How I got old and met your mother

Buster was nosing through my things and found one of the many watches I no longer wear because the battery died and I didn’t get around to replacing it. I’ve collected several watches over the years. They sit in a box with their dead batteries. It’s my way of holding back time.

Buster showed me the watch. “Look. I found and old, old, old, old, old, old watch. It used to be yours when you were a kid.”

That means I’m one or two olds older than the watch. It’s true, I’m old. I’m 50, which isn’t old in general terms, but it is old for the parent of a kindergartner. When Big Man gets to kindergarten I’ll be two years older.

Time all over again

An old watch on a young wrist.

To Buster: The abridged story of my relative elderliness

Yes, Buster, I am old, compared to your classmates’ fathers. It’s not the way I planned it. You see, I was supposed to marry my high school sweetheart. Only, I didn’t have a high school sweetheart. The best I could do was a high school crush. It’s considerably more awkward to marry your high school crush. Unlike all the romance you’ve projected onto her from afar, a marriage is something that both parties should be aware of.

Then, I was supposed to marry that wonderful girl I met in college. But you see, Buster, I was too focused on my studies in the field of beerology to go around falling in love. There was that one potentially wonderful girl who might have turned my head, but she was either less wonderful than I thought, or she spent every single Friday and Saturday night washing her hair. It was probably the latter, because one night I saw her walking arm in arm with a frat boy, and he looked like he knew a lot about conditioner.

But that was okay, Buster, because once I made a name for myself, it would be easy to find a wife. Turns out it’s harder than you might think to make a name for yourself in retail management. Plus, when you hit your late 20s, all the college kids who work for you think you’re over the hill. And when you assign them to clean the store’s bathrooms, they think you’re horribly old – like wicked stepmother old.

Then I got to my 30s and it got harder to meet people, including people to marry.

But here’s the good news, Buster. One day in my middle 30s, your mother came along and everything fell into place. It took a while to convince her where everything’s place was, but it worked out perfectly in the end, because now I have her, and you, and your brothers in my life.

See, Buster, if I’d married according to the plan, you wouldn’t be you. You’d be somebody else, or no one at all. I wouldn’t like that. I waited a long time for Mommy and you kids, and maybe that makes me a little old, but it was worth the wait. You’ll never find a man more satisfied at being old.

Never too old to be a young dad

Time to pick up the kids from elementary school. Better get the donkeys saddled. (Image: Russell Lee/US Farm Security Administration)


After years of writing, I finally have a story to die for

If you’ve visited before, you may know that I have self-published a few books. When you self-publish enough books, you get noticed. Some authors get noticed by readers, but I find that I get noticed much more often by aggressive marketers, trying to sell me their publishing platforms. These platforms usually come at a high price for very little useful platform, so I disregard the advertisements.

When this marketing piece appeared in my mailbox, I assumed it was from a fly-by-night, vanity press that had bought my name from a mailing list in the hope I possess three important characteristics:

  1. I am ignorant of publishing scams.
  2. I harbor dreams of penning the autobiography of my quietly fascinating life.
  3. I do not know what the word fascinating means.

Before tossing the piece into the recycle bin, I turned it over to make note of the name of the publishing company trying to take advantage of my feeble-minded sense of self-importance.

That’s when it hit me. Publishing companies, even the shady ones, don’t have Memory Gardens in their names nearly so much as cemeteries do.

I am not being recruited by a shady publisher, but by a shady plot in a peaceful meadow. They’re not trying to sell me a two-bit book layout for my memoirs; they’re trying to sell me a hole to bury my carcass.

This is disturbing, because nowadays these marketers know more about you than you do. Last year, AARP was all over my 50th birthday like flies on sheet cake. What does Memory Gardens know about me that puts me on the same prospect list with Great Depression Babies? Should I take heart that it’s addressed to me OR whomever took up residence in my death trap of a home after my demise?

I guess the best thing is to find the humor in it, of which there is plenty. I do enjoy the Resolutions theme: A new year is a time for resolutions. Why don’t you resolve to die this year?

I also like the appeal to the control freak: By planning your final arrangements in advance, you can still tell everybody what to do even after you’re dead. After all, you wouldn’t want them to grieve in any way but the one that suits your departed ego.

But the best laugh is reserved for the smallest print:

“Our sincerest condolences if this was received during a time of mourning.” In other words, “We hope we’re not too late, but if the next of kin need to throw something together right away, we are such considerate people, and by the way, we still do have plots available.”

Having considered all this, I’ve decided I’m not writing my autobiography or resolving to die this year. I’m hoping to keep my story to myself for a while longer.


Don’t call me a hero. I’m just a guy who touched feet so future generations could live fuller lives.

The trouble with major research universities is somebody there is always trying to do research. All this intellectual curiosity can get annoying, but when you live in the shadow of the behemoth you get its shade cast upon you sometimes.

Most people can avoid getting caught in the net of the research study, but most people are not married to my wife. The only thing she likes more than making herself into a guinea pig for the discoveries of tomorrow is making her husband into a guinea pig for whatever human subject experimentation is going on today.

The latest thing she leapt to sign us up for is a study on reflexology. Reflexology, as it applies to us, is the application of pressure to the feet. As explained to us, different areas in the foot correspond to areas within the greater body, and by massaging these foot areas, relief can be applied to the rest of the body. Whether this is true, I don’t know, but I’m just a guinea pig; it’s not my job to draw conclusions.

We are just a couple of weeks into our study, but I have already learned two important things. I learned how to, in my amateurish way, apply reflexology pressure to feet. I also learned, although I probably already had this info tucked somewhere in the back of my mind, that I am in no danger of ever contracting a foot fetish.

Why can’t feet stay this cute and soft, with Piggies who still say “Wee, wee, wee!” all the way home?

It turns out I’m not so high on feet.

My training began with getting reflexology applied to my own feet, which was fine, but I’d just as soon have a back rub. Next, I had to work on the feet of somebody I’d just met. I don’t even really like to hug people I just met, so whipping out the foot lube and going to town all over their little piggies was a tad unsettling.

But I got through it.

You’re welcome, Science.

Now, I just have to manhandle my wife’s feet on a regular basis. Though I dearly love all of her appendages, I have to say, there are other parts of her where I would more enthusiastically plant the flag of scientific enlightenment.

I’m just not into feet. I don’t even care for my own feet. Yes, they are extremely useful to me in my everyday doings, but they are not cute or cuddly, or even gritty handsome in a backwoods kind of way. My feet are homely workhorses, which is why I grew them as far from my eyes as I could.

The only pair of feet I can truly say I love to touch are those soft, pudgy, still babylike ones at the ground end of Big Man. They have yet to develop the harsh gangliness of his older brothers’ feet. For a year or two more, his feet will be a pleasure to touch.

Too bad he’s not signed up for the reflexology study.



There are presents inside this blog post

Since Christmas is right around the corner, regular readers may be tuning in expecting to find pictures of the boys putting up the tree and otherwise preparing themselves for an onslaught of joy.

Well, no.

Don’t get me wrong; we put up the tree and we are girding our loins for the wave of unbridled glee, and the boys will be getting their fair share of presents on the 25th. But, I’ve decided to make this post include a present for you (well, two of you, anyway.)

Through December 27, I’m running an Amazon Giveaway of my latest book. It’s the first time I’ve ever done an Amazon Giveaway, so bear with me as I learn the process. The bottom line is this: two winners will get a copy of this book shipped to them from absolutely free.

That’s right: FREE! I’ve already paid for the books and shipping from Amazon.

For a chance to win a book, just follow these easy steps:*

  1. Click the book cover or link below to go to the Giveaway.
  2. Sign into your account (if not already signed in).
  3. Click the button that says “Enter.”

That’s it! You’re entered.



Anders sacrificed his own promising future to save the life of child. Now he must decide whether to cling to the unlikely hope of regaining his old status, or spend his time making the most of the life fate dealt him. Though difficult to let go of rewards once promised, perhaps the greatest rewards are those earned by building new hope from the bits and pieces of wrecked dreams. A Housefly in Autumn is a historical novel intended for Young Adults and up.

Giveaway link:

After December 27, Amazon will draw two random winners from the pool of entrants and ship the books directly to them.

Here’s the really cool part. I’ve made the Giveaway private, so only people who follow the link can enter. Since I’d like visitors to my blog to have a good chance to win, this is the only place I’m posting the link. You can share the link, or this entire post, or keep it to yourself. That’s up to you.

*The not so really cool part is that according Amazon’s rules, this Giveaway is limited to U.S. entrants. I apologize to my international friends. I would love to be able to include everyone, but apparently doesn’t cover the globe quite like Santa does.

Merry Christmas and good luck.

Now, if you really just wanted to see a picture of us putting up the tree, I’ve got you covered too.

Happy Holidays!