Socks

The late, great Erma Bombeck was correct; socks are mysterious creatures.  No matter what precautions are taken, once in the washer some of them inexplicitly disappear.

Once I even bought a set of socks that had little snaps at the top, so that the mates could be attached before they were dumped into the washing machine, but somehow, someway, some of them vanished.  Then I began putting them into little sacks that had small holes for letting in the water and suds, but somehow a few of them still escaped.

Perhaps I should throw away the socks which no longer have mates, but I’m just too sentimental (and cheap).  Therefore, I have a large drawer in which these “mateless” articles of clothing are tossed.  There must be over fifty socks in that drawer, and no two of them match!

It’s a shame for all those otherwise perfectly good socks to lie in that drawer without a reason to exist, so I’ve put them back on active duty.  Whenever there is dirty work to do around the house or property, such as painting, mowing, or coating the driveway, I randomly grab two socks from that drawer and put them on.  One may be blue and the other one red, but who cares?  My work clothes are covered with grass stains, paint drops, and a few spots of tar, so no one notices the conflicting bits of material that I’m wearing around my ankles.

 Socks are ornery critters.  Perhaps by nature they are just unfaithful to their mates; I know for a fact that they love nothing more than to be wrapped together with slightly different colored socks.  They find it especially easy to pull this stunt when one tries to match them up in the semi-darkness.

The big laugh then comes at the wearer’s expense.  While getting ready for work, you make certain that the pants match the shirt, and you follow your mom’s long-ago given advice to wear clean underwear just in case you end up in the hospital that day, but who takes the time to give close scrutiny to the socks?  Only upon arriving at work does one notice that one sock is brown and the other one is black.  Let me tell you-it’s a long day indeed when you must hide behind the desk and wear your pants lower than usual in an attempt to conceal your folly from fellow workers.

My wife Bev refuses to help injured socks.  Once I asked her to darn a beautiful dark blue one, which was one of my favorites.  “Okay. Darn you, sock!” she exclaimed, just before tossing it into the trash can.

The greatest revenge a sock can exact upon me is by developing a hole big enough and at just the right spot for my big toe to slide through.  I can handle a hole in the heel, and I can even tolerate a smaller toe protruding, but the word is out in the sock world that the best way to drive me insane is by exposing my big toe.  I’d rather face water torture!  Once when this happened I attempted to fix the problem by stapling the hole , but the staple was uncomfortable; by the end of the day it had created a little blister on the bottom of my toe.  Tape only works until your feet sweat, so unless you work in a meat locker, I wouldn’t advise you to do it.

Sometimes socks get even by sliding down your legs.  It’s a little tougher for socks to pull this stunt against men, since the hair on our legs puts up some resistance.   When they are together, the mates do  use teamwork.  Usually just one sock will slide down your leg, while the other one, using contrast in order to make the problem easier to spot, will remain where it is supposed to be.

There’s no question about it-socks are devious, and what makes them dangerous foes is their high intelligence.  Evidently I do something that ticks off some of Bev’s socks, for occasionally they get their revenge by finding their way into my  drawer.  Then, absentmindedly, I put a pair of them on and go out the door to face another day.  If my wife notices, I’m in big trouble: “I’ve told you a million times not to wear my socks!” she would say in no uncertain terms.  “Your big feet stretch them!”

“But dear,” I reply, “How was I to know?  They were in my sock drawer!”

“You’re not blind, dear,” would be her rejoinder.   “You don’t normally wear  socks that are decorated with little monkey faces on them!”

I swear that I could hear faint laughter coming from inside my shoes.

Thanks a Lot!

The other day I was scanning an article written by a relations “expert” who confidently instructed her readers on how to dramatically improve their lives. Her advice was simply to  discover two faults or shortcomings and then to get to work to correct them.  Then, and only then, should one find two more problems to fix.  The author/expert suggested that the best way for a guy to get objective information about his deficiencies is simply to ask for feedback from the wife or girlfriend .  Since my girlfriend was out of town, I asked my wife to list two of my major faults.  (That’s a joke!).
 “So dear,” I asked, “what are two of my major faults that come to mind?”
Smiling, she replied,” You’re a wonderful man; there’s nothing major that I can think of.”
“But sweetheart,” I continued, “how can I improve unless you give me some pointers?”
“ I’m very happily married to a marvelous guy.  What more can I say?”
“In that case, I’ll just continue to be what I’ve always been.  There’s no use trying to improve upon perfection.”
“Well, my dearest one, there are a couple little, tiny areas that maybe you could work on.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere, my love.”
“Sweetie pie, sometimes you don’t agree with me when you know I’m right.”
“That‘s not true, lamb chop!”
“Yes it is, dear heart! And sometimes you’re about the most stubborn person I’ve ever known.“
“But dear, that can be a positive trait.  Because of my stubborness there have been times when I’ve outperformed folks who were smarter and more creative than I.”
“Yes, dear, and then there was the time when you spent all night trying to put together a bicycle for Todd.”
“Well, dumpling, I had no choice.  The instructions said that it was so easy to assemble that any eight-year-old could do it.  Unfortunately, there were no eight-year-olds available.”
“Dear, you’re often guilty of practicing ‘selective hearing.’  You can be in the attic and hear baseball scores broadcasted from the TV in the basement, but you swear that I didn’t tell you at least eight times to take the roast out of the oven at five o’clock.  Don’t you agree that you have a problem in this area?”
“What? Sorry, my dearest.  What did you say? (After a pause): Well, my little dove, you’ve given me several things to work on.”
“And sometimes, darling,  you’re not very considerate.  I know that old men have that prostate thing going for them, but after you use the bathroom in the middle of the night how much effort does it take to put the toilet seat back down?  Have you ever sat  on the toilet, expecting to rest on the seat, only to sink down into the murky waters?”
“I’ll make a note of that, sugar lips.  Of course, it would be nice for me if you could put the seat back up after you’re finished.”
“That’s reminds me of another problem you have, doll baby; you don’t check first to see if the seat is up. You expect me to do everything for you!”
“OK, love of my life,  I’ll get to work on improving  those ’couple, tiny areas’ that we’ve discussed.”
“And dreamboat, you always must have the last word.”
“I do not, sugar.”
“Yes you do, precious.”
(Under my breath):  “Do not, sweetie.”
“And , my big handsome hunk of husband, sometimes you tell me the same old jokes.”
“I call them ‘classics,’ my love.’”
“And honey, you don’t tell me enough that you love me.”
“That’s not true, my one and only!  Remember last summer when we were strolling down the street?  A beautiful, twenty-something gal smiled as she walked past us.  Naturally, to be neighborly, I returned her smile.  You accused me of preferring some young thing over you.  That’s when I romantically replied: ‘Honey, I don’t want some young, shapely, sexy lady; I want you!’”
*** (Postscript): The author said that we should thank our mates for their candor.  If you see my wife, or as I call her,” lovie dovie,” please thank her for me.  I’d do it, but at the moment we‘re not speaking.”

1913 Advertisements

*If you don’t think things have changed much, check out the following 1913 advertisements from a local newspaper:

Do you have a teen-aged daughter who’s giving you fits?  This 1913 ad reveals the cause of her problems “Girls in their teens are often troubled with thin blood, making the complexion pale, sometimes greenish (especially if her father is Frankinstein’s monster!), the cheeks thin, the lips colorless.  There is shortness of breath after the slightest exertion, a general feeling of weariness and a disinclination to study or work.”  The ad continues: “Neglect at this time may result in a lifetime of misery.”  (9-10-1913).
A September 20th advertisement was concerned about the kids: “A laxative today saves a sick child tomorrow.  Children simply will not take the time from play to empty their bowels, which become clogged up with waste, (the) liver gets sluggish (and the ) stomach sour.”
How does one know when to give Junior this product? “Look at the tongue, mother!  If coated, or your child is listless, cross, feverish, (has) bad breath, (is) restless, doesn’t eat heartily, (is) full of cold or has sore throat or any other children’s ailment…”
Are you too skinny?  In 1913 there was a product to put some “meat on your bones”: “Cut out the foolish foods and funny sawdust diets (unless you’re a termite).  Omit the flesh  cream rub-ons.  Cut out everything but the meals you are eating now…”  Just take one of their pills with each meal, and in two weeks “Five to eight good solid pounds of healthy, ‘stay there’ fat should be the net result. “ (10-101913).  No thanks!  I already have more than enough  ‘stay there’ fat.
Here’s some good news!  In 1913 you could buy a new Hudson for only $2250.  Remember, of course, that many folks earned less than that amount in a year of hard work!  “No balking, no jerking subject to gearshift---it loses no momentum in skimming up the longest hill.  Six (cylinder) is half again as powerful as four yet expends but little more fuel, each cylinder being just that much more buoyant.
“A seven passenger, electric cranking and lighted car, 54 h.p., with dimmer for big lights, deep full leather upholstery, disappearing extra seats and lines like a Greek god.” (9-6-1913).
Back in 1913 many folks were still using horses.  The following ad tried to convince the readers of the advantages of the “iron horse”:  “When this car isn’t working, it doesn’t eat.  Not one cent does it cost to keep except when it is actually on the road for you.  The horse eats up profit every day in the year, winter and summer.  He works for only about six months in the year-and he eats ten pounds for every hour he works.” (9-16-1913).  Of course, the horse will seldom need a new transmission, and I’ve never heard of a horse rusting.  Just saying…
Are you nervous?  The following ad explains what makes you so: “Over indulgence in alcohol or tobacco; over eating or excesses of any kind mean unstrung nerves.”  When should you take this particular medicine?  “Get busy and take them (pills) for any nervous trouble, weakness, headaches, hysteria, neuralgia, exhausted vitality, sleeplessness, kidney, liver or stomach ailments, and for constipation. They will make anyone feel fine, happy and vigorous in a few days.” (9-2-1913).
In the paper on September 6th was the following testomonial: “I was in a terrible state before I took…(this particular medicine).  My back ached until I thought it would break.  I had pains all over me, nervous feelings and periodic troubles.  I was very weak and run down and was losing hope of ever being well and strong.”  There certainly seemed to be a lot of nervous people back in those days.
Evidently a bunch of folks also suffered from upset stomachs: “Wonder what upset your stomach-which portion of the food did the damage-do you?  Well, don’t bother.”  Just take this particular medicine whenever you have any of the following symptoms: “(If your stomach is) sour, gassy and upset, and what you just ate has fermented into stubborn lumps, your head dizzy and aches; belch gases and acids and eructate undigested food; breath foul, tongue coated…”  (9-9-1913).
According to an ad in the September 23rd paper, “That backache of yours is one of nature’s warnings when all the joy of living has vanished because of trouble peculiar to womankind.  Don’t disregard this warning.  Don’t procrastinate.  Now is the time to take steps to regain health and strength.”
On September 25th the readers were warned about catarrh: “If you have catarrh and are neglecting it-you are doing a great wrong to yourself.  In time it will undermine your whole constitution.  You cannot begin too soon the work of shaking it off.  Doesn’t require any great effort. Begin today.”  The ad convinced me.  However, how could I know if I had this horrible disease when I have no idea what it is?  My trusty Webster’s Dictionary enlightened me: “An inflammation of any mucous membrane, esp. that of the nasal passages, usually accompanied by discharge from the membrane.”
Here’s something to look forward to in your senior years: “The bane of old age is constipation.  The bowels become weak and unable to perform their functions without aid.” (9-27-1913).  Now I know why so many people back then were so nervous!
There was good news!  An advertisement on September 29th stated that drinking a certain beverage will help ward off old age: “When a distinguished scientist…warns us that we are ageing prematurely as the result of the strain modern life throws on our hearts and arteries, it is worth thinking what can be done to stop this health wastage.
“In these days when the strain of modern competition and high-speed mental work keeps one’s heart constantly working at high pressure anything which can possibly add to the work thrown on the heart ought to be strenuously avoided.  Caffeine, the powerful heart irritant contained both in coffee and tea is one of these substances.”  Of course, the advertised product “is absolutely free from caffeine or other poisonus drugs.”
Perhaps another reason for females being so nervous was that they had to squeeze themselves into corsets: “If you are wearing high-priced, imported corsets, you should have a fitting (of our brand) to show you its beautiful lines.” (9-1-1913).
Another brand of corsets was advertised as “rust proof.”  Certainly that would make a lady less nervous: “Most all wise women have their corsets fitted before getting their new suits for Fall.
“The … rust proof corsets are ideal corsets, the advantages of which are apparent as soon as tried on.  The new Fall models are now here ready for you.  And they are so different that an early fitting is very desirable, so that your new wearing apparel can be fitted over the new models.” (9-17-1913).
My grandfather fondly recalled this time as “the good old days.”   Of course, he never had to wear one of those  corsets!

Grandpa

My maternal grandfather spent most of his life  farming-something that he didn’t want to do.  Instead, he had hoped to become a history teacher.  A voracious reader, he knew American history as well as almost any teacher.  Unfortunately, he didn’t have the money to go to college.

Grandpa was short and stout, with red cheeks and a wisp of hair on top of his head.  With a little more padding around the tummy he would have made a wonderful Santa Claus. I thought he was one of the gentlest and quietest of men.  According to Mom, however, when Grandpa got mad  the best thing to do was to hide.  When he was angry his face would become crimson and he’d bellow “Double-d***!”  When he was even  madder  the epitaph “Triple-d***” echoed throughout the valley.  Thank goodness I wasn’t around for any of those events-either the double ones or the triple ones.

He hated his first name of “Ballard,” and as far as I know he never used that name as part of his signature.  Instead, he went by his middle name of “Dean,” and wrote his name as “B. Dean” or just “Dean.”

I wouldn’t say that Grandpa was a particularly religious person, yet he was a learned student of the Bible.  Several times throughout his life he  read the Good Book from cover to cover, and he could more than hold his own in a debate with a minister.

For some reason he loved to eat fat; he was always more than welcome to any of mine after I had  trimmed it off the meat.  This particular  preference probably was not a good idea, for Grandpa suffered his first heart attack when he was only forty-something years old.

He played a decent violin and he loved country and western music.  He lived long enough to have the opportunity to ignore such “barbarians” as Elvis and the Beatles.

He read his daily paper and kept abreast of political events.  A die-hard Republican, he probably never voted for a  Democrat.  On the other hand, my father was deeply into the democratic camp.  On his own during much of his childhood, he saw Franklin Roosevelt and his party as the saviors of the common man.

If Grandpa had an equal in stubbornness it was Dad.   Those two would sat by the old potbellied stove in the living room and for many hours would argue over which party better served the nation.  Sometimes Grandpa would hit Dad where it hurt-he would make disparaging remarks about Mr. Roosevelt.  Then Dad would retaliate by telling Grandpa that Lincoln was a no-good bum.  It’s a wonder they didn’t come to fisticuffs.

I remember staying with my grandparents one weekend.  I must have been about 14 years old at the time.  Grandpa decided to drive into the village, and unwisely, I decided to tag along. He couldn’t see very well and his reflexes were almost nonexistent.  As the car weaved from one side of the road to the other I prayed that in His infinite wisdom God would perform a miracle and get us safely to the village and then back to the farm.  Somehow my prayers were answered.

By the time he reached 70 it was evident that Grandpa  could no longer run the farm.  In addition to heart trouble he suffered from arthritis and, as I have said, from poor vision.  So he and Grandma bought an old house just inside the nearby village.  I remember painting the worn wooden floors just before they moved in.

Grandpa died at the relatively young age of 74.  Heart disease had prematurely claimed an interesting  and basically decent human being.

Now, over forty years after his death, I regret that I didn’t get to know him better.  As a child I dreaded going to the farm.  After sneaking  corn to the hogs, skipping  rocks across the pond, and picking  apples from the trees on the hill there was nothing left to do.  Eventually I began to bring  along library books.  Crawling into the upper floor of the barn, I nestled into the hay to read a book or two until the folks  finally decided to leave.

I should have picked Grandpa’s brain.  He had lived during an era about which I can only read.  Oh well; my excuse was that I was a dumb kid.  That will never happen again; from now on I’ll just be a dumb old guy.  

I hope that wherever he is, Grandpa is happy that I had the opportunity to do something that he always wanted to do:-teach history.   I hope that he thinks I did a good job.  On the other hand, I pray  that he never discovers that occasionally  I vote for a Democrat; that would be something too evil to forgive.

Still Fighting the War

 

We all know that many years ago this nation was literally torn apart as the southern states formed their own country. Four long years of battle, destruction, and loss of life created deep-seated hatred on both sides. No doubt Sherman’s “March to the Sea,” in which the Union troops burned and wrecked their way through the Confederacy, made few southern friends.

Thankfully, after some 147 years most citizens in both the North and the South have moved on. Slavery ended long ago, and most citizens no longer harbor racist attitudes. Unfortunately, however, a few folks are still fighting the war.

Several years ago my sister and her husband invited me on a trip to Florida. After loading the thermos with coffee and the cooler with snacks we filled the car’s gas tank and began heading south.

Upon entering Georgia we stopped at a McDonald’s to get some drinks and stretch our legs. From my point of view, the young lady waiting on us had the most beautiful accent: “Hello! What would you all like?” I thought she would have been perfect for a leading role in Gone with the Wind.

After paying for my drink I told her that I absolutely loved the accent of the folks in that area. “What accent?” she asked. For her part, she claimed that I was the one with the accent and that it was “funny-sounding” and out of place in Georgia. I guess it’s all relative. It made me think of the old joke when the Lone Ranger and Tonto were under attack. “Looks like we’re surrounded by Indians,” the Masked Man said to his sidekick.

“What you mean by we, Kemosahbee?”

A few hours later we were lost on some Georgia back road, and unfortunately, this was a time before the GPS was invented. However, my brother-in-law did have a CB radio. While driving down the road he attempted to contact someone in the vicinity. “This is the Roadrunner. I’m on route such and such. Can anybody tell me how to get back to the main road? We’re heading for Florida.”

The reply was swift and to the point: “I can tell you’re a @##$#$$%%^%%^^ Yankee! We don’t want your kind around here! I ain’t gonna’ help you, you @#$%^&!”

My brother-in-law was not in the least upset. A few minutes later he spotted a grassy field by the road. After he pulled off the highway we had a wonderful picnic lunch, followed by a nice nap.

Once back on the road my brother-in-law once again used his CB. However, this time there was a marvelous transformation. Now he sounded like some great Confederate gentleman: “Ten-four: this is General Lee speaking, ya’ all. We all are on route such and such and we all need instructions to get back to the main highway. Can you all help us, suh?”

The guy on the other end of the conversation was the same fellow that had earlier been so rude to us. This time he was extremely friendly, giving us the directions that we needed. In a few hours we arrived at our destination.

There’s no doubt that the man’s southern ancestors were much smarter than he, or the war would not have lasted four long years!

The State of Ralationships

 

A few evenings ago I watched a black and white TV show from the 1960s. Interestingly, the wife in the program was a junior partner in the union. Whenever wanting to buy something she had to beg for the husband’s permission.

Were most wives of that era really so submissive? My mother was completely dominated by Dad. She was not allowed to buy anything or to make any kind of decisions without his approval. However, even as a little kid I didn’t feel that this was the normal marriage arrangement.

There is no way that my wife Bev would put up with such nonsense. If I ever tried to dominate her I’d probably get a skillet over my head! Neither of us will make a large purchase without consulting with the other, but neither Bev nor I am the boss of this family. Perhaps a better way of saying it is that we are the co-bosses in our marriage. We talk things over and reach a compromise before we do what she wants (just a joke!)

Today’s equality among the sexes is a good thing. The lady in the above mentioned TV show was treated as if she were a child, incapable of making mature decisions. That’s ridiculous and unfair.

On the other hand, marriages , for whatever reasons, are on shaky ground these days. About half of all marriages in the United States end in divorce. Does this mean that back in the 1930s and 1940s, when most people stayed married, we had a bunch of miserable people living together?

When I was a child it was still a good bet that if little Bobby’s last name was Smith then both his parents were also named Smith. Just about every kid that I knew had his/her Dad and Mom living together. Were those parents secretly miserable? Did they grow to hate each other’s guts? Did people stay together only because of societal pressures and expectations?

Of course, there is an alternate explanation. Perhaps today we are too spoiled. Perhaps we expect more from a marriage than is realistic. Are so many marriages in this country really broken beyond any chance of being repaired? Do we put much effort into saving them?

Maybe, in the final analysis, it is not that big a deal when parentless couples decide to go their own way, but how about when children are involved? Whether you think marriage is a divine creation, or if you believe that it is merely a societal invention, the fact of the matter is that, all things being equal, it is the best way to rear children.

Studies show that children from one parent homes are much more at risk of low self-esteem, suicide, juvenile delinquency, poor school performance, and about every other negative factor of which you might conceive.

Our courts don’t do our children any favors. Women have been discriminated against more than men in this society, but it’s another story when it comes to custody of our children. If both Mom and Dad are decent, loving folks, then the child benefits most from having both parents in her/his life. However, the courts usually look for the easiest ways to settle such cases, not the best way, Then they have the gull to say their decisions are “in the best interest of the child.”

Often the custodial parent is given all the decision-making powers, which is like giving one parent an atomic missile and the other one a peashooter. The parent with the power often uses it as a sledgehammer to “get back” at the former spouse. If the court did what was actually in the child’s best interest, it would give some decision-making power to the non-custodial parent.

Let’s say, for example, that Sue and Bill are divorced. Sue has custody over their five-year old son, Sam. As in many cases, Sue wants Bill completely out of the picture. His total responsibility, from her point of view, is to provide the money needed to raise the child. Of course, the court should not be concerned about what the parents want; it should focus upon what is truly best for the child.

The court should be encouraging Bill to retain an active role in his child’s life. To do so he should have some decision-making powers. For example, he could be in charge of taking his son to the dentist and buying school clothing. In most cases this kind of parenting would be in the child’s best interest.

Is marriage headed for extinction? Perhaps. More and more folks from every adult age group are deciding to live together without having a marriage certificate. I imagine that many of these people simply see marriage as too big of a gamble to take. Let’s face it; a fifty per cent chance of success is not that great.

A Sports Addiction

I was excited when my cousin Ron informed me that he had bought his first automobile. Now we could travel to far-away sporting events, including even college football and basketball games! This news was akin to announcing to a gambling addict that a new casino was opening next door.

Our first trip in his new car could have ended in disaster. Ron, his brother Rick, and I headed for a college basketball game about fifty-five miles away. After the contest, we discovered that the car had a flat tire. Unfortunately, the tire iron was not the correct size, so we could not replace the flat. While Ron stayed with the car, Rick and I searched for help. Soon we were facing a young man who was holding a very large rifle. Sticking the weapon near our faces, he demanded to know who we were and why we were there. After explaining our predicament he took us into the army base. There, soldiers gave us hot chocolate and let us borrow an appropriate tire iron.

Luckily, I didn’t have an addiction to gambling or drugs, but I was addicted to sports. Like the junkie who has to have his fix, I had to carefully monitor “my” football, basketball, and baseball teams. Each team’s lineup was permanently seared into my memory. Don’t believe me? Here’s the 1962 batting order for the mighty New York Yankees: Bobby Richardson, 2B; Tony Kubek, SS; Roger Maris, RF; Mickey Mantle, CF; Elston Howard, C; Yogi Berra or Hector Lopez, LF; “Moose” Skowron, !B; Clete Boyer, 3B; and the pitcher.

I knew each player’s age, height, weight, hometown, and sports statistics. For example, in 1961 Roger Maris hit a then-record 61 home runs, knocked in 142 runs, and hit .269. Sadly, however, I can’t tell you what I had for breakfast today (did I have breakfast?).

I could handle truly bad things that might come along, such as giant asteroids hitting the earth or a nuclear attack by some communist enemy, but a loss by one of my teams was cause for prolonged despair. Actually, I probably suffered from a mild form of depression whenever my guys lost.

Dad was raised in extreme poverty; he spent almost all his days working, sleeping a few hours, and then working some more. There was no time for such ”silly” things as sports. Therefore, he saw no reason for his son to participate or watch sporting events.

My favorite college basketball team often played on Saturday afternoons, which was great because Dad worked on Saturdays. When the team played on a Tuesday or Wednesday evening, however., there was a big problem. Dad was the master of our one TV set, and there was no way he was going to watch “some stupid basketball game.”

One summer, however, Dad had the front porch enclosed, and he purchased a portable TV set for that porch! Of course, even with a second set he would never have allowed me to watch my sports heroes in action. Luckily for me, for some reason he did not have a furnace duct attached to the porch, so in the winter he closed the room and waited for spring to roll around.

Whenever one of my favorite basketball teams was playing I’d grab my winter coat, gloves, and toboggan. Then I’d quietly sneak out through the kitchen door, walk to the front of the house, unlock the door, and sneak into the arctic-like enclosed porch. Dad was sitting in the next room, so I had to leave the lights off and keep the volume of the TV very low. With my teeth chattering and my hands aching, I’d sit within inches of the set while watching my heroes perform. After the game I’d simply sneak back into the kitchen, put my winter gear back into the closet, and attempt to defrost. Dad never caught me!

For some reason Dad loved the evening paper. Our town also had a morning paper, which I kept hoping we would get. You see, I wanted to read the sports section before heading off to school. In 1959 it was announced that the two papers would merge; now there would be only a morning edition. Dad was not a happy camper; I was delighted.

Some boys in our neighborhood had cleared a field so that we could play baseball. To tell the truth, I wasn’t exactly Babe Ruth, but I had an excuse; for a few years I had to play without a glove. Despite my begging, Dad refused to buy me one; to him that would have been a waste of good money. Finally, Mom came to the rescue. For years she had been collecting stamps from the grocery store. She kindly used several of her books of stamps to get me my own glove. It was a catcher’s mitt, so it helped me very little in the outfield, but it’s the thoughtful and loving gesture that counts.

My sports addiction hit a crisis stage about ten years ago. While watching my favorite basketball team blow a big lead, I lost my temper and fired one of my shoes at the TV set. To say the least, my wife was not a happy camper. At that point I realized that my attitude needed some big-time adjustments.

Thankfully, in time I realized that there were many bigger priorities in my life, such as my family, friends, church, job, and so forth. Surprisingly, now that sports are not so important to me I seem to enjoy them even more. I’ve even had some success in getting my wife to take an interest in sports;, and she has come a long way; she no longer confuses a baseball with a hockey puck.

Today I can peacefully watch “my” Cleveland Browns lose game after game., and not become terribly upset. No matter how the Browns fare, God willing, the sun will arise again the next morning and life will go on. Of course, it’s still easier to watch a team lose that I don’t care about , like my brother-in-law’s sad-sack team, the Dallas Cowboys.