and off, for the last couple of weeks. He seemed satisfied with the accomodations, though he was disappointed that there was no chocolate on his pillow every night. (He didn't like our soap, shampoo or cereal either.)

We tried to prepare for his visit by inquiring about some of his wants and needs:

Patty- "What do you like to drink?"

Andy - "White wine, Pinot Grigio."

We bought Pinot Grigio. Upon his arrival, we offered Andy a glass of wine:

Andy - "Sure, I'll have some wine. Give me the red."

Patty - "I thought you liked white wine."

Andy - " I do, but I can't drink it. It gives me gout."

Okay...............................

Conversation is always fun with Andy. He only hears half of what you say, and he only remembers half of what he hears.

We convinced Andy not to rent a car during his visit; hence the "Mr. Daisy" reference. In the course of two weeks, we toured much of southern and central Florida, as Andy broadened our horizons. I didn't think there was any place but the beach down here.

We visited Aunt Jean, cousin Diane, and Hansi, the Wonder Dog. During that trip, Sheriff Andy reminded us that you can take Andy out of law enforcement, but you can't take law enforcement out of Andy. He regaled us with numerous stories of his detective cases, and threatened me numerous times with "citizen's arrest" for my driving practices. (Each successive threat was less amusing than the previous one.)

We took Andy half way for a play date with his friend Richard; a stay over! All reports suggest that Andy behaved himself. Such a good boy! (He forgot his pills; as I said, forgetfullness and not hearing were prevalent during his visit.)

We went to a spring training baseball game. Only we could pick a game that we would be delayed by rain, during a time of extreme dought in this area. Oh well....

And we visited Andy's friends, Bob & Judy. They live in a place called "The Villages," a beautiful "Adult Living" community. It was like Disney World for geriatrics, or maybe the Twilight Zone. Old fashioned architecture, piped in music on the streets, restaurants at every corner. The main form of transportation is golf carts. Over 75,000 people, no kids. Median age of the population must be close to 75. The typical house probably has one bedroom, but 3 bathrooms.

Despite all of our travel, (if I ever reach desperation here, I will stand outside with a sign that says"will drive for food") and numerous visits to restaurants, ( thanks to the generousity of Andy and his friends) he did find some time to "veg" at the beach, walking a mile in my shoes.

I suppose we should be happy we only provided Andy with room, board, and occasional car service. Richard's wife. Bea, was forced to sacrifice a pint of blood to satisfy his insatiable appetite for amusement, getting him a "free" ticket to a flight museum.

Andy has an adorable tee shirt with a picture of all of his grandchildren on it. People react to it with "ooh's and ah's." He also has another tee shirt; slightly risque. It refers to an aging squirrel and his testicles. This one elicits mild laughter, unless of course you happen to wear it in a Baptist thrift store. The clerk was more appalled than amused. Oh, Andy!

But Andy is gone now, driving home with Caroline, his own "Miss Daisy." We are once again "empty nesters." Of course, the first thing we will do is sell the bed in the guest room, to discourage him from ever coming back!

No, just kidding. (I'm a kidder.) The sheriff is welcome back any time; he was a generous and gracious guest. His friends quickly became our friends, and we all miss him; everybody except the clerk at the Baptist thrift store.

Can I get an "AMEN!"

Welcome Home

After 3 days of withdrawal symptoms, I returned to the beach, my natural habitat, yesterday. It seems to have survived without my daily presence. Perhaps Beach patrol Monitor is only a part time job.


Another quiet late afternoon on beach; 16th ave, IRB. A group from Ontario are enjoying a no doubt well deserved vacation. Numerous photos are being taken. As I pack my beach paraphnalia to head home, I offer my photographic services - perhaps they would like a group portrait.

My offer is well received. After some brief instruction on use of the camera, I focus on the shot.

I thought I was descreet when I suggest one of the ladies should move to the back. Perhaps I shouldn't have referred to her as "the chubby one."


I was once again told to (bug) off. I would have been insulted, except they said it with that adorable Canadian accent. It sounded more like an invitation than a curse.




Ah, the gracious neighbors to our north. I love them all. Even the chubby ones, eh?

Dear Mr. Van Morrison

Congratulatons on your recent success; quite a coup, landing the musical guest honor on the premier of the new "Jimmy Fallon Show." (Bobby DeNiro seems to really like you.) And the new album is spectacular! I suppose it is somewhat ego deflating to re-record a forty year old album, but it works. Truth be told, I have no idea what you're singing about on "Astral Weeks." I looked it up in Wikededia - seems no one knows what you're singing about either. No matter; it gives me happy feet. Would you consider re-recording Michael Jackson's "Thriller?"

Great utilization of flutes, strings, even an acoustic bass; no excessive fancy electric guitars for Mr. Van Morrison. But, why such stange lyrics? Why title a song "Madame George" when the actual lyrics refer to "Madame Joy?" Too wierd, but a day without listening to this new CD is simply incomplete. I love it, I love it, I love it. I do believe I'm transcended.

You da man! You are Van the Man! Hey! Remember the time you were on "Letterman," singing a duet with Sinead O"Connor? You practically knocked her over as you tried to share her microphone. Awkward. (But, you're still the "man," albiet the "old man," you Celtic troubador!)

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!

WHEN BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE...

The sun still shines, but not as brightly.

The beach still beckons, but not as loudly.

Restless feet have nowhere to go.

Inquisitive minds find no answers.

Laughter is still heard, but it doesn't quite fill the air.

Ponderous thoughts burden the soul.

When bad things happen to good people.

And so it goes..............................................

A Simple Act of Human Kindness

I was on the beach the other day; no surprise. It was late in the afternoon; the crowd had thinned out. I was alone. As I was reading page 110 of "Truman" for the third time, (I don't think I'm going to finish this book) I noticed a young couple looking for something on the beach. (Blogger's senses become very much attuned to our suroundings.) I continued reading as they halted their search, seemingly without success. I noted their failure and decided that I would carefully inspect the beach floor when it was time for me to leave; all part of my responsibilities as self appointed "Sixteenth Avenue Beach Patrol Monitor."

A half hour later, as I just finished page 112 of my book, I started to pack up my things and head home. My eyes, close to the ground because of my height limitations, scoured the sandy beach. I noticed something shiny. I picked it up and went to my beach blanket neighbors.

"Excuse me," I said, "did you lose something?"

"My engagement ring," the sad young woman said.

"Here," I said as I held out my hand in front of her. " I just found this."

"This is a shell," she said.

"Yes," I said. "I hope you like it. Sorry you lost your ring."

"(Bug) off," the young man replied.

An act of human kindness rejected, but I persevere. I continue my lonely life as "Tanner, self appointed temporary Beach Patrol Monitor;" my beat is 16th avenue.

Sundays with Marion & Jude

Marion and Jude have been here in Florida since the first of the year, living just 3 miles from us. We've spent lots of quality time with them, primarily at the beach or sharing a meal. Without fail, we have dined together every Sunday, traditional family dinners. Even Fran joined us during a short late January visit. I'm not looking forward to Sunday, March 1; the day after M & J head north for home. I'm sure we'll still eat, but with a little less laughter, a little less enthusiasm.

We have shared so much more than just bright sun and delicious food. We shared comaraderie, condolences, secrets. We shared memories. We made memories.

M & J even shared family and friends; we dined with Jude's nephew Michael, and his friend Ron.

We traveled to Bradenton to enjoy the hospitality of their friends Jim and Jeannie, Charlie and another Ron.

It was on our way home from that visit that I heard a most poignant version of one of my favorite songs. Simon & Garfunkel were singing "Bridge Over Troubled Waters," accompanied by the whispery and slightly slurred voices of a sleepy Marion & Jude.

I don't mean to suggest that there are any troubled waters here; there is no 'woe' in me. Still Marion and Jude have provided a bridge for us as we transition to the life of snowbirds. We are used to a steady stream of family members in our daily lives in New Milford, so it has been comforting to have loving family members so close by.

Upon returning to New Milford in a couple of months, we will quickly revel in the joys of family once again. But I will remind myself that Long Beach is not that far away. (And neither is Boston.) I look forward to many joyous occasions in the company of my sisters, Fran and Marion, and my brother, Jude. My siblings, my blessings.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEMA!

It's probably no coincidence that my biggest blog supporter is the person who has known me for the least amount of time. Apparently, Babs has yet to tire of my schtick. (She will.)

Kirk is also a reliable responder; he hasn't known me too long either. Amy is next - she's known me all her life, but obviously craves any form of family communication.

But, enough about me. A big Happy Birthday shout out to the left coast! Have a great day, Mema. Check your politics at the door.

Dear Mr. Lamb

I finished your book; impressive effort. Still, if I thought the first 600 pages were disheveled, you can imagine my dismay for the next 100! (Suggestion - lose "lachrymose" :p665, too verbose and ubiquitous.) Also, the fact that the last line of the book is also the title; a bit too contrived, don't you think? I'd also consider shorter chapters, better to hold the reader's interest. (Check out books by David Balducci.)

As to the general content of the story, you really are all over the place; is your personal life okay? How was your relationship with your mother? Your sisters?

As the father of 3 daughters, I must express my regret with your loosely veiled suggestion that Lizzy Popper whored herself during her lobbying efforts. Grow up, sir! Even females who throw like girls have intrinsic values and qualities that you seem to summarily dismiss. Many women can be successful, human beings!


Having said all of that, I reiterate my pleasure gained from your work. You should blog.

DEAR WALLY LAMB..........

I'm almost finished with you most recent book; I'm enjoying it very much. Quite amitious in scope; I suggest you limit the time frame in your next effort. ("Write what you know," - isn't that what the professionals suggest?) Maybe a less disturbing central plot also. I suppose it is somewhat presumptuous of me to make suggestions, but I am a writer also, as this blog provides evidence of such. I suppose also, that if sales are a measure of success then you must be considered more successful writer than myself. But if success is measured by the number of people who enjoy the results of your efforts, well, then I suppose you again must be considered more successful than myself. After further consideration, I concede that you are a more successful writer than I, regardless of what measure is utilized.

But, enough about me.
I am enjoying your book, despite the all too frequent time frame changes, the too many characters that nobody could possibly care about, (I especially loathe the mother of the car accident victim) and the too many historical references that cannot be verified, and must therefore be considered coincidental and contrived.
You are one of the favorite authors of my twin daughters. (Twins are unique - you should write a book that evolves around a pair. I know this book mentions twins, but why does one have to chop off his hand? Isn't being a twin interesting enough? I think you went too far here.)
Anyway, one of my twins lent me your book. This is a big deal because she is very protective of her books. Also, I'm not known to take care of books, although most of the books I've ruined have fallen into the pool. No pool here; just an ocean.
The book is holding up well, though the sea air seems to be loosening the binding somewhat. Still, I think my daughter will consider it returned in satisfactory condition .

But, in case it doesn't, please send me a new copy. You might as well autograph it as well -
"To Sara, one of your father's best accomplishments." (That's just a suggestion - write any inscription you think appropriate, though I would like to see it before you actually write it in the book.)
Please utilize the vast array of resources you have to determine my address (and last name.)

Thanks! You're one of the best.

SELLING OUT

Now I know how aging rock stars feel as their fame declines. You try to be artistic, but, in order to maintain popularity, integrity is swallowed, and you give the people what they want.

So.....considering the fact that my blogs that received the most responses in the past have centered around a potential hair cut...............I'm thinking of shaving my back.

What do you think?

(Obviously, my relevancy is rapidly diminishing.)

GIVING BACK.............

Geeg more than me, but I do continue to monitor beach activity; free of charge.



Geeg volunteered at the library one day last week. She took her earnings and bought us fresh air sandwiches for lunch. She is also now a member of the church choir. With those earnings, I look forward to an all expenses paid tour of the beach, including all the shells we can carry! Good times. I gave my soul to Florida several year's ago. Now, I offer my heart, sort of. We gave blood earlier this week. Geeg gave hers willingly; I was more reluctant. I have bad veins; I'm stingy with my blood. I don't make many friends at the blood bank, but I do get lots of attention. Still, I eventually provided the necessary amount, for which I received a stinkin' tee shirt. I had heard a rumor that Florida gives you a $10 gift card for a restaurant in exchange for the fluid that maintains life. I have yet to confirm that rumor; I won't be eating my tee shirt.

SUPER BOWL SUNDAY!

I have no real rooting interest in this year's game, so I am throwing my support to Pittsburgh. My allegiance is to Sara and John; the Steelers being Johnny C's favorite team.

Before Kirk questions how I can do this when I cannot and will not support my son-in-law's favorite sports team, the Yankees, let me explain. While I am basically ambivalent about the Steelers, the stinking Yankees have been a festering boil on my ass for over 50 years. Were my preference to be considered, they would be disbanded.

Having said that, if in fact any of my grandchildren become Yankee fans, I will set aside my prejudice, and, if not root for, at least become ambivalent about them. I will ignore them.

Sorry, Julie; this pertains to grandchilldren only. I cannnot alter or hide my feelings for the punk Cowboys. (I don't really believe Miles is a Cowboy fan - he is a Tony Romo fan. He's okay.)

FAMILY TIES

Sister Fran temporarily escaped the treacherous Boston winter, and joined us for a few days. Ironically, a positive change to the temperature arrived with her. Beach weather at last; thank God almighty, we have beach weather at last! Fran provided the sunshine, Marion and Jude provided much of the food. Geeg and I provided the essentials; the toilets. (Ladies' room to the left, men's room to the right.)

Our time was spent on the beach, on the deck, in the kitchen, and in the dining room. (Spare time was filled with an unusual amount of trips to the airport.) In typical Gu*s*el*o fashion, (the asterisks are for Amy - she doesn't want our name out in cyberspace) we celebrated with food, laughter, and emotion. All three were in abundant supply.

Finally, finally, after month's of antipation, we enjoyed a thorough pictorial introduction of Brooke Lo*t*s, Fran's grand daughter; Brian and Babe's 7 month old daughter. This introduction was especially appreciated during a week end which we were particularly cognizant of a family loss.

Welcome to a loving family, Brooke. The circle of life continues........

And so it goes.