Three broadcast stations, 2, 4, and 7, channel 9 from Canada, a fuzzy Toledo, OH channel 11, and three, depending-on-the-weather UHF choices – 50, 56, and 62 – made our boobtube line up. There was seldom more than one choice of what to watch at a particular time anyway but Walter was my father’s choice.

During the CBS Evening News we’d sit quietly, even during the commercials, because that’s how Dad played it. He never commented on anything said – just watched and maybe glanced at the paper.

As for me, I remember this one thing: starting in 1967 – with my oldest brother in Vietnam – my attention concentrated to a laser focus when the little box appeared over Cronkite's left shoulder showing enemy dead and wounded as compared to American dead and wounded.

I’d hold my breath momentarily when I knew the box was about to appear and then slowly exhale as the inevitable results – like the score of some fairy tale, happy ending, never lose, hometown baseball team – told the, “Hey, rest easy; more of them then us,” score.

Walter’s broadcast was a well-oiled, calm and professional machine that all seemed to fit. Nary a frantic, "OMG! A Democratic duck’s kidney has been transplanted into a Libertarian transvestite’s body; stay tuned!" piece rolling on for days and weeks bolstered by unnamed sources. Certainly it was, is, and always will be TV, meant to sell, sell, sell and Cronkite produced higher ratings and more advertising dollars, but at least – even to a nine-year-old – it appeared written and produced by serious, intelligent people for folks of the same ilk.

Walter might close with an ironic story, and update of something earlier in the week, or just a throw in piece, but my favorite was when he’d add some amusing bit of not quite fluff onto the end of his newscast and then with an every so slight, wry smile, close with his line.

Right after that…every single night I can remember…my Dad would repeat, “And that’s the way it is, Walter,” and head back to his paper, while I jumped back to my children’s world.

I don’t watch the news anymore; haven’t watched the news in many years but from what I can tell, there really aren’t any news shows on anyway.

We know what Walter would say about that, don’t we?

Then. Thick, made-of-glass eye glasses. I’ve had specs since the third grade and let me tell you, some of those early pairs were so heavy, the stems lowered my ears half an inch and made the muscles along the bridge of my nose, ripped, toned, and cut. I could lift a Volkswagen with that beak.

Now. Lasik, et al. We’ve gone over this before, but let me repeat…THEY SHOOT LASER BEAMS IN YOUR EYES. Sheesh.

Then. Franklin Planner, etc. You remember all those seminars and systems, yes? In spite of all that money we spent, a buddy of mine worked the all-time best system.

"It's an old one," he said, "and my Dad used it forty years ago, but it's an effective and stress-free method."

He said it with such confidence we had to pause while he explained.

"This pile," he said, pointing to a small stack of five or six papers, "I know what to do with and when someone needs me to do something with one of these papers, they'll call me for it."

We all nodded.

"This pile," he said, pointing to a mountain that reached the ceiling, "I have no idea what to do with, and when someone needs me to do something with one of these papers, they'll call and send another copy of it."

And with that, he shoved the huge pile in the garbage can. The Two Pile System.

Now. Whatever calendar software you use. I use Outlook. Do you know as Outlook gets close to 2 gigs, it starts to be a bad, bad girl? Gets petulant, moody, doesn’t play well with other software if it doesn’t feel like it and takes its sweet time to boot up. You are, however, tied into it forever.

Then. “Hey, do you know Mike over there at XYZ Consolidated? You do? Well, he said you were good people and could help me with….”

Now. “I’m Tom in Hong Kong; connect with me, okay?”

Then. “OK, everyone hush now, Ed Sullivan is starting.” And everyone was there, sitting quietly and watching.

Now. DVR’s. The missus gurgles for air she’s so far backlogged on recorded TV dramas. She had five episodes of “24” taped, watched them all one Friday evening and got so pumped I thought she was going to pull out an Uzi and empty a clip in the living room.

Then. (Early July) Hey…the Rangers look pretty good this year. (Early September) Well, maybe next year.

Now. (Early July) …the Rangers look pretty good this year. (Early September)????

I was calling her about the voicemail she left me. I tried texting her, but who knows what the heck I really typed. Pigs text faster and better than me.

I called her cell and another number, got some guy’s voice on one and that computer generated voice on the other, so I’m not sure who exactly I left messages for.

I posted something on her wall, twittered her, and sent an email (kids, email is something us old people use). I checked her All-In and a couple of other things, but she hadn’t updated anything recently so I’m not sure if she’s still using.

Echoing in my ear the whole time was the sound of Fred's mother, forty years ago, hollering across the back fence for my mom so she could talk to her about the newly planted flowers I “accidentally” trounced. 

Even being halfway down the block I heard her and hustled home, working through an excuse the whole time. In a matter of minutes, I was getting my behind tanned and young people, we ain’t talkin’ about UV rays here.

The conclusion? There's something to be said about technology, I'm just not sure if it's pro or con.

I hope you suffered no damage during Flo Mo’s hairy storm back a week and a half ago. We were fortunate the only damage around our Ponderosa was a blown over bbq along with some frayed nerves. Oh, and one other development; we’ll get to that presently.

One of our dogs has this thing about storms. Put it this way; when a cloud passes in front of the sun, Harley updates his living will. Dixie, the older, wiser Jack Russell, patiently waits out any disaster and at the key moment makes her, “Well, datgum, if we’re all gonna die, break out some treats. Heck,” face. They both played their roles as written while the low pressure and high pressure squared off.

I think the lay of the land’s changed around here because these things used roll through Weatherford, skip down I-30 through Sundance and the West End and be off to torment the poor folks in Corsicana. Every time. Now they seem to frequent our burb with alarming regularity.

All this rolled up into the Phillips’ finding themselves in the kid’s old bathroom on that stormy Wednesday and that, people, was the first time we’ve ever made the tornado move to an interior room. A mixture of skeered and skittery, we spent half an hour doing something like this:

Note: Brother (our middle kid) was at leaving his house, headed to the gf’s, oblivious to it all.

Me: Okay, since the world is going to end, I think it’s truth or dare time! 

Missus (not totally on board with the end of the world scenario): What?

Lil Sis (Lil Sis, who was visiting that evening): What?

Big Sis (Big Sis is still living with us while her Air Force husband is away): Yes!!!

(Guess which daughter takes after which parent?)

Big Sis: Truth, Daddah!

Me: Okay…um…okay! I got one! We are actually from Ireland. Me and mom came to America to get away from a small, unknown communist section of Ireland in 1989 and after a year sent money to smuggle you guys over here. My real name is “Dún do Bheal,” which in English is pronounced, “You-made-me Snort-again.” Mom’s name is Power O’Tools.

Missus: What?

Me: Think about it, my o’daughters; Mom’s name in English, my name…all our names. Don’t they all sound Irish? Éirinn go Brách, comrades.  

Lil Sis: Ha. Whatever.

Big Sis: Dad…I thought you were going to say “from small section of Uranus.” Ha-ha-ha.

Me: No, only Mom is from Uranus.

Missus: What?

You know how a dog just stares at you? Well, what they’re doing is trying to hypnotize you. Dixie does it like it’s her j-o-b. On this night, she stares at Lil Sis in hopes of getting her to zombie down to the kitchen for a beef bone before the house sails away.

Me: More truth! We had y’all’s kid’s bedrooms built with Chinese drywall! Lawdy Lord help us but we did.

Missus sniffs a couple times and I think she’s feeling nostalgic…but: Pee-you, these dogs need a bath….hey….look this shower grout is messed up. I thought I went back over this when I did the shower. (She reaches into her unmentionables, pulls out a small package of grout – puts in back in because it’s brown - pulls out another small package of the right color, then a small trowel, some paper towel and an old, empty yogurt container, mixes the grout with some water and starts filling in the gaps.)

Me: More Truth! Okay, okay…when you were babies, we used to bump y’all’s head in the kitchen sink during your bath. More than once. And we’d whisper sheepishly to each other, “Holy smokes, it sounded like a church bell when I smacked Brother’s head into the faucet. I saw the neighbor adjust his watch; he thought he was running three minutes slow.”

A gust of wind heaves against the house, and the power poofs out. A collective “Woah!” echoes in the room. Harley smiles a nervous smile and passes gas.

Me: Fine! I admit I ate the last oatmeal cookie on May 3, 1990 when we lived in Florida. Sufferin’ succotash, but it’s been on my mind this whole time. *whimper* I am so sorry but now I’m FREE of the guilt and…

Missus: I remember that. Thought it was you, but you said it was Brother. You sold out a three-year-old, sweet little boy? Lil Sis, is that fire extinguisher still under the kitchen sink?

Lil Sis: I don’t know, I don’t live here anymore!

Missus: Play along now.

Lil Sis: Oh, uh, yeah I think it is, why?

Missus: We’ll need it for Dad.

Me, Lil and Big: What?

Missus: “Cause he’s a liar, liar and them pants are on fire. Ha-ha-ha!

The girls laugh, I frown. Dixie says to Harley, “I’m tellin’ you they had you fixed…like three years ago. Look down there, bud; you’re missing equipment.”.

Me to the missus: Why you always gotta steal my stuff? Write your own jokes, Howell. Just try and stay out of my way. Just try! I'll get you, my pretty and your little dog too!

There’s a pause as I look expectantly at the ladies.

Me: Get it? Get it? Wizard of Oz?

Mike and I take a break and visit the vending machine at work and discover it’s out of all the good stuff and…hold on, hold on! I know that is as lame a sentence as there is to kick a blog post off, but stay with me here, okay?

Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Well, let me back up for half a second; when we visit our snack machine, we normally we get either the 100% whole wheat crackers or the tofu trail mix, and…

*clears his throat*

Okay, okay…we jones for the puffy cheese things or chocolate.

Anyway, on this day the machine is as empty as a hockey player’s interview between periods. (He doesn't know it yet, but one of Robert Tracy’s upcoming posts will cover that very thing; the most clichéd filled sport in the world - ice hockey. We can’t wait Robert!)

Certainly the content of any office snack machine ebbs and flows, but just as you begin to think, "Man, our machine is getting low on good stuff," the Vendor Knight swoops in on his magical snack truck and all is well in Carb Land. Thing is, even on the last day of ebb, there’s usually something in there. However on this day...

Only things left are some kind of licorice thing and these sweet and spicy tortilla chips. Me and Mike look at the machine, look at each other and then he utters a profound axiom that I'll share with you in a second.

In the course of a day, I wonder how many times distractions, buzzing about like bumble bees on HGH, keep golden nuggets of wisdom from pollinating our brain? Just how often might two or three short sentences - so charged with common sense they would stun us like a Star Trek Phaser if we really listened - hit our ears and we don’t even know it?

I’m in such a hurry, brothers and sisters, that I know darn well I miss much good stuff. Got no time to read, no time to watch sunsets (one of my most favorite things), I give the finer, subtle things in life no quarter in my speed of light life…except this one time. Let me share Mike's wisdom with you.

“Don’t get the chips,” he says. “They’re in a purple bag. Nothing good comes in a purple bag.”

I take half a step back.

“What?”

“I’m telling you,” he says, “purple is to 2009 as green was to the 90’s.”

I’ve known Mike for about 12 years and let me tell you, he does not have that kinda range on his mental jumper. Or maybe I’ve just never let him shoot. I was blown away.

Well, I had to buy the purple packaged chips because the only way I was getting the licorice thing was if I found myself alone in the prison yard and I had to eat them or feel the shiv. Get shivved. (What IS the correct perfect progressive verb form of a penitentiary stabbing?) Homey don’t do licorice.

You know what? Mike was right. The chips were terrible.

I went to Wally World later that night, looked at all the packaging and 94.67% of the time, purple wrapper meant no bueno. Other than a slice and bake chocolate chip cookie, that is.

But don’t take my word; check it out for yourself.

From the first trip to the grand parent’s house, it was obvious my kids were going to be great adventurers and wonderful traveling companions. We drove across the country in our minivan for nearly ten years, completely enjoying the journey each time.

We’d bring a 13 inch TV/VCR, a plug in power supply, and let them play movies as we drove. It kept them entertained and we’d all break out in song once the soundtrack kicked in. After a few trips we knew movie lines word for word. Fun. As they grew, so did our movie collection.

On of the last trips before their headphones took over, the missus surprised us with three movies (now DVD’s played in someone’s computer) we’d rented a hundred times - movies we loved, laughed at and knew by heart.

What we forgot was that it’d been quite some time – nearly twenty years in some cases – since we’d seen the actually, original cut, meaning most viewings over those twenty years were on the tele. Since we choose food and clothing over paying for premium channels, those viewings were on basic cable. I’m thinking you might know where this is going…unlike we did in our van.

Not sure what the movie was, but the familiar lines flowed from the speakers until one word spilled out. There was about a three count between the word and the missus and I turning to look at each other. I turned back towards the road and said, “I didn’t hear what I thought I just…” but it shot out again and I finished my thought, saying, “but I guess I did.” It was, as Ralphie said in the Christmas story, “THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words.”

I tried to concentrate on the road and the missus turned around in her seat intent on saying, “Hey, guys, need to turn that off and pick another movie,” but as she did, she saw something on the screen we also didn’t remember from the original movie. Something that caused the kids eyes to grow wide. What was it? Does it matter? (Ok, fine! The first Vacation movie; did NOT remember that scene!) We listened to music the rest of the trip.

The other day a guy was telling me about renting and playing Back to the Future for his kids (aged 12 and under) and running into the same problem.

“We’re watching,” he said, “and then these words I didn’t remember shouted out from the TV speakers. How did I forget about it?”

How indeed. Raised in a network TV and basic cable world, our kiddies had some protection from the harsh realities of first run movies, but in the process I think we parents lulled ourselves to censored movie sleep.

Either that or we’re just (in my best dubbed voice) SLIMY parents.

Years ago, we’d drive from our Florida home up to Tennessee to visit the grandparents. One particular trip - I think Big Sis was five or six, Brother would have been nearly three, and Lil Sis one – was typical of that time.

We stopped at our favorite road trip diner and as we sat down, the missus said, “Kids, you can either have chocolate milk or dessert, but not both.”

The three Musketeers discussed the matter quietly, ordered up and we ate with smiles and quiet conversation. A picture perfect young family of five.

That was a typical restaurant visit for us in those days; our kids just didn’t fuss and really enjoyed the moment. As we walked towards the door, an older couple nodded to us and the woman lightly touched my wife on the arm and said, “You must be a good mom; you have wonderful, well-behaved kids.”

We smiled and headed to the van, a little spring in our step.

Same trip, two years later….

Big Sis, who absolutely refused to let anyone comb her hair for the past two months but insisted on wearing “pretty dresses” all the time, announced she wanted chocolate milk and baby cereal because she missed it from when she was a baby. Furthermore, that’s all she was going to eat, thank you.

Brother played with his Ninja Turtle and we could have ordered him rusty nails with a side of broken bottles - any old thing as long as he could continue to fight evil with Donatello. Lil Sis was tired and not about to give in to that overdue nap.

Fifteen minutes after the food arrived, Brother was actually under the table making cat sounds because as he quietly and confidently told me, “Dad, no one really knows what the #@$& a turtle sounds like.”

“W-what?” I stuttered. Apparently someone learned a new word at the neighbor’s house that week.

Big Sis tried to reach across the table to get the extra fork and decided it’d be easier if she crawled across. And so she did. Lil Sis fell asleep in her macaroni and cheese. Just plopped her big head down in it.

I caught an older couple shaking their heads as they saw me and the missus laughing, seemingly oblivious to the terrible children we were raising. 

What they couldn’t know was that I’d looked at my wife and said, “Guess we shouldn’t count on the parents of the year money this year, eh?”

I was reminded today of those marvelous people who take a look at your kids or your parenting skills, click their tongues and say to themselves, “Lookit those kids!” or “Lookit those parents!”

So to you who battle each day with a passel of kids in tow, I know you’re doing your best. When you’re out with your kids and you hear the click of a tongue, know what? Think of some new words you’d like to share with them and everything will be fine. But don’t say them out loud; the neighbor’s kids might be around.

Well sir, when a woman that good lookin’, that talented, with that much time and motivation gets after it…means a man loses a good chunk of what he’s come to know as the familiarity of his castle. Goes something like this.

You come home Friday and there are these swatches of cloth over your couch and chairs, and some strips of paper with twenty-six shades of brown taped to your wall. You know what this is; the work of Santa's evil twin.

You learned about him as a small boy. He's the one who every couple of years, or, "when daddy did good this year," oddly enough, would come (usually around the holidays) and take a perfectly good sofa, replacing it with another that was puffier and harder to sit on.

Then there would be all this painting while you were in school. Sometimes Evil Santa would make your mom paint the living room a horrible green color. A color that made your dad say, "Oh, yeah, looks good," the same way he said, "Oh yeah, looks good," as he glanced at the horsey picture you furiously scribbled on the way home, just for brownie points. The trauma of childhood tramples your brain as you look around in dead silence.

"So, what do you think of this fabric for a new couch?" she says.

Inside you, the little boy is screaming, "THE OLD ONE WORKS! IT WORKS! WHY ARE WE GETTING A NEW ONE?" As you hunt around for signs of the Evil One, you respond without thinking:

"Oh, yeah, looks good." You back up slowly, half a step at a time, never taking your eyes off her. “What, um, else have you done today?”

“Started on the bathroom demo; I was thinking about adding a basement under the heated floor, and…”

Cough! You choke a bit on your tongue. “Sorry, did you say basement? We don’t have basements in Texas.”

She laughs and says, “But we will soon; I still got five hours before I go to bed.”

Santa!!

Went to meet a buddy at his kid’s soccer game last Saturday.  I got there a little early, found the correct field and had a seat on the bleachers. The group was mostly moms and we all nodded and said, “Hey.”  Soon enough, the friendly group and I were conversating like old buddies.

“You know what no one has anymore?" says Soccer Mom Number One.

What's that?" me and Mom Number Two say in unison.

“That old car that stays in the family for a hundred years, and moves from brother to sister to cousin to uncle and back again."

Mmm-hmm," Two and I nod in agreement.

“Ours was an old Citation, a gold Citation," says Two, and One and I laugh, because we know just what it looked like. 

Me and the soccer moms.  Kickin' back, chewin' the fat, and occasionally watching the kids play soccer.

Number One goes on to tell about the car she got as a wedding present of sorts, and I chip in with my recollections of a 1978 Gremlin.

“The car drove, sounded like, and had brakes like a tank.  But it ran and ran," I chuckled.

Suddenly Two jumps up.

Go, Billy, go!" she yells as Billy, in the middle of three other players, gets a breakaway to the net.  Five yards later, all that's to be seen are elbows and …shoelaces. 

“Good try, son," Two yells.  "His feet grow by the minute," she confides in us.  "Sometimes he's a gazelle; other times he's a gnu. He has a fabulous attitude about all of it, though."

We all nod.  Right there with you, sister.

“And then the last person gets the family car," I continue, "and it's running pretty good, everyone's put a few bucks in it over the years, and the last sister wrecks it, and the first thing she says is, 'What?  It was an old car anyway!'" I throw my head back and laugh.

“That's…um… never happened in my family," says One.

“Can't say as I recall anything like that either," muses Two.

Suddenly One jumps up and points at her Ashley.

"Ash, grab the ball!  Grab the ball!"

Two purses her lips. “Girl, you can't use your hands in soccer, not unless you're that catcher person back by the big cage."

“Well, really?  Guess I need to learn a thing or two about this game don't I?” 

We all scratch our heads a bit, and then One yells, "Ash, honey, pull up your socks!"

“You know," she says, "I could not find any white tube socks anywhere, for any of the kids.  I looked everywhere and I …"

And here I sit, talking about cars, but not about fixing them; about socks, but not the kind heavyweights throw. Ah, twenty-first century life.  The gender lines are wonderfully blurred, and a sensitive guy like me appreciates that.

“. . and just turn the sock around, and wear it for another day!"  We all cackle at Two's joke.

“But then, like the other day," I throw in, "I washed a load of whites, and ended up with eleven white socks that didn't have a match!  I about lost it."

“If they were white, what difference would it make?" One asks.  "I mean, I know what you mean, but … what do you mean?"

“Yeah, I know what you mean," I say, with a snort. 

Practice ends and the three of us compare notes on what tomorrow will bring.

“Billy's got a Scout meeting at eight," Two begins, "so if Leigh can watch Suzy after band practice, I can get Ken's shirts from the cleaners on my way home from work, and swing by the store for milk and bread."

“Oh, man, milk and bread!" One groans, "Thanks for reminding me.  I need to stop by Mart-Land for Dave's prescription, and make those cupcakes for Ashley's birthday party. Then there's the next day. Oh well, another day, another day behind."

One and Two graciously pause for me to chime in.

Hey," I say, "tomorrow will make the third week in a row I put my own underwear in the dresser drawer.  I'm just trying to do what I can to help out, you know?"

I inhale a sniff, manifest a confident, crooked half smile and hitch up my jeans (think Barney Fife) and nod. One and Two clear their throats. Yeah. I know girls, but I'm already taken.

My buddy finally shows up and we high five. The Mom’s stroll off with their little ones, and I walk away with even more of an understanding of what it takes to be a productive woman in our society. 

Kevin, the Honorary Soccer Mom.

“So what’s the big deal with this flu thing; why are we all freaking out? Closing schools! It’s just the flu.”

Well, I’ll tell you why…

From MedicineNet.com

“Although uncomplicated influenza-like illness (fever, cough or sore throat) has been reported in many cases, mild respiratory illness (nasal congestion, rhinorrhea) without fever and occasional severe disease also has been reported."

"Other symptoms reported with swine influenza A virus infection include vomiting, diarrhea, myalgia, headache, chills, fatigue, and dyspnea. Conjunctivitis is rare, but has been reported. Severe disease (pneumonia, respiratory failure) and fatal outcomes have been reported with swine influenza A virus infection."

"The potential for exacerbation of underlying chronic medical conditions or invasive bacterial infection with swine influenza A virus infection should be considered.”

What’s the big deal you ask? Vomiting and diarrhea, ladies and germs...VOMITING AND DIARRHEA!! Isn’t that enough?

This is a new flu strain. We don’t have natural anti bodies for it yet, right? It says, “…invasive bacterial infection.” Means we are defenseless against it. I’m thinking basic DNA restructuring, circus side show results, body snatcher pods and the whole nine yards.

Headache, chills, and dyspnea…how the heck do you even say dyspnea?

“Yes, doctor, in addition to the vomiting and diarrhea I think I have ‘dis-pa-knee….er…dice-ip-na…die-spinn….wait, be right back… (buuuick!)”

Now, I realize pretty much everything has the potential to kill you these days but that’s not the point.

We have a hard time when the idiot in the car next to us won’t let us over a lane right NOW; suddenly we’ll take fever, cough, sore throat and nasal congestion in stride? We could get rhinorrhea, for goodness sake. Whatever that is – do we get on all fours and start charging people? Great googly moogly.

Close the schools? I’m just gonna dig a whole in my backyard and hunker down for two weeks. I’ll be fine. I think I have some pork bbq in my freezer. Hopefully you home-from-school, freak show zoo animals don’t get a whiff of it and come over to suck my brains out.

*shakes his head* What’s the big deal, indeed.