Christmas Eve, 2010

I love Christmas Eve.  Love it better than Christmas.  There is something about it that is just so magical - a perfect combination of hope, anticipation, reverence.  As a child I remember keenly the experience of walking out of midnight services at Redford United Methodist, in Old Redford, and looking up into a starlit winter's sky wondering which of those stars was the star.

My Christmases as a child were almost representative of living in two families.  For a large part of my early childhood, there was just me and my older brothers. The three of us, oldest to youngest, are separated by less than four years.  The Christmases from my young childhood are in my mind very old fashioned. BB Guns, electric tabletop football games, litebright - there was never anything electronic.  We got GI Joes - the real ones with scars, fully rendered combat equipment, and fuzzy hair.  Think pre "Kung-Fu grip" GI Joe.  Those were the days when there might be a football under the tree or a new ball glove.

Our family traditions included the Winter Carnival at Cobo Hall in Detroit and then an entire day of Christmas shopping at JL Hudson's flagship store in downtown Detroit.  How I loved that store with its uniformed elevator operators and Santa's Castle on the top floor.  It was the kind of magic you only see in the movies these days it seems.

I remember peering out the front, second story windows of that old craftsman on Cooley and thinking the red light from each passing airplane was Rudolph and that we had to quick get into bed and fall asleep because we wouldn't want Santa to come and find us awake.  My brothers would conk me on the head and remind me that it was an airplane.  Secretly I knew they were wrong, because who would be on an airplane on Christmas Eve?  Christmas Eve was for family, and church, and singing the songs that made me feel as if I could fly.  People did not travel on Christmas Eve, I knew at least that much in my 6 year old brain. But I kept that fact to myself - determined to be the first one asleep and thus guarantee Santa would keep on the "nice" list.

There is a picture somewhere of the three of us from that night, probably just like there is somewhere in your home of you and perhaps your siblings, all jammed into one bed sleeping like a litter of puppies waiting for the blessings of a Christmas morning.  Though I haven't actually held that picture in a long long time, I can see it today as if it was yesterday that it was snapped. Those days are long ago in my memory - but I am grateful to have lived them.

As the three of us grew older, there eventually came a sister - nine years younger than me (the youngest boy) - and with her the opportunity to live Christmas Eve once again propelled by the zeal of a young child.  One memory in particular stands out of a time we all turned out our pockets on Christmas Eve to see, could we afford one more gift from my younger sibling. A bike she coveted was on sale at the local toy store (which was open until midnight on Christmas Eve).  Turns out we had just enough to buy it. My older brother David, home on break from MSU and an expert at puzzles, and me, home from break at CMU and an expert at holding the light, stayed up all night putting it together for her.

The bike assembled and certified as safe by David, we tumbled into bed around 5:00 am and, sharing the front room of my parents' home in Farmington Hills, had just wished each other a hushed "Merry Christmas," when my sister - probably around age 9 or 10, appeared at the door screeching her own "Merry Christmas!" She tore off down the stairs in search of treasure and actually rode that darned bike all over the lower level of my parents' home. Crashed it right at the bottom of the stairs and woke up the entire house.  For a long time I remembered it as my favorite Christmas Eve ever.

Each Christmas Eve I am also reminded of the troops serving in far away places.  My oldest brother, Pat, entered the Air Force when I was just 15.  His absence that first Christmas was the first time in my life my family was not together for Christmas Eve.  Much like, when I was younger, I thought that no one in their right mind would fly on Christmas Eve, so too did I think that all families were always together on that night.  When my mother told me that "no, Patrick won't be coming home for Christmas" I couldn't understand it. It did not feel like Christmas without all of us there together. There isn't a Christmas Eve that goes by that I don't think of him off serving in California or Korea on the many Christmas Eves when he was gone.

My wife and I were married just short of Christmas almost 20 years ago and we honeymooned in Virginia over the holiday.  I remember that the town, Williamsburg, was absolutely brilliant in its Christmas splendor.  On Christmas Eve we looked in the yellow pages to find a Methodist Church (yes, the actual yellow pages - this was before the era of the Internet or smartphones) and attended a gorgeous candle-lit ceremony in a 200 year old church.  The songs were all the good ones and the excitement of being newly married also made for a memorable Christmas Eve.

Now-a-days I am a dad myself.  I have two little ones; two great little ones, who share their Christmas dreams with me.  Their excitement is quite possibly visible from space or maybe registering on any of a number of Richter scales in the greater Midwest.  But it is an excellent excitement.  A time to not just believe in the magic, but to paint yourself with it.  Revel in it.

Where before we used advent calendars to count the days, now we have "an app for that" on my iPod Touch.  Though the medium is different, the experience is the same - the kids and I huddle up and one or the other of them will touch the sparkly Santa on the glistening screen to learn how many more "sleeps til Christmas."  It's not my normal, but it is theirs and I keep telling myself they will remember these days, always.

What is normal for me is the Christmas Eve ceremony at church.  We will, literally, travel over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house for an annual appearance at the church where my wife has been a lifelong member; where her mom was the church secretary; where we were married 20 Christmases ago.  And we will steal our way into the balcony with our rambunctious children, and sing the songs in that great vaulted sanctuary.

That is perhaps my most favorite Christmas Eve tradition - the gathering of the faithful; that very human act of assembling the community of faith to raise their voices and sing songs of hope, and love.  Redemption, and faith.  Sitting where we sit in the balcony with the voices swelling beneath us; they lift us up as if we are topside on a ship being lifted by a swelling sea of faith.  I am not much of a singer - so I am careful to watch my voice and tone.  What moves me most is listening to the voices of all the other people fill the church.

Each of them traveling their own path in life, every one of them unique in their hopes, fears, burdens and blessings.  They all come to that place to propel their love, hope, and faith by their voices. They sing the ancient songs that say "we are here, we matter, and we are grateful."

For me, every Christmas Eve, no matter my stage of life, has been marked by those songs - "Oh Come All Ye Faithful," "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing," "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem," and, of course, "Silent Night."

It's Christmas Eve.  So first let me wish you and yours the same Christmas Wish I have made for all of my family and friends each Christmas for the last 20 years - that you are well, and warm, and loved. And that this next year is the one where, for the good of the world's children, we find peace in our time. Thanks for coming by my blog today.  No matter where you are, I hope you are in the company of your fine family; that everyone sets aside their worries, hurts, past offenses and takes a moment to savor the precious gifts of faith, hope, love and community that bind a family together.  This Christmas Eve, my wish is that you find your spirits raised upward on the notion that this magical time is a great gift.

With love and gratitude, my thoughts are with you all; my friends and family, this Christmas Eve.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Having "the talk" when Santa's fate hangs in the balance...

When I was in the 3rd grade, much of the discussion among my school buddies at Christmas time was on whether or not each of us still believed in Santa Claus.  For me, the experience was heart wrenching.

“Of course Santa exists,” I remember thinking.  I even recall there was at least one fist fight with my bitterest third grade rival, Kerry Simmerson.  One day walking home from school I had heard enough about how Santa did not exist and anger grew to pushing, pushing grew to shoving, and shoving grew to punches being thrown. I did not win the fight; my oldest brother did when he jumped in and laid waste to Kerry Simmerson – but that is another story.

This story is about how I had to go home and tell my mom I got into a fight over whether or not Santa Claus existed.  I was petrified to do so because as a child in my mother's home, and in fact it is true to this very day for children and grandchildren alike, one did not question the existence of Santa.  So to even admit that I had been engaged in fisticuffs over the issue was to admit that people in my peer group were questioning.

I remember my mom sitting in the kitchen in our old Sears Craftsman in Detroit, and listening while I re-enacted the entire argument and subsequent fight.  I was crying when I told her I just couldn’t believe anyone didn’t believe.

Now, my mom was a school teacher.  And as an adult looking backward, it is evident to me that she was infinitely more comfortable with the issues important to little kids than I ever will be.  I will admit at times when I was growing up we had our issues, but from my perspective, as a 46 year old father of two myself, she was a friggin genius most of the time.

So she took in my tale and then gave me a hug and a kiss and told me “Denny, don’t worry about it if they don’t believe.  That’s their choice and you can’t ever change that – but what really matters is what you believe.  That’s what we call ‘faith.’  Do you believe Santa exists?"

I recall that my reply must have sounded like something from a cartoon “I do believe ma!  I do I do I DO believe!”  She gave me another hug and a kiss and told me not to worry about it then – that it was the beginning of Christmas break and we would all feel better once Christmas got here.

Important to this story is that in the front room of our home, there was a modest fireplace surrounded in red-brick and adorned with a wooden mantle.  We used the fireplace regularly and it was perpetually filled with ash and soot as a result.  To this day, I cannot look at a real fireplace with red bricks and not recall the tale I am about to share with you now.

Christmas morning 1972 arrived and I can remember tearing down the stairs with my brothers to take in the Christmas Day haul.  The tree, in my memory, was magnificent and surrounded by a veritable sea of festive packages.  In my home the packages from family were always wrapped expertly and the gifts from Santa were always presented right where Santa left them, unwrapped - ready to be enjoyed.  If you were especially good, there might also be extra gifts under the tree from the "fairies and elves" at the North Pole.

My eyes took all this in and, as I sorted packages looking to start my pile, I noticed winding through the mountain of toys; around the Hands-Up Harry and electric table top football game, a series of sooty boot-prints.  They began at the fireplace and wound their way around the entire room – first to the stockings and then around the tree and then completed their circuit back into the fireplace.

Seeing them was the first “Stop the Presses!” moment of my life.

“AAAA-HAAAAA!” I shouted to my brothers who, apparently oblivious to the tracks, circled the tree like leaves in a whirlwind.  My older brothers, then 10 and 12, said not a word to me about the footprints.  They are good brothers - always have been.

But there before me was all the proof I needed for rotten old Kerry Simmerson.  I begged and begged and begged for my mother to snap a few photos of the boot prints so I could take them to school with me after the start of the New Year and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Santa came to good little boys.

My mom relented and pulled out the family “Polaroid Swinger” and snapped two pictures of the telltale boot prints from different angles while my father made quite a show of saying he was going to catch that elfish devil next year for making such a mess out of our living room.

I counted those days remaining until I could go to school as among my most satisfying ever.  Kerry would have to eat an entire basket of crow once he saw the pictures, I thought.  I am sure I bored my family to tears with the many tales played out in my mind of what I would say and where exactly I would make my presentation of exhibits A and B once school got back in session.

The night before we returned to school, I put the two pictures on the rack by my coat, right where I wouldn’t forget them.  Kerry had always been my bully and at long last I was going to have some justice.  Santa did exist and I had all the proof I needed right in my pocket. Tomorrow, I thought, would be a day of reckoning for the bully, Kerry Simmerson. I went to bed that night dreaming victory dreams of the coming confrontation. 

What I did not count on in the many times I played this scene out, was that in the rush to get three boys out the door for school before she herself departed work, my mom would have forgotten to include my “Zapruder pics” in with my books and sack lunch.  So I was surprised when I got to school and realized the pictures were still at home.

"No problem,” I thought as I sorted through my things, “Tomorrow, then.”

At home that afternoon, I searched and searched and searched for the pictures but couldn’t find them anywhere.  I am sure I said horrible things to our babysitter because I remember she helped earnestly in the search but couldn’t find them either. I remember waiting, and crying, in the kitchen for my mom to come home from school.

“The pictures are gone!” I cried.  “Now I’ll never get to show him my proof!”

I was devastated.

My mother gave me a hug and said that “we have to have a talk about those pictures…”

My heart exploded into my chest. This was it, this was where she dropped the big one about Santa – she was going to tell me that there was no Santa and I have been acting like an idiot for the better part of two weeks.

She hugged me and we walked together into the front room of that sturdy old Craftsman.  There we sat down and she looked right into my face and said:

“Denny, what you believe is what you believe.  It’s why we call it “having faith.”  If other kids don’t believe then that is up to them; all that really matters to you is that you believe, ok?”

I am sure I looked to her like a dog looks to us when he hears a high pitched sound.  I felt like I was left hanging – so was there or wasn’t there a Santa?  Seeing this on my face, and being as good with kids as she was, she knew I needed more than that.  It was then that she told me the absolute truth about Christmas on Cooley in Old Redford in 1972.

“Denny,” she said looking me right in the face, “Santa sent elves, two of them, and a magic talking squirrel who's been keeping an eye on you, he's called the Telling Squirrel, to take back those pictures.  You see, faith is very important to Santa, and he asked me to tell you that if you truly believe, you won’t ever need a simple picture to convince you that love, magic, and Santa exist.  He said that people would only say you faked that picture anyhow.  And he also said to say he loves you, and that you are a very good little boy."

The essential truths I learned that day, shared with me in the Christmas of my third grade year, I bear with me still. They are part of the ready tools that aid me in my journey through life as a child of wonderful parents and a parent to wonderful children. Santa, and love, and magic most certainly exist, if only you have a little faith.

So thanks for stopping by my blog today and sharing this story.  I hope wherever you find yourself today, you are in hugging distance of those who love you, who lift you up, and who fulfill the very best parts of the person you are destined to be.

Dennis

smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!

In my family, and in the home in which I was raised, Santa was a vibrant part of the Christmas tradition.  In fact, this year, at 46 years old, I can honestly say that, busy as we all were Thanksgiving morning, I found myself stopping, almost breathless, at the end of the televised Macy's parade, waiting for Santa to make his appearance.  It's just part of my DNA.  I was truly happy to see him :-) So having confessed that, it should come as no surprise that at this time of year I often find myself sharing the story of Virginia O'Hanlon and her timeless question, "does Santa exist?"  It is a personal indulgence for me.  I love the writing, and the sentiment, of this American classic.  Whether Santa is or isn't part of your holiday tradition, I am nonetheless happy to share this story with you.  If nothing else, it makes me long for a time when people actually talked the way Church does in his response to O'Hanlon's letter - such elegance, such elan. Of course times are different now.  We have digital applications for almost anything and young, beautiful Virginia could have googled her answer in about 1/100th the time it took to compose her famous letter, but then we would have never known of Francis Church's elegant and graceful and inspiring reply to that innocent 8 year old from New York. It was in 1897 that Virginia O'Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of New York's Sun inquiring if there was indeed a Santa Claus. The quick, inspired, response was printed as an unsigned editorial Sept. 21, 1897. History tells us it was the work of veteran newsman Francis Church and in the 113 years since it first appeared, it has become history's most reprinted newspaper editorial, appearing in part or whole in dozens of languages in books, movies, and other editorials, and on posters and stamps.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.  "Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.  "Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.' "Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus? VIRGINIA O'HANLON. "115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus?! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. *** I love that ending phrase - "...to make glad the heart of childhood."  Would that we all look within ourselves and find that simple motivation, the world would indeed be a better place. Today, this December 1st, as you plow your way through all of the hustle and bustle and the collateral worry and hopes of the season, I hope you find yourself warmed within and called to work hard at making glad the heart of childhood.  There can be no better calling among us to take these kids and dare them to be glad. Inspire them to be merry, indulge them in their childish capacities, love them without question and you might find you change the world. So thanks for stopping by my blog today and for your continued suppport. Merry Christmas! Dennis smalltowndad@hotmail.com

just a good chuckle...

So the whole issue of pat-downs and scanners in our nation's airports has been in the news lately.  Saw this making the rounds from a few friends on email and thought I would pass it along here.  Hope your Thanksgiving weekend is fun and relaxing.

 

Take Care :-)

Dennis

Learning to be Thankful...

Thanksgiving is a favorite time of year for me.  I find the older I get, the more I grow into a real dedication to the notion of gratitude for whatever life sends you.  It wasn't always that way.  As a young boy, Thanksgiving always meant the doorway to Christmas.  A time when you watched for those happy talismen of the blessed gift-getting season: first snows, first Christmas commercials (the Norelco-riding Santa or the Coca-Cola Carolers) and the arrival of Santa Claus at the Hudson's Thanksgiving Day parade.

And as a teenager that appreciation grew into a fondness for the special meals.  Always soooo good.  The grown ups, my dad in particular, would make quite a show of saying how "thankful" he was for everything. I always thought it a little weird to be thankful for things like "health" and "a house" and "food on the table."  To me it was a time to be thankful for big feasts with no realization that others weren't so lucky; a few days off from school, and, back in the days before global warming and Al Gore messing things up, a chance to break out the sleds and tackle the golf course across the street.

As a college man it meant a break from classes.  A time to set down the rigors of an academic year and indulge in some horrible football, courtesy of the rotten Lions (the more things change, the more they stay the same, right?).  When I finished school and went to work for CMU as a residence hall director, quite frankly I found myself at Thanksgiving glad to get rid of the kids for a long weekend.  Thanksgiving on a college campus is often the first break after Labor Day - about 14 weeks into the time from which the dorms are first inhabited.  It was a grind and by the time the holiday rolled around there was almost always some really bizarre nonsense going on directly attributable to the close quarters living environment and the length of time of classes in session without a break.

I think that it wasn't really until I moved on from that job, and we started our family, that I started to look on Thanksgiving differently.  Having kids will do that to you.  For me, with the kids we have, it is easy to stop and give thanks.  I love 'em like crazy and they are darned good kids.  Decent, funny, smart, devilish - exactly my kind of people.  So they make it easy to slow the world down and say "thanks."

But it wasn't until the year my dad died, however, that I felt like I really grew into a solid sense of Thanksgiving.  My father, a lifelong smoker, had a heart attack in July of 2005.  He collapsed at my oldest brother's house and he (my brother) and then the local police and rescue personnel continued CPR on him until he miraculously came back.  All told he was dead about 10 minutes.

The consequence of his lifelong smoking, and being dead for almost 10 minutes, left him in rough shape.  He faced the choice of being amputated from the waist down and perhaps not surviving that operation, or letting nature take its course with the full knowledge that he probably wouldn't survive a week.  He chose to let nature takes its course and forgo the amputation.

Amazingly, he had most of his faculties (save for some short-term memory issues) after he came back from the dead.  His sense of humor was vibrant and ribald.  When one nurse came into his room and called out "What're you doing, Bob!" his response was an immediate "anyone I can get my hands on, c'mere, you're next..."  And after they told him what his health condition was and the likely outcome, he asked for a Coke and I asked him "do you think that's really a good idea, dad?"  He just looked at me over the top of his glasses and said "are you kidding me, Denny?  Whatta think it's going to do, kill me?"  After he drank the Coke and promptly barfed it all back up, I ran out of the room fearing I too would be sick.  As I left the hospital room, and my brother Dave took up the barf-pan from me and ran in, I heard my dad yelling at me "Come back you coward!"

So as a family we have this unbelievable example of courage in the face of adversity.  Knowing he had chosen death over dismemberment, he was fearless and calm, and funny to the bitter end. There were serious moments, just a few, as well.  After he made his choice, I heard him tell the doctor he wanted to be left alone a moment and then wanted to see his children.  We four gathered around his bed at University of Michigan hospital where he told us he loved us all and that we four were "his treasure."  We held hands, and cried a bit, and had etched onto our collective souls the very nature of Thanksgiving.  Dad lived three days after that conversation before passing quietly in his sleep in July of 2005.

He died at hospice, the very first night he was there.  I remember I remained until everyone else was gone.  Just to talk, to laugh.  At his funeral, the bag-piper we hired heard some of the stories about him and said there was a Scottish word describing people like him. The word has passed from my memory, but it's meaning remains.  It is a word whose meaning combines courage and hilarity.  Fits him him to a tee.

As I said, I was the last to leave him that night at hospice.  Though it was July, it was raining and I remember I wore my old leather coat.  I remember kissing him and saying goodbye, and then reaching for that coat - who knows why it sticks in my head that way, but it does.  As I pulled it on, it came to me that this was the last time I was going to see him.  I just knew it.  Shrugging my arms into the jacket, I turned and said to him "Dad, I love you."  He winked at me, made a mock gun out of his right hand, and shot me with it saying "you too, Denny.  I love you too."

He died about four hours after I walked out the door that night.

Those three days in July, 2005, the courage and effort of my oldest brother and the rescue personnel who saved him, and my dad himself and all he endured in those days along with what he made sure he said - they all taught me more about the nature of gratitude in those three days than I have learned in my other 46 years.  The last words I said to my dad, and those that he said to me, were "I love you." I am as grateful for those three days five years ago as I am any other memory or experience in my life.

Dad would have been 76 years old today, November 25.  I love him and miss him everyday.  And every day I remember the lesson life presented me in the form of those final three days with him. If you love someone, make sure you tell them.

So thanks for stopping by my blog today.  I hope this day especially finds you in the warm embrace of friends and family who get you, dig you, keep your secrets, laugh at your jokes, forgive you your shortcomings, and are made glad by the mere mention of your name.  You deserve all that and more.  Happy Thanksgiving, stay grateful my friends :-)

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Eat your potatoes...

I don't think I am talking out of school by sharing the fact that I am the cook in my family.  My wife, beholden of an arsenal of amazing skills upon which we desperately rely to run our home, has never been the cook.

This is as opposed to me, who grew up the third son of two working parents who commuted from the metro Detroit area to the rolling countryside of Livingston county five days a week.  The easiest way for me to mitigate all of the trouble I got into as a kid was to be the family cook and have dinner under way for them by the time they got home.

Pretty hard to yell and scream too much about the broken window or C+ on that history test when the same culprit who wrought that mischief is also responsible for the beef stew and bread now warming you from head to toe, isn't it?  So, as it turned out, I learned to cook at an early age.

20 years and two kids later, I am still cooking but for a different family.  My own family. There is my wife, with her sophisticated and diverse pallet - she eats things that I would never consider.  Then there is me - if it didn't have parents, what's the sense of eating it?  Every meal in my mind needs a meat, a vegetable and some other thing (usually pasta, rice, or potatoes).  Simple, old fashioned, probably not on whatever list of healthy eating is in the back of the mompetition cookbook, but what the heck - these are my kids not yours ;-)

And then there are the children.

It would be cheaper for me to feed these children if I just opened the pantry to let them graze and then walked right out to the garage and threw a ten dollar bill into Captain Curby (our dumpster). 

When my son was a very little boy, he would go on these hunger strikes - weeks at a time without eating anything.  Usually, after a couple of weeks of no eating, I would prepare for him a platter spaghetti with meat sauce larger than anything a grown man would eat, and leave him in the kitchen.  He would replenish, like an Anaconda eating a gazelle, and then spend the next two weeks digesting.  And who am I to question him, really.  I always tease him that he got the six-pack abs and I got the keg - so what the heck do I know about eating anyway?

And the girl - the master of culinary disaster, the queen of no plate clean - she hasn't met the meal she won't waste entirely.  The only secret in getting her to eat is to just withhold all food from her until about 9:00 o'clock at night.  Then place a well balanced meal down in front of her and she'll eat almost anything on her plate.  But if I left it up to her, she would survive exclusively on chocolate milk, egg noodles, and black olives.

Two nights ago, dinner was chicken dinosaur nuggets (thank you Sams Club for this modern day equivalency of Mrs. Paul's fishsticks), egg noodles with a little chicken gravy mixed in, and fresh Brussels Sprouts.  In cleaning up after the meal, I was like an archaeologist unraveling the mysteries of an ancient civilization.  "Here, at the head of the table, sat the matriarch.  You can tell that because there isn't a morsel of wasted food (obviously she has a keen eye on the budget) and the lipstick on her beer bottle is still warm." 

"...And here, at the other end of the table, obviously sat the man.  You can tell that because the seat is molded to a perfect mirror image of his ample butt and there is a contraband empty bottle of Diet Pepsi next to his seat. His plate, too, is clean."

Now comes the tricky part - "...this seat here obviously belonged to someone with a serious Brussels Sprout addiction.  The remains of 25 - 30 fresh petit cabbage' are strewn around his eating place.  He is obviously fit as he did not touch his noodles and is a bit of a ketchup addict.  High fructose, water to drink, sprouts - this seat belongs to a growing boy with the energy level of your average Corvette.

And here, across from him, there might be a plate underneath this pile of toys somewhere.  Who knew they made so many PollyPockets?  But if you gingerly set them aside, you can find a plate and notice that it is absent any hint of noodles.  Either she didn't have any, or she has actually licked that part of the plate clean where her noodles were.  And marvel at how artful she was in this endeavor because the chicken dinosaurs and Brussels Sprouts have not been disturbed at all.  Observe there is a weird five-oval pattern repeating itself formed of some kind of dark juice."  Sniff....Sniff..."...it appears to be olive juice and the marks almost look like this girl had olives on the ends of every one of her fingers for the entire meal.  Without a doubt this is the baby of the family.  She must burn calories like an aircraft carrier burns uranium because the chair she sits in is about 4 inches from the table..."

Yep - that was two nights ago.  My kids' two plates at the end of that meal actually resembled the yin/yang image - the exact inverse of each other.  Michael left all of his noodles, consuming only sprouts and chicken, and Kristin ate only her noodles, leaving chicken and sprouts.

So the following night, my patience now very thin with the amount of wasted food, I made only two things.  Oven roasted Italian chicken (which was fantastic by the way) and au gratin potatoes.  They didn't know what to make of the potatoes before them, they were potatoes, but yellow in a delightful, magical sauce.  And there wasn't a single olive on the table.  The chicken they easily recognized.  Michael scarfed his down smothered in...Ketchup - of course.  Kristin, shoved hers around her plate without eating a bite.

After about a half hour of family time, the conversation turned to the actual meal before them.  As mine was happily digesting somewhere beneath my equator, I had plenty of time to focus on them.  The conversation went something like this:

Me:  "...eat your potatoes."

Michael: "I hate my potatoes."

Me, slowing down and enunciating every word individually: "Eat. Your. Potatoes."

Michael - acting like I told him to go streak at the mall: "DAD! I hate these potatoes."

Me quickly changing into my Dad: "I don't care what you hate, eat those potatoes."

Michael, quickly morphing into a modern version of a 10 year old me: "What?! You don't care if I die?"

Me, my impression of my father now in a full open-field sprint:  "Lookit, mister, you won't die unless you don't eat those potatoes..."

Kristin, my angel: "Dad, don't be mean to Michael."

Me - to Kristin, feeling that she is somehow less angelic than she was 30 seconds ago: "You eat your potatoes too."

Both of them, loudly and in unison as if this was a rehearsed skit: "We hate these potatoes!"

Me, staring at their mother who is now smiling and rolling her eyes at me: "This isn't a restaurant, no one cares what you hate. Eat them..."

Michael, making a face and gagging hard: "ugh, I might throw up."

Michael's mom, cooly sipping the last remnants of her Labatts : "Don't hit the potatoes...."

I was reminded of a nearly identical scene 40 years in my rearview mirror.  My dad made a huge meal of spaghetti, salad, bread, black olives and me and my brothers, each two years older than the other with me being the youngest, screwed around for our entire meal until the pasta and sauce on our plates was stone cold.  I couldn't eat it no matter what threats of violence Sergeant Rock hurled at me and, when the first full forkload of cold spaghetti hit my lips, I threw up everywhere.  I remember it well because I got smacked once and sent to my room without having to eat it.  :-) 

It will be a couple of years yet before Michael is allowed to access the computer with enough freedom to find these pages, so I can admit that I have been in his shoes.  The only way he was getting out of eating those potatoes was to actually play the barf card once he threatened it.  Oh sure, I got belted once, but I didn't have to eat cold spaghetti. 

So, wherever you are this night, I hope you have good (warm) food prepared for you by someone who loves you, fine spirits made glad by the company you keep, and the delights of being part of a family to keep you invigorated and feeling vital and making memories that will last a lifetime.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today!

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Thanksgiving, 2010

Though it is still just a little more than a week away, I admit I am thinking of Thanksgiving. I love the simple beauty of Thanksgiving.  I suppose it is for all the usual reasons.  I look into the faces of my family and am grateful to share their lives, keep their secrets, to laugh at their jokes or silliness.  Both of my kids are better people than I ever hoped to be as a child - so each day - watching them walk their own paths, it is a wonder to me how they came to share my life.  As always, I chalk it up to their mom.

And I love to look back across the last year and find gratitude in places where I suppose the first celebrants of the holiday found it. The gathering of our clan, our continued good health, and the warm and tender mercies that grow out of being part of a community.  Good health and hugs and kisses, especially, color my holiday thanks.  This year will bring a rare chance for all of us to see my older brother from Maine, his wife and two of their great kids.  Though we are a week from that happy reunion, that topic alone dominated the table talk at my home tonight.

And we give thanks for our time together, moments that are so wonderful in just the mere living of them.  Just over two years ago, my mother, a long time cancer survivor, had a significant scare in terms of her health.  We were all scared to death about what might come next.  She was brave.  Truthfully, "brave" does not do it justice, but in America the word "dauntless" is not much used. She was, nonetheless, dauntless.

That summer, a miracle happened.  On the very same day she gathered us all to discuss her final plans and wishes, I suppose the term "making arrangements" is most commonly used for such events, her doctor said to her that while he had no medical explanation for the fact that she was getting better; she was indeed getting better.  That day was roughly 750 days ago.  In that time we have had many gatherings, holidays, weekends at the cottage. There have been frequent causes for laughter, celebration, moments to say "I love you."  She is radiant in her enthusiasm - a roll model of courage and human spirit for all of us.  We celebrate her this day and all days. 

That blessing, that most brilliant of all tender mercies, stands tall over the landscape of my gratitude this year.  You just can't miss it.  Continued health, her triumphant spirit, and the life's lesson that we should celebrate each day as a gift.

Sure there are other things for which I could be a little more grateful.  I'd like to hang on to my hair, which started checking out steadily when I was about 23 and hasn't slowed down a step in the subsequent 23 years.  I'd like the Lions to win on Thanksgiving Day.  And who wouldn't like a little more money in the bank, or some new toys or trinkets to play with?  But when it comes right down to it - to enjoy the smells of Thanksgiving - bread, pie, turkey roasting with my mother-in-law's famous stuffing. And add to that the the sounds of the holiday - the squeal of the kids seeing their cousins, our parents still healthy and vibrant.  The laughter. Those are the bricks in my wall. 

In terms of traditions we have all the good ones - turkey, dressing (my mother-in-law makes the best I've ever had) pumpkin pie, football, shopping the next day and late night sandwiches on rye bread with Hellman's real mayonnaise.  Among my more happy traditions of the day is a prayer I stumbled upon two years ago when we celebrated the first Thanksgiving after my mom's recovery.  I come back to it now every year at this time.  It is one of my favorites.

Lord, behold our family here assembled.

We thank you for this place in which we dwell,

for the love that unites us,

for the peace accorded to us this day,

for the hope with which we expect the morrow;

for the health, the work, the food and the bright skies

that make our lives delightful;

for our friends in all parts of the earth. Amen

I particularly like that line "Lord, behold our family here assembled..."  What an elegant way to just hug those that are close to you and hold them as if to say "I am so grateful; we here assembled are so grateful.  Living in this moment we aren't taking anything for granted..."  Such a blessing to be able to say such words on Thanksgiving.

It is a day for standing within and looking out - for listening to the kids giggling, the family chattering, the clinking and clanking of dishes, and to just look out from within and give thanks for what you see.  And if you slow down, and put the day's petty troubles into their proper place, it is a day for wanting all that you have; not having all that you want.  Such is the nature of thanks, at least to me.

So thanks for stopping by my blog and for your continued support.  I hope you and yours have a terrific Thanksgiving holiday; wherever it is you find yourselves assembled.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Chili and all the fixins...

So it's Friday night and, for the first time since about the end of May, we don't have anything going this weekend.  Michael has a birthday party tomorrow; one of those great buddies who is as welcome at our home as a second son is turning 10.  Really a terrific kid - very happy for him and glad Michael is cultivating a solid friendship there.

And Kristin is taking this term off from ballet, scouts has no obligations and the Spartans' football and men's basketball teams don't play - so I am thinking I'll have some time on my hands.  Jeanine will likely have some running around to do and there are a million things around the house I can do...but what I really want to do is make a huge pot of chili.

It has been a staple in my home since I was a kid.  As the kitchen-rat of two working parents who frequently helped out in getting dinners ready, it is a dish I learned very early on how to cook.  Over the many years the recipe has changed significantly but, end product not withstanding, cooking up a big pot of "the red" is always a fine way to get out of almost any list of chores.

For posterity's sake, I thought I might record that secret, hahahahaha, recipe here.

I start with equal portions of hamburger, the leaner the better because by the end of it we'll want it to crumble into the smallest parts possible, and hot breakfast sausage and enough olive oil to just coat the bottom of a large stainless steel pot.  I spray down the pot first with non-stick cooking spray and then throw in the oil and meat.

While it is cooking, I dice three large onions and three peppers - sometimes all green and sometimes one each of green, red and yellow - whatever is the better value when I am shopping.  Toss in the onions and peppers while the meat is cooking and crumble it all up with whatever you got.  I use a pampered chef thing-a-ma-bob Jeanine bought me for my birthday a couple of years ago.  Really cool device specifically for crumbling meat.

That's pretty much the hardest part, slicing and dicing all the onions and peppers - but if you do it right, if you can get the pieces whittled down to as small as you possibly can, that is the best for chili.  Personally I hate it unless i have some problem I am trying to untangle.  Then, when I have some thorny problem at work, or am writing a brief in my mind, I get lost in the preparation stage and just try to do some serious cypherin'.  Not the case this weekend. Nothing on the horizon for a couple of weeks so tomorrow I will be chopping and thinking exactly how much I hate chopping.

Next I mix in one large can of Brooks' Chili Hot beans, and three small cans of kidney beans (drained).  I add to that three cans of whatever zesty kind of stewed or diced tomatoes I can find at Meijer - for tomorrow's chili I think I bought diced with jalapeno.  Should be pretty good.

Between the liquid in all of the peppers and onions, and the juice from all the canned goods, that's all the liquid I put into it.  When I was at home and making this for my mom and dad, I used to use a big can of V-8 but have since found that the chili is much much better with the stewed/diced tomatoes as the primary source of liquid for the base of the chili.

Now, I'll lift the veil on the secret ingredient.  I would love to reveal that I have some heretofore unknown combination of cumin, chili powder, Sea salt and Worcestershire black pepper (yes, they actually make such a thing, it is fantastic), but Carroll Shelby (yeah, him, the car guy) has already  worked all that calculus out.  So I actually buy, in the spice aisle, a thing called "Carroll Shelby's six gun chili fixins."

Lots of chili powder, cumin, onion powder, and God only knows whatever else, and also just the right proportion of crushed red pepper and salt to make it zing. Add to that the packet of Masa flour in the kit for those of you who prefer thicker chili, and you have a first rate meal.  I have tried the flour and do not prefer it, but give it a try for yourself and let me know what you think.

The finishing touch is one inspired by our good friend, and Kristin's terrific God-Mother.  She and her husband are the kinds of friends that, when we visit them we always pack the kids' pajamas.  The type of friends who your kids call Aunt and Uncle almost as if it was a wish rather than a courtesy.

So we had chili at their home once and they put brown sugar in it.  Skeptical as I was, I admit that I ate it for three reasons:  1) Kristin's God mother is not only a fearless cook; she is a great cook and anything we've ever had at her house is really really good, 2) it would have been rude to say "Uh...you put what into the chili? No, just no", and 3) it was dinner time, I was hungry, and someone else was cooking.  So you see I had three compelling reasons to chow down but I now confess, I had grave, grave doubts about that brown sugar.

Chili, the way I was raised, was meant to peel the paint, hector the senses, and harass the digestive system.  Eating good chili was like pulling off a good dare - there's supposed to be something of a thrill in just making it to the bottom of that bowl.

So I accepted the brown sugar chili (which I suspect but cannot confirm probably had turkey or chicken or something else healthy (insert air quotes here) in it) and politely ate it suspecting that brown sugar would be to chili what Tears for Fears was to music.  Just something I had to endure because of the women in my life. Unlike, however, that chinless, spineless, "dullard's opus" brand of music (Tears for Fears), I was amazed to discover the sweet with the hot in a pot of chili was a fantastic development.

So in finishing off the mix now bubbling at a rolling boil in any chili pot in my kitchen, it is always with the warmest memories of our good friends and their hospitality that I mix in 3/4 of a cup of brown sugar.  It's just so good that way.

After the boil, the whole thing simmers on low for a couple of hours and then you serve it with saltines and a cold beverage.  Some people embellish their chili with sour cream or cheddar cheese, which I suppose is fine for them.  Some people I know also finish off their mixed drinks with a paper umbrella, cuff their jeans and wear boatshoes without socks, so who am I to judge if they want to putt from the rough?

But for me, it's saltines and, if you need something to take the edge off the heat, then bake some bread and serve it with butter - that - and any generous amount of cold beverage and good friends are all you'll really need.

So around dinner time tomorrow I figure on throwing a big pot of chili on the table for whoever is here. Wherever you are, whoever you are with, I hope you find yourself breaking bread with good friends and family in the calm of what is perhaps this last slow Saturday before the usual end of the year mayhem.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today!  I love that you came by.

Dennis
smallowndad@hotmail.com

Summon the Heroes...

Hard to imagine a hero in all of us.  These times are hard times; times when the balancing of our wants and needs against the cold reality of what we can provide can dim our view of the world, dull our receptiveness for inspiration or gratitude.  Reading the headlines, it is hard to imagine that there could be among the stories splashed across the daily news, a calmer, quieter background story that is inspiring and uplifting. But it's there, if you open yourself up to it.

It's hard to believe that amid the stories of unemployment, failing schools, and troubled cities that a nation could find in its citizenry magnificent young Americans, with maturity far beyond their years, who would voluntarily give their all in service to their country. But they're there, aren't they? Somehow across the generations, stretching from Paul Revere's midnight ride through our present military action overseas, that spirit of selfless service rises up in America's youth and the call is answered for good men; good women, to march into the fray. It is the spirit of the American veteran. It is the spirit of America.  These veterans are heroes - and perhaps this day, in these times, they need heroes too.

It may be that it is time to summon the heroes in all of us to honor the heroes who stand outside our camp, protect us from harm, and make safe the every day lives of every day Americans.

Veteran's Day is a day that stirs the passions of many Americans, myself included.  My dad, both my brothers - the husbands, wives, children, and parents of many beloved friends and family members all have served with honor.  So allow me to begin by thanking them.  It is near impossible to imagine that these ordinary men and women; men and women with ordinary hopes, dreams, and fears, bound themselves voluntarily to the extraordinary feat of securing our liberty.  But they do, they have. These extraordinary soldiers, marines, airmen, and sailors do just that.

Voluntarily they step from the masses to don the uniform, and tell us as a nation to "fear not, rest easy," they have first watch.  Voluntarily they put their fate into each other's hands; to stand in the breach, to run into the gun fight while others run out.  Voluntarily they go far from hearth and home so that we may breathe free.  Today and all days we should begin by saying thanks.

Thanks for giving the words in our Declaration of Independence; words that read "...we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor..." real meaning.  Hancock and others made that promise and you, our nation's veterans, have kept it - square jawed, resolute, unflinchingly you kept it.

Thanks for securing, without question or equivocation, America's promise of liberty for its future generations.

Thanks for your families; brave, dauntless, and proud. Abraham Lincoln said of our veterans that we honor them by caring for "...him who should have borne the battle, and for his widow and orphans."  This Veteran's Day, please keep close in your hearts and warm deeds the families who light the home fires, fret more personally than most can imagine, and maintain and endure.  These military families, they are courageous beyond description.


John F. Kennedy once said that "a nation reveals itself not only by the people it produces, but also by the people it honors, the people it remembers."  So today, America, reveal yourself to be a nation grateful for the ordinary heroes who keep us safe. Today, and every day, realize that of your individual political stripe, the soldier, airman, marine, or sailor cares not.  He or she cares that you are his or her countryman, a native son of the land whose liberty he is sworn to protect and are entitled to the last full measure of his or her devotion. So today, and every day, keep faith with their promise by giving thanks.  We are at war; our nation's sons, daughters, moms and dads are at this moment fighting to secure an enduring peace, a lasting security.  They, and their families, are entitled to our prayers, our respect and our gratitude, regardless of any question of politics.

And lastly, remember today that one in three Americans is either a veteran or is a family member of a veteran.  It is fitting that today we summon the heroes to honor the heroes.  Today, and every day, be a hero to those who would defend our republic. The badge of service hangs in homes in nearly every community, so remember to be respectful of their service and sacrifice.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today, and please allow me to extend my personal thanks to my two brothers, David and Patrick, and my late father Robert, for the example they set, their bravery, and their service to the United States of America.  Wherever you sit today, if you sit as a free man or woman, please remember it is the veteran, aided mightily by the support of his or her loving and devoted family, who stands watch against all challenges to that liberty.  It is politician who makes the promise, and the veteran who keeps it. 

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Sarah Palin, did you quit being the real Governor of Alaska so you could be the pretend Governor of America?

More politics, I know.  Bear with me - I really don't have a political axe to grind any more than just as a general observer.  I freely accept that no politicians tell the truth.  They aren't in the business of truth.  They are in the business of persuasion, like me.  Persuasion is something I understand completely.  Unlike me, however, politicians seek their fortune persuading you that their personality, that one single personality rolling around inside of them, can affirm the beliefs of millions of people.  That's a harsh, depressing place to be at as a 46 year old father of two future great Americans, but I am there.  And while I don't consider myself a political cynic, per se, I do view myself as a political pragmatist.

Anyone who is out there telling you "vote for me because I like this, I hate this other, and I just love this same thing you love and am scared of the same things you are..."  well, that person is just selling something.  I have three siblings, all of whom I love dearly, and not one of whom I agree with entirely on everything.  And there are just the four of us...

So I have been reading the headlines for the last couple of weeks and am wondering what exactly the former Governor of Alaska is selling.  She seems to have opinions these days on everything from the Federal Reserve to cookies in Pennsylvania.  My mean-boy reaction to all of the press clippings related to Palin lately is that she must write really teeny to get all of those opinions and issues scrinched in on both her hands.

And the way she communicates, isn't that something? She has honed "snide" to a new level.  Perhaps she leavens it with just the right amount of mean and stirs it vigorously with a backhand lash or two.  Yet it is this person, this snide, mean, bully of a person, who is getting a lot of press on whether or not she could be our next President.  Seriously?

Well...I am not so sure about that.  If past performance is any indicia of future expectations, then what exactly does it say about her that she abandoned every person who voted for her in 2006 by resigning because ethics complaints brought against her had "affected her ability to govern..."  She wasn't forced out.  She just walked away.  When it happened a lot of people said she was "striking while the iron was hot," and moving on to wealth and opportunity.  In fact it is in print pre-2009 (when she quit on Alaska) that she was described by former friends as "an opportunist" so that shouldn't be that big of a surprise.

So is she selling a Palin candidacy, or a Palin insurrection.  I can't much believe she is selling a Palin candidacy, because she is just creating such a record of mean-spirited intemperance that any GOP competitor for the 2012 Presidential nomination will have field day with her public statements, and her track record as the quintessential "mean girl.

A 2008 article in Slate magazine profiled her 1996 run for mayor of Wasilla, Alaska, against former family friend John Stein.  According to the 2008 article,

Before Sarah Palin decided to run for the Wasilla mayor's office in 1996 against incumbent John Stein, the Palins and Steins were friends. John Stein had helped launch Palin's political career, mentoring the hockey mom during her 1994 run for City Council, along with veteran council member Nick Carney. Stein's wife, Karen Marie, went to aerobics classes with Palin.


But when she announced her candidacy for Stein's seat, vowing to overturn the city's "old boy" establishment, a different Sarah Palin emerged. "Things got very ugly," recalled Naomi Tigner, a friend of the Steins. "Sarah became very mean-spirited."

The Wasilla mayor's seat is nonpartisan, and Mayor Stein, a former city planner who had held the post for nine years, ran a businesslike campaign that stressed his experience and competency. But Palin ignited the traditionally low-key race with scorching social issues, injecting "God, guns and abortion into the race -- things that had nothing to do with being mayor of a small town," according to Tigner.

newspaper on the desk is from the John Birch Society

As a dad, one of the phrases I use often around the house, especially with my ten year old, is "character counts."  Look beyond the promises, the platitudes, and the political ads.  Look at the fossil record, the artifacts that show the presence, or absence, of character.  The Wasilla, Alaska mayoral campaign in 1996 is in my opinion Sarah Palin's Olduvai Gorge.  The politics of personal destruction are bad enough; but when you consider that they involve a couple that were once close personal friends of Todd and Sarah Palin, well that just shocks the conscience.

Now my "pragmatism" is buoyed by an October 2010 survey that holds about half of all Americans do not fall for Mrs. Palin's folksy, winky, you-betcha load of divisive politics. Of course it was a CBS poll and as soon as you say that, Mrs. Palin or her supporters are quick to drag Dan Rather into the fray and say that it is all about axe grinding.  Well I don't know about that (tips head, winks at computer) I am just a humble small town dad (makes faux pistol out of thumband forefinger and shoots straight at computer screen, "Pitchooo!")

Because of that; because she is such a lightning rod personally, and because of the coast to coast effort to have a harsh, mean spirited, divisive opinion on just about everything, I don't think Sarah is going to run for anything in 2012.  Look at the fossil record; the artifacts - what does it tell you?

She is the quintessential mean-girl.  This is the opposite of a politician who is trying to win elective office.  A politician is, for lack of a better word, more politic (adjective) in his or her approach to issues, personalities, the media, other countries, etc.  Politic is a word meaning:

1. Using or marked by prudence, expedience, and shrewdness; artful.

2. Using, displaying, or proceeding from policy; judicious: a politic decision.

3. Crafty; cunning.

Rather than being marked by prudence, or a capacity for artfulness, hers is a slash and burn kind of politics.  In the campaign for mayor, she capitalized on the fact that her opponent's name was "Stein" by saying she would be "Wasilla's first Christian Mayor."  A backhanded implication that Stein, whom she knew to be Protestant, was Jewish.  She also engaged in a quiet campaign leveraging the fact that Stein's wife, who died in 2005 of breast cancer without ever reconciling with her former good friend, Palin, never took Stein's last name by saying the two were never legally married.

This is a campaign for mayor, mind you.  Forget riding on Air Force One; forget about having your own presidential library someday, forget about laying cozy in bed on a Christmas morning at Camp David or any of the other perks of the US Presidency - this was a game of winner take all for MAYOR OF WASILLA.  Before Sarah Palin, the Mayor of Wasilla wasn't even a household name in his own household.  Yet she pulled out all the stops for power.  Remember, character counts.  Actions speak louder than words.  If you had a friend who did that to another friend, what would you think?  If you had a neighbor who did that to another neighbor, how would you react?

It is precisely this intellectual calculus that leads me to believe Sarah Palin isn't running for anything in 2012.  The only job she has in her sights; the sole position she truly covets, is Rush Limbaugh's.  The shrill, harsh, highly marketable knife-edged voice of the extreme Conservative movement in America.

Is it mean of me that I love this picture?

There is more profit in it than in the presidency; El Rushbo is worth something in the neighborhood of every one of the last 44 US Presidents combined.  He is coveted nationwide by the powerful and power hungry and he never has to run for office. Never has to raise funds for a campaign or beg for votes.  It is, in all likelihood, good to be the king.

My view, from this leather chair at my fabulous writing desk, in the quiet of an early Wednesday morning in late 2010, is that what is happening right now is not a Sarah Palin campaign for President; but rather a Sarah Palin led coup to topple Rush Limbaugh for his position of influence in American politics.  That's just my two cents, anyhow.  it'll be interesting to watch and see how it all plays out, without question.

So thanks for stopping by my blog today.  I hope that wherever you are, whatever you are up to, you find yourself in the company of good people whose character invigorates and inspires you.  Because character, does indeed, count.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com