Nutfield Publishing - Londonderry Times

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Snoring

It was close to midnight. The house was quiet, the air as still as it can be on a cool spring evening. An eerie silence enveloped the room. But as I rose from the couch to head for my bedroom, I distinctly heard a deep, steady sound, like the drone of a propeller airplane in the distance. It began softly, but steadily grew until it became a mighty roar. Like the sound of a billion gallons of water pouring over Niagara Falls. I suddenly recognized it as the most irritating of nighttime noises. The one sound that can disrupt sleep for miles around, drive bears from their winter hibernation, even shake the foundations of large skyscrapers...someone in the house was snoring.

Now I won’t tell you who was snoring that night. My wife would kill me. But I’m sure you’ve had your own experiences with that dastardly sound. The question is - how do you deal with it?

Let’s first examine the scientific evidence as to why people snore. Actually, let’s not - I really have no idea. Nor do I care. Someone once told me it has something to do with the vibration of respiratory structures, usually the uvula and soft palate, causing irregular airflow in the nasal passage. But what do I know... All I’ve ever wanted to do is stop the noise, so I can get some sleep.

In the midst of a snorer in full bloom, you can’t just bury your head under your pillow. These snoring sounds penetrate so deeply that such passive techniques just don’t work. Ya gotta step up to the plate; get to the root of the issue. Stop the snoring at the source.

It’s easier to solve a snoring problem if the snorer is someone who sleeps in the same room as you. Because of that close proximity, you have many more options to stop the noise. For example, it’s easy enough to just reach over and pinch the nostrils shut until the snorer gasps for air. Or you can cover the mouth of the offender until he or she bolts upright in bed, with that look of wide-eyed terror on the face as if just waking from a nightmare about waterboarding. That’s a classic effect.

But I tend to resort to the gentle shake of the shoulder, followed by some witty verbal remark like “Stop snoring.” Usually does the job for me. Until the next barrage of snoring kicks in; then I start the process all over again.

Now this intimate snore deprivation doesn’t work well if it’s your brother in the next room who’s snoring. Or the dog. Or especially your father. After all, you can’t go bopping into Dad’s bedroom just because he’s snoring. You can only hope that Mom knows how to implement those close proximity, snore deprivation techniques. Or that you can teach them to her quickly.

It’s also awkward to alleviate a snoring situation if, for instance, you are sharing a tent with someone who, as it turns out, is a big snorer. You can’t just use the close proximity techniques on him. Wouldn’t want to give him the wrong impression - if you know what I mean.

When I was in basic training, we had a unique way of stopping snorers from continuing their evil craft. Snoring is tough to put up with when you have 40 guys all in one barracks, trying to catch five hours of sleep each night. But because most snorers tend to sleep on their backs, it’s easy for a team of guys to work on alleviating the problem. We would simply squeeze a big pile of shaving cream into the offender’s hand, then lightly tickle his nose. His reaction, while deep in sleep, was to slap at his nose to alleviate the itch. So he ended up with shaving cream smeared all over his face. Now this didn’t always stop the snoring. But many a snorer woke the next morning with a big plop of dried shaving cream all over his face. The rest of us thought that was pretty funny. And there was some consolation in that.

Now, I know that I’m as much of a snorer as anyone else in my family. Many a time, I’ve caught myself falling asleep while reading or watching TV. I’ve even awakened myself on occasion with a loud intake of air. And you might just freely admit that you too are a snorer. So in order to avoid being susceptible to the techniques we’ve used to stop others from snoring, it might behoove us all to sleep on our stomachs. Or find some other way to sleep without kicking in the ol’ throat motor. Then everyone can sleep peacefully.
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Kid Talk

I’ve often been accused of acting like a kid, usually by those closest to me, who experience my “inner child” first hand. And no doubt, way too often. Which is probably why I also communicate pretty well with kids. And why I’d like to capitalize on that, just for the fun of it.

I recall that way, way back in my childhood, in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, a gentleman named Art Linkletter hosted a television show called “House Party.” Mr. Linkletter dedicated the last portion of his show to speaking with kids in a segment he called “Kids Say the Darndest Things.” I don’t even think ‘darndest’ is a word...but the show ran for 25 years, beginning in the black and white television era.

It was one of the most successful TV shows ever. And I’ve always known why. It was the kids. Even at the age of 10 or so, I could see that the interaction between an adult and a younger child can be hilarious. And entertaining. Kids are simply funny in their honesty and innocence.

Spend some time talking to any kid under the age of 10 and you’ll discover two things. First, kids will tell you their life story. Just ask the right questions. Second, they’ll ask you questions. Then you get to tell them your life story. I’d suggest fudging a bit - kids don’t need to know everything you do. But the interaction is...well, precious. And that’s not a word I use very much. It’s a girlie word.

But that’s why I’ll soon be hosting a new show on Londonderry Access Television, which I call Kid Talk. I will focus on interviewing local kids, generally three at a time and initially ranging in age from 5 to 8 years old. We’ll group them so that they are of the same age and try to balance their personalities, even though we aren’t child psychologists. We’ll discuss their thoughts on life. Nothing heavy - we might talk about their favorite teachers, their siblings, maybe the big bang theory. Or the Pythagorean theorem. I’ve always wanted to know more about that.

We might ask them to bring in some of their favorite toys, stuffed animals, books. Kids still like books at that age. Maybe we’ll ask them to draw a picture for us and bring it on the show. We’ll grill them with “brutal questions” about all this stuff.

How brutal can a question be about an Elmo doll, you may ask? Or a stick figure drawing of your dog? Not brutal at all, of course. But we’ll pull some humor from all of this. My little guest homies will ensure us of that.

We’ll stay away from embarrassing topics. And we’ll edit each show before it goes on the air...just in case. There are some things the rest of the world just doesn’t need to know about your Auntie Grizelda. But we want a live audience in attendance, so we’ll definitely invite the families of the kids on the show that day, and we’ll squeeze in others as we can. Even Auntie Grizelda.

We’ll want to interview the potential kids first, of course. Probably in groups of a dozen or so. We want to make sure we bring kids on the show who would not be intimidated by the experience. Like I will. And we’ll make them as comfortable as possible, in preparation for their first “15 minutes of fame.” The artist Andy Warhol once said we will all have that 15 minutes - why not start young?

So, parents, do you think your child would be a good candidate for Kid Talk? If so, drop me a quick note of interest at Jparadis44@aol.com. I’ll then send you a brief application form to complete and we’ll arrange a group interview from there. If that looks promising, we’ll invite your child and the family to be on the show - the child on the stage and the family in the audience. The kids will provide the sound bites; the audience will provide the laugh track. If it worked for Art Linkletter, it should work for us.

Then we’ll all observe the wisdom of youth in action - and it’ll be fun. And funny. Maybe even funnier than a root canal. Or a Town Council meeting on cable access television - I suppose I should know.

So drop me an e-mail if you’re interested, parents! We’ll probably start filming in June. And I’d hate to do a kids show with only my inner child present.
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The Vacation Challenge

Vacations can be tough on parents. It’s all because of the kids, of course.

When the kids are young, the vacation challenge is logistical. Lugging around strollers, car seats, playpens, baby bottles, sippy cups, a million Pampers, two million toys. It’s tough on the parents.

As the kids become grade schoolers, the vacation challenge becomes keeping them occupied. DVD players, snacks, iPods, snacks, cell phones, more snacks - and maybe just maybe, something called a book - become expensive babysitters for those down times between rides at DisneyWorld.

By the time the kids reach 18, the challenge is neither logistics nor babysitting, but whether they even want to go on vacation with you at all. The embarrassment, God forbid, of actually spending a whole week with their “parental units” - even in the most exotic locations - can be just a bit too much for some teens. At least until they realize that a vacation is a free ride or, at the very least, a low-cost opportunity to visit another part of the world without dipping into their own summer savings.

And that’s where my wife and I stood recently when we packed our bags for a week on the island of St. Maarten, accompanied by our 18-year-old daughter and her equally 18-year-old friend. The girls were more than happy to go with the old folks. They’re no fools... we can’t afford to vacation like this all the time.

Now, by itself, this was dangerous territory for me, outnumbered as I was, traveling with three women. There would no doubt be those evil attempts to “go shopping,” a term that sits in my stomach about as well as a bowl of tripe. But I was prepared for situations like that, given the opportunity to lounge on a beach in the Caribbean, drink an occasional Pina Colada, and mingle with guests from all over the world, as well as the local folks on this, “The Friendly Island.”

What I wasn’t prepared for was the challenge of keeping a wary eye on the local boys working at the resort who continually flocked around our daughter and her friend all week. It proved to be a lot more work than lugging all that baby stuff around in our earlier vacation days.

It had been four years since we last visited St. Maarten. At that time, my daughter was 14 and content to hang out with her 16-year-old brother. Together as a family, we had a ball. The local boys working at the resort at that time weren’t interested in talking to 14-year-old girls; they were busy honing their conversational skills on the 18-year-olds. But this year, we were bringing the 18-year-olds with us. Suddenly, I had to go into serious Dad Mode, not only for my own daughter, but for her friend, whom we have known for years.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The local “cabana boys” were all pleasant young men, otherwise they would have been gone from this resort a long time ago. Ranging in age from 20 to 28, most were local island kids, or from other islands in the Caribbean, who held various jobs at Oyster Bay Resort, where we’ve been vacationing for years when we can afford it. Some distributed the towels at the pool. Others made sure the rooms were clean for new guests. Still others were baggage boys or scheduled events for the guests. Yet despite their varied jobs, at any given time, they each seemed to find time to just hang around the pool in their brightly colored shirts - coincidentally when cute young ladies, like our two girls, were in the vicinity.

Amazingly, they also found time in their busy social lives to seek out our girls - even when they weren’t scheduled to work. One night, we went to dinner in the resort’s restaurant. The girls stepped out by the pool for some air and sure enough, one of the boys found them, and readily began enchanting them with tales of his extensive 24 years of life on an island. I was reminded of Captain Jack Sparrow from “Pirates of the Caribbean.” The kid was smooth - and full of it.

Another time we went for a late night dessert in another of the resort’s lounges. To no one’s surprise, one of the cabana boys just happened to be there too. And lo and behold, each morning as we all gathered at the pool for morning exercise with Helma, the haptonomy guru, we were greeted by at least three of the cabana boys, none of whom were even scheduled to work poolside that day. They just wanted to say good morning to the girls.

Among this glittering brood of island charmers, I became known as Pops - and the boys accepted me as pleasantly as any guest and were outwardly warm each time I sauntered by to check on the girls. Which was every 10 minutes or so. But I’m sure they were used to encountering concerned dads over the years, as they chatted with plenty of other daughters on vacation with their families. I actually liked these kids. Only once did I say to one of them, “Thank God, you’re a gentleman, so I don’t have to have you killed.” He wasn’t quite sure how to take that, but was especially nice to me afterwards.

While the girls certainly enjoyed the attention of the cabana boys, they understood that this attention was a vacation phenomenon. As I did, they laughed at offers to take them to the movies and to a concert by “Elephant Man,” a local rapper who was playing from 11 p.m. to 4 a.m. one night. They knew they had other commitments back home.

As we came to our last day on the island, we weren’t surprised that each of the boys found his way around to our room to say goodbye to the girls. And none too soon, either. I was exhausted from my chore of keeping an eye on them. Oh, for those earlier vacation days of strollers and Pampers...
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Crossing Enemy Lines

As nice as summer vacation was in the old neighborhood, it sometimes became too tame for my brother and me. Like all grade schoolers livin’ the dream in the early ‘60s, we’d grow tired of just riding our bikes up and down the street after a week. So every once in awhile we liked to start a lazy summer day with a little bit of excitement, by tearing across Mrs. Hickey’s backyard. The challenge was to do it without getting caught.

Mrs. Hickey was an old Irish woman, fresh off the boat - from our account, about 90 years earlier, even back then. She was a stocky lady with a shock of pure white hair, thick ankles and gnarled hands, who always wore a housedress and severe black shoes with shoelaces and stocky one-inch heels. She also wore her nylon stockings bunched up around her swollen ankles, something we could never figure out.

Mrs. Hickey wore glasses, but all the neighborhood kids were quite aware that her razor-sharp eyes could spot a kid coming from a mile away. She also made a living out of hanging her laundry out to dry on a pulley clothesline that stretched clear across her backyard. We marveled at the number of corsets, huge underwear, and nylon stockings that dangled in the breeze from that clothesline just about every day. Thank God clothes dryers have since allowed neighbors to hide their dirty laundry...

But that combination of keen eyesight and constant clothes hanging is what made a jaunt through Mrs. Hickey’s backyard an especially exciting challenge. We knew she’d probably be sitting on that stool of hers that constantly stood guard near the clothesline pulley on her first floor back porch - just waiting for some kids to enter the sacred sanctum of the Hickey residence.

Now getting to Mrs. Hickey’s backyard was a challenge on its own. She lived two doors down from us in that neighborhood of double-decker houses, each separated by a 10-foot-wide driveway. To start “the crossing,” we had to crawl through the hole in the fence that separated Mrs. Hickey’s property from our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Cook. And getting across Mrs. Cook’s property unscathed was no mean feat either.

You see, Mrs. Cook was a typical nosey neighborhood gossip of that time. She sported fuzzy gray hair, a whiney, high-pitched voice, and a constant apron. She paraded from one side of her second floor back porch to the other and knew everything that happened in everyone’s backyard. Whenever she spotted me doing something she thought particularly suspicious, I’d hear the old crow whine, “I see you, Mr. Paradis. Do I have to call your mother?” I’d always run. My little brother, when she caught him, would stand his ground and give her backtalk, one of the reasons he got the strap from my father many more times than I did.

Now Mrs. Cook gathered her clandestine neighborhood information by chatting up all the women on the block. She’d sit out on her front porch and question everyone who walked by. But the back porch was her favorite spot, where she’d often chat with my mother as she hung our clothes on the line, then hobble to the other end of her porch and chat it up with Mrs. Hickey. And there was no conversation longer than one between these two old Irish women who had nothing to do all day but gossip - and wait for kids to sneak across their backyards.

To be fair, both ladies were very generous, buying the religious stuff, such as the famous Holy Childhood stamps that we often had to peddle around the neighborhood, raising money for the starving children in Africa, the poor people in “the Orient,” or a new mission in some South American country we’d never heard of. Such was the lot of Catholic school kids and our mostly Catholic neighborhood of Irish, Italian, and Polish families. Except for those people across the street who were - God save them - Protestants. But actually, they bought our Holy Childhood stamps, too... so we figured they probably had a pretty good shot at Heaven too.

But back to that particular morning when my brother and I decided to grab fate by the horns and make that journey across our neighbors’ properties - and beyond. We were playing Army that morning. Had our camouflaged cardboard pillboxes all set up in our own backyard. We’d dressed in our favorite Army clothes that morning, imitation green fatigues that our mother had bought us at Woolworth’s. We’d strapped on our plastic helmets and canteens - filled with water for the long, 200-foot journey, and had just shined up our plastic machine guns. We were out to capture us some Nazi soldiers that morning, those vicious “krauts” who, just coincidentally, were hiding in the bushes on the far side of Mrs. Hickey’s backyard.

We crawled on our bellies across Mrs. Cook’s backyard walkway, hugging the foundation of her house, so as not to be spotted by her or any other enemy. We successfully reached the hole in the fence leading to Mrs. Hickey’s yard, under cover of the huge lilac bushes that straddled their property lines. Without having to fire a shot.

Then we made a break for it, scurrying through the fence and into Mrs. Hickey’s yard, where all hell broke loose as we ran through the undergarments hanging from her clothesline, mowing down the imaginary enemy with imaginary bullets, only to be stopped short by the sound of Mrs. Hickey’s terse Irish brogue exclaiming, “I can see you two boys. Be gone from my property, do you hear! I’ll be callin’ your mother, right now!”

My brother tossed an imaginary hand grenade her way. But it was clear that we wouldn’t win the battle that day...and we didn’t. All we received for our daring launch on the enemy position that morning was a dozen whacks across our butts from my father’s belt when he returned from work.

Such were the consequences of breaching Mrs. Hickey’s backyard, even while trying to win World War II, but for several years thereafter we continued our assaults on her property, sometimes in Army gear, sometimes just for the heck of it. Because that’s how we spiced up the dog days of summer in the old neighborhood - before we lost our innocence.
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That Parenting Thing

With one kid approaching 21 and the other just turning 18, it struck me this week that my wife and I are almost at the end of our parenting days. That’s an interesting milestone. Those years of changing diapers; shuffling kids to football, lacrosse, cheerleading, school dances; sweating through homework, driving lessons, boyfriends, girlfriends - it all seems to be paying off...particularly the diaper changes. At least so far.

And since pondering is about all we can do at this point, permit me to ponder a bit as to why this parenting thing seems to have worked for us.

Maybe it’s because we never hit them as punishment. Many parents don’t these days. Our punishment was, instead, psychological - our kids were warned to never violate the “family trust.” Regaining that would be tough. That tactic really worked. The trust was broken only once - and we made sure it took a long time to earn back. We are very serious about trust.

Maybe it’s because we made them practice their religion. We go to church on Sundays - and you can bet they’ve always come along. As young kids, they may not have realized the importance of religion. But when I went into my son’s room a number of years ago to say good night, it was pretty neat to hear him say, “Dad, can you give me a minute - I just want to finish my prayers.” I was pleasantly shocked. I guess something clicked along the way.

Maybe it’s because we always read with them from the moment they could open a book. I remember when our son came home from day care at the age of 4 and read me a little paragraph about a goat. I was dumbfounded. I found out later he could recite the thing from memory. No matter - today he writes well enough to have been published at college and his sister writes just as well. They take after their mother, I think.

Maybe it’s because we always had strict rules about when they could go out with friends and where they could go. The rule has always been weekend nights only, with strict curfews. If they were going over someone else’s house, we had to know the parents or meet them first - or they didn’t go. As they got older, we gradually extended the curfew and the places they could go. Of course, those curfews seem to go out the window when kids come of college age... we all know college kids exist in a different time zone. Nonetheless, we’ve always stayed up until they come home. And they’ve been trained in courtesy - to this day, our daughter calls us when she’s about to head home.

Maybe it’s because we’ve always placed very little emphasis on social drinking. We don’t drink much ourselves. A glass of wine at dinner and we’re usually ready for bed - literally. So while our kids have, no doubt, had the same curiosity about drinking as we did as kids, it would appear they’ve heeded our signals. Of course, their curiosity certainly changes when college rolls around... that’s when kids test their own stupidity.

Maybe it’s because we never bragged to our kids about all the dumb things we did “when we were their age.” They’ve only learned about my “checkered childhood” a little at a time - when my brother and I reminisce at family gatherings. That’s usually the first time our 82-year-old mother hears those stories too...We’ve also never felt we had to act like our kids to win their acceptance. Kids hate that from parents anyhow.

Maybe it’s because we were really serious about an absolute “no tolerance” policy concerning drugs. We did, after all, grow up in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Is there any way to really be proud of drug use when you’ve seen people die from it?

Maybe it’s because we have a home where they aren’t afraid to bring friends home or introduce us to them. Granted, we have a small house, so most of their gatherings or overnight stays are at their friends’ houses. But that’s OK. We still know their friends - and I get to retain the TV rights in my own house.

Maybe it’s because we told them long ago that we would fund our retirement and they would fund their college education. Because they’ve always understood that, I don’t think they regret it. So they went out looking for assistance. Our son earned a four-year ROTC scholarship for his college education. Our daughter has already earned some scholarship money as she heads off to college next fall. Of course, we’ve saved a few bucks for them, but my philosophy - as was my father’s - is that your future means more when you pay for it yourself...And I think it was Confucius who said, “Children’s education should not require a second mortgage when parents are in their 50s.”

Maybe it’s a few other things too. But we aren’t naïve. We realize our kids probably have done things that we won’t find out about until, like my mom, we’re 82 years old. But if we can see our son serve his country and our daughter go on to a career in medicine, I guess we’ll feel as if we did something right with this parenting thing.

So a word to all those parents out there still changing diapers and shuffling among the ballfields - celebrate your kids’ successes! And take credit for the part you play in steering them where you feel they should go. Then sit back and let them surprise you. Because it goes very quickly after they shed those diapers.
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Old Friends

“I think it’s time for our yearly lunch,” read John’s e-mail. “It will be the last one before I start working in Rhode Island.”

That news itself was a surprise. But the topic was not even discussed in the return e-mails. The immediate issue was to get the lunch scheduled. That was always the toughest part among the three friends.

“I can do a Wednesday or Thursday this month,” shot back Peter’s reply.

“Not I, guys,” came Joe’s response. “New work schedule for me this year. I can only do weekends - and it needs to be a dinner, not a lunch.”

And so went the e-mails over the course of several nights. Until it was finally decided – they’d get together for dinner on a Sunday night, three weeks from the day of John’s first e-mail. Typical of the way they usually arranged these things.

The three friends have been meeting faithfully, once every year for the last 25 years. Except for that one time a few years ago, when things were just so busy that they couldn’t coordinate the annual rendezvous. Not a bad track record.

They were college buddies, with nothing really special in common. Peter, Joe, and John. If Joe’s name was James, they’d be like Jesus’ three favorite Apostles. But they weren’t quite in that league. And Joe was already used to his own name. There was a nine-year gap between the oldest and the youngest. Peter was an Italian kid from Salem, Mass., fresh out of high school. Joe was six years older than Peter, a 24-year-old living in Somerville, just out of the Air Force and ready to start his college journey. John was nine years older than Peter. A Chinese guy from Malden, he was also just discharged from the Air Force and starting his education a few years late.

Peter and Joe met during freshman registration at Suffolk University in 1978, years before Al Gore had invented on-line registration. Peter had just dropped his substantial packet of registration paperwork all over the stairway among a crowd of anxious students. Joe was the only one who offered to help Peter gather the mess up. They became quick friends.

Joe and John met while doing work-study at the Veterans Administration, just a few blocks away. As veterans attending college under the old G.I. Bill, they were entitled to that perk, to earn a little cash while in school. Coincidentally they were both attending Suffolk. They became friends too, and Joe often found himself “translating” John’s words for others with “slower hearing.” That wasn’t because John had a Chinese accent - he didn’t. He just spoke way too fast for most people.

Joe introduced John to Peter during their first computer science class. The circle was complete. The bond was struck. Three young business school students whose paths just coincidentally crossed in college. During a class on COBOL programming, a computer language that only about five or six people still use today. John is one of them.

Throughout their time at Suffolk, they competed not-too-seriously among themselves for student ranking, particularly Peter and Joe, who shared more classes. One or another would always rank at the top of their class by award day. Their college nights were not filled with the stuff of typical on-campus college kids, infatuated with living away from home. They spent their nights at home, studying. These three were commuter students interested in getting through college and on to other things.

Their annual lunches began the year after they graduated. Usually they met in the winter, right after Christmas. And always in Boston, because that’s where Peter and John worked. Joe traveled in from New Hampshire, less than an hour away.

Invariably, lunch day was a cold one. Several times they gathered during a blizzard. John still claims he got frostbite one year, a condition that he says he feels, to this day, when it gets cold. That was the year they walked around for hours trying to find their way to Legal Seafood Restaurant in the People’s Republic of Cambridge and ended up at M.I.T. They were able to duck into the main building and walk down the world’s longest corridor, where John’s face finally thawed out. Lunch was two hours later that year.

All three enjoyed successful careers throughout the years. They always bet that John’s career would vanish first because he was a computer programmer still using that old COBOL language. Only time would tell.

Over the years, whether they gathered at Legal Seafood, at any downtown bar & grill, or in Chinatown for John’s favorite dim sum - you haven’t lived until you’ve tried the chicken feet... they seemed to have just barely enough time to review the previous year before John had to scurry back to work. He was always on the tightest employer leash.

So this year, it was nice that they had a little more time to enjoy dinner before parting for the year. Oh, a few things had changed since last year’s lunch. Peter’s bad back had finally reached the point where he couldn’t work for very long without excruciating pain. It effectively ended his career. Joe had wandered into the midlife career blues too, with company consolidations. At his wife’s urging, John had taken to dying his hair (it was grey at last year’s lunch, jet black this year.). Ironically, he was the only one of the three still working at the company he joined right out of college. So much for their earlier bet. Above all, they admitted they were starting to get...well, a little bit old. Or at least older.

But they just laughed about it. Because they know they’ll continue to meet for lunch every year, whether John is working in Rhode Island or not. And getting old will give them something new to talk about. That’s the kind of comfort these guys have with one another. Old friends till the end. Forever.
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Tattoos

“Well, Dad, I’m 18 now...” my son announced one day a few years ago.

“That you are, son!” I responded. “So what?”

“Well, I think I’m gonna get a tattoo.”

I paused a moment before answering. This is one of those teenage challenges that kids occasionally throw at their parents. I guess I was wrong thinking we would escape parenthood without any threat to our sovereignty. “A tattoo, huh? What were you thinking of getting?”

“Well, I don’t really know,” he responded.

His pause gave me an opening. “Can I offer a suggestion?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “If you’re gonna do that, get something meaningful. Something that you’ll still be proud to have when you’re 70 years old.”

And he actually thought about that. Two weeks later, after doing some research on tattoos and tattoo shops in the area, he had our family crest permanently inked into his left shoulder blade. I had to admit - it looked pretty cool. So cool, in fact, that a friend of ours, who also shares our last name, took one look at it and had the same tattoo etched into his arm. His first tattoo. John’s 60 years old.

“I wouldn’t have anyone else except that guy do my tattoos,” my son announced after leaving the tattoo parlor. “His shop is so clean - and he’s a real artist.” I noticed the use of the plural word “tattoos” in his declaration. Sure enough, the next year, he got another one. A very ornate cross, this time on his bicep. In memory of three friends who had died while he was in high school. “I was gonna put their initials on the cross,” he confided. “But that might be bad luck. I don’t want to have to add other initials to it later.” I couldn’t argue with the meaningfulness of that tattoo either.

He says his next one will be some variation of the Marine Corps bulldog - but he needs to wait until he graduates and actually gets his lieutenant’s bars, before that one is etched in. There’s an unwritten rule - no Marine Corps tattoos until you’ve earn them.

I’ll admit that tattoos have always fascinated me. As a youngster, I remember thinking how cool that anchor tattooed on my uncle’s forearm looked. A souvenir of his time serving with the Navy in the South Pacific during World War II. Lots of guys from the “Greatest Generation” came back home with similar etchings. They were a symbol of pride. For those warriors still alive today, their tattoos are now long washed out and faded. But that pride is still there.

I recall that, years later, while I was serving in Korea, a friend of mine wanted a tattoo. Not some symbol of the unit in which we served, nor an American flag - nor even some mysterious Oriental character. Those were too involved for him. He simply wanted the Roadrunner tattooed on his arm. So he visited one of the many tattoo shops in the muddy little village that had grown up around our base, and had the deed done. We all marveled - not at his tattoo, but at the fact that he didn’t get blood poisoning. In that place and in those days, the sanitary situation was, shall we say, less than adequate. To this day, he still sports that bird on his arm. And I’m sure it will shrivel as his skin does when he hits 70 or 80 years young.

Last year, my daughter announced that, like her brother, she too wanted to get a tattoo when she turned 18. I playfully rolled my eyes - but actually, inside, I was worried. I’m not a big fan of those long swirly things that so many girls today get tattooed on their lower backs. I just can’t picture those on an 80-year-old woman - again, my long-term outlook on tattoos.

So I said no. As a dad, I have that right, right? But then we talked about it - after all, we had a whole year to work on reason. And she went from wanting two angel wings on her shoulders - one on either side - to settling on a neat little guardian angel above her left shoulder blade. It was actually quite tasteful. So my wife and I agreed that this would certainly not be the worst thing she could do. We had some hope that our kids wouldn’t keep going on this tattoo thing until their bodies looked like comic books. So we visited Blue Heron Tattoo Shop, on our son’s recommendation, where John reviewed her design and set up an appointment for my daughter’s 18th birthday.

And, oh yeah, I finally gave in to my secret desire - we set up an appointment for me, the same day as hers. I didn’t want any comic book characters all over my body - I guess I’m just a traditional tattoo guy - but I’ve always wanted a symbol of my time in the Air Force. So I had a copy of my unit patch from Korea etched into my arm. After all, I spent as much time there as I did in college. It meant something to me - and it looked cool too.

It was kind of neat to do this the same day as my daughter. We spent a week checking out each other’s tattoos. Making sure we had each put moisturizer on “the wound,” as John called it. Checking out the raised bumps that would eventually heal smoothly. I thought it was a nice bond between father and daughter. Unorthodox maybe...but nice.

My son and I have committed to a tattoo bond as well. When he actually becomes a Marine Corps officer next year, we plan to have his and my dog tags tattooed on our arms, one crossing over the other. We thought it would create a simple but powerful bond. I got that idea from a friend who plans to do the same with his and his son’s dog tags - as a tribute to his Marine son who gave his life for this country several years ago. Thanks, Peter.

So I guess I’ve acquired a new respect for tattoos these days. Even if mine will shrivel, as my skin does, when I reach 70 or 80..
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The Real Value of Refrigerator Magnets

We once had a refrigerator in our kitchen. Admittedly it was an older variety, a Hotpoint No Frost. I believe the color was Harvest Gold, a vintage shade of brownish yellow from the 1980s, popular when we first bought our house. Always a reliable machine, that frig kept our food cold and/or frozen as appropriate. It did all the things a good refrigerator should do.

Sometime last year, however, we finally lost our frig... Well, not really. It just sort of disappeared behind a veritable wall of refrigerator magnets, family pictures, and other assorted memorabilia so vast, that we could no longer see the front or the side of the ol’ icebox. We just intrinsically know that it’s buried somewhere in that pile of pictures, calendars, school notices and advertisements, all firmly attached to the ol’ icebox with a variety of magnets.

Now I really don’t mind that colorful conglomeration. As long as we can see the handles to the frig and the freezer, I know we won’t starve. The magnets actually make a great conversation piece and save us the hassle of pulling out a dozen picture albums every time someone drops by to visit. We just show ‘em the magnets, grab some cold drinks and sandwiches from the frig, and reminisce about the pictures - all in one place. Sort of like one-stop shopping...

Of course, these refrigerator collections are nothing new to most households - especially if you have kids. I suspect that most people are pretty good at keeping the pictures current - unfortunately, we were never very good at updating our collection...

Witness the fact that we have 13 pictures of our nephew Mitch magnetically attached to the frig. It seems that our collection spans his lifetime, which is now approaching his ninth year. By contrast, we have exactly three pictures of our daughter and, well, one picture of our son on the frig door. And those shots are at least 10 years old. It’s not that we haven’t taken any pictures of our kids over the years - it’s just that with digital technology these days, we hardly ever print them. And those that we do print go right into one of the several hundred scrapbooks my wife has been compiling over the years.

We have a few million additional pictures on the door too. Most are of other assorted nieces and nephews, grandchildren of neighbors who moved away years ago, and even a few of people that I don’t even recognize. No one in the family seems to know the identity of one baby picture - maybe it was left over from the last folks who owned the house...24 years ago.

There’s one picture of my wife and I when I still had purely brown hair, with no grey (My wife, of course, has always had brown hair...all husbands know that). A guardian angel magnet hangs upside down, firmly holding down the corner of a calendar from 2006. There are magnetic business cards from auto repair shops, real estate agents, car dealers, health care facilities, radio stations, even the chimney sweep who saved the day about four years ago by removing the remains of several unfortunate squirrels from our chimney stack.

We just dumped last year’s magnetic Red Sox schedule, hoping to soon replace that with a fresh one for this season. We’re proud that the 2008 calendar is now hanging up there - three of them, as a matter of fact - right next to the hotline information from a college our daughter has chosen not to attend. The Prayer to St. Francis is proudly displayed, attached to the door by a magnetic button I received from our town’s Sewer Commission that says “Keep the Storm Drains Clean.”

There are a dozen magnetic advertisements from a company I once ran - we sold that business in 2001. The heart-shaped magnets say “We don’t mind if you KISS N’ tell-a-friend about PagodaVision Cable TV.” The Band-Aid-shaped ones simply state “To heal the bumps and bruises of Cable TV, call 921-5555.” Sorry, no one will answer that number these days. Besides, it was in Pennsylvania.

There’s a magnet from Jesus, I guess, telling us that the Sacred Heart of Jesus believes in us. We won’t be removing that magnet anytime soon. But we’ll probably dump the school calendars from last year, as well as the paper doll-sized magnets of Joan Rivers and her daughter Melissa with creepy smiles on their faces. God only knows where those even came from...

There’s a neat little list of “Things to take with you when you go on vacation” that we discovered hidden underneath an old Bruins schedule - from 2005. We don’t even follow the Bruins these days, and I doubt that we did in 2005 either. Go figure.

So, all in all, I suspect that, given the randomness of this stuff stuck to our refrigerator door, we have most likely been trying to, subconsciously, cover our refrigerator because the color is just so outdated.

And if that’s the case, we better step up our efforts, because the dishwasher - which we haven’t used more than a dozen times in 24 years - and the stove, which we have, are also of the same vintage color. Too bad the magnets won’t adhere to our wood-simulated plastic kitchen cabinets too...
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Questions

I am a firm believer in the power of a solid marriage to weather those storms occasionally caused by miscommunication in the proverbial family unit. You know, like when your spouse asks you eight times to take out the trash and you say “sure” eight times while continuing to watch TV. The ninth time, you take a stiff whack to the side of the head and finally get the hint. And it’s even worse when the wife asks the husband...

These little spats seem to blow over quickly within the framework of a good marriage - even if it takes some people a couple of trips down the aisle to get a real feel for this stuff. And that’s what marriage is all about. Communication. The give and take of questions and answers. His point of view vs. her point of view. Truthful answers to difficult questions.

There are, however, certain questions that are probably best left unanswered within the confines of a good marriage - especially if the wife is asking the questions of her husband. Because some answers just won’t suffice.

Here are a few classic examples.

What husband hasn’t, on occasion been confronted with this question - “Honey, do I look fat in these pants?” This is a truly dangerous question, often asked by a wife who has her own doubts. Just how does a husband answer that question without getting in hot water? If his wife is, in fact, a little chunky, a straightforward guy might say something like “Truthfully, dear, you look like a whale.” If he’s a guy who weighs both sides of an issue, he might say “No, dear, you looked fatter in those other pants.” The guy who truly enjoys his wife’s shapeliness might say, “Not at all, honey, I’ve always liked the way you bulge out over the waistband.”

If she happens to weigh in at about 110 pounds, her husband may just roll his eyes at the absurdity of the question. And if he says, “You look perfect in those pants, dear,” she’ll probably accuse him of lying. It’s a question to be avoided at all cost, if harmony is to reign in the marriage. There is no win-win answer.

Other questions often come up in the course of, let’s say, a simple walk through the mall on a Sunday afternoon. Wives will often spot situations that their husbands don’t even see. A couple could be leisurely strolling, hand in hand, when the wife spots a truly beautiful girl and idly says to her husband, “Honey, see that woman over there? Do you think she’s pretty?” This is always asked with a slight tilt of the head and a hint of a coy smile. It’s dangerous territory for any husband.

Aside from the immediate sensation of a cold sweat running over his body, how is a husband to respond to this? Should the guy say, “Honey, she doesn’t hold a candle to you.” Would that work if his wife is 50 and “normally proportioned,” while the woman she picked out is 25 and so strikingly beautiful that she turns the head of every guy in the mall? Whether the husband is truthful or lying, it’s still not a question that he should answer.

As marriages get deeper into the double-digit years, it’s not uncommon for a wife to ask her husband, “Honey, if I died, would you marry again?” There’s a question that shouldn’t be answered until the will has already been drawn up and safely tucked away in the lawyer’s safe. What’s a guy to say - “No, dear, I wouldn’t want to go through that agony all over again.” How about “You bet, honey, give me a week and I’ll be checking out every club and supermarket for your replacement!” Chances are, she’ll want him to live the rest of his life as a monk - and he may prefer that... Of course, if she’s like my aunt was, she’ll help him pick out his next wife in advance (God’s truth on that one). But alas, statistics lean in favor of wives outliving their husbands, so the best answer to this question might be to fall back on those stats - and turn the question back on her.

Husbands would be wise to avoid a few other tough questions. “How many girlfriends did you have before we met?” is a tricky one - and is usually followed by “What were they like?” Answering those questions would be double entendre. It’s best for the guy to just begin spewing a litany of his wife’s virtues and hoping she picks up on that.

Questions involving wives and mothers are also generally best avoided. “Is my lasagna better than your mother’s?” is a question that could lead a guy to tick off both his wife and his mother. The husband who answers a question like that would have no place to sleep...

So many questions...so few right answers.

Now my wife has, thankfully, never asked me questions like these. And I’d never think of asking them of her either, especially as we come upon our 25th year of marital bliss. Who could question the wisdom of that?
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Banana Peels, the Magic Elixir

“So, uh, Linda... what’s with the banana peels?” An innocent question. It’s not often that I see a Ziplock bag of banana peels on someone’s desk. They do tend to get pretty black and mushy after a short time and I didn’t think they blended especially well with the pens and pencils scattered across her workspace.

“Those are my banana peels,” she simply replied. Like she was discussing her shoes or her purse.

Now in offbeat situations like this, a person generally can respond a number of ways. I could have politely said, “That’s cool. Hope you enjoy those banana peels.” Or maybe something simple like “Of course. How stupid of me!” - and then just walked away, as if a bag of banana peels on a desk is a normal thing.

But it isn’t. So I could have also said something more descriptive like “...and you plan on doing what with a bag of old banana peels?” - infusing just enough of an edge into the question, making it unnecessary to add “you weirdo” to the sentence.

In the end, I uncharacteristically shut my mouth. Because Linda had only begun to tell me about banana peels...

“I use them for my warts,” she said. “My plantar warts.”

“OK...” I mustered, hoping that might end it.

But the foaming continued. “Really,” she said. “Before I go to bed, I take the peels and wrap them around the bottom of my foot where the warts are. Then I put a sock on - to keep it all together. It’s really helping to get rid of the plantar warts.”

Now I felt compelled to respond. “But doesn’t it bother you to stuff rotten fruit into a sock and then stick your foot in it? Isn’t that a gross feeling? And doesn’t your husband mind the smell of ripe bananas in bed all night?”

“He didn’t even know I did this, until I took the sock off this morning and pulled out the banana peels,” she replied.

At this point, we were joined by a few others in the office. Apparently a group of banana peel admirers. A conspiracy. “She’s right,” chimed in Dianne. “Banana peels are a remedy for warts. You can also use them in the garden to help roses grow.”

“Great...” I replied, totally unimpressed.

“It’s true,’ she persisted. “You let them dry out really well, then bury them around your roses. The potassium is good for them and they grow unbelievably.”

“Why not just buy a bag of potassium?” I retorted. “Seems to me you’d have to eat about a hundred bananas to fertilize a couple of rose bushes.” She just shrugged.

“Look, just Google banana peels,” Linda said. “You’ll see!”

So I did. And indeed, banana peels are apparently a magic elixir. Warts fall off. Roses grow. Insect bites disappear. Soldiers and sailors even shine their shoes with them. We used to spit shine our shoes when I was in the service, but I never recall anyone whipping out a banana in place of a can of shoe polish. Maybe it’s one of the newer inventions for that humble fruit.

But wait...there’s more.

Hate those wrinkles that creep across your face in the natural order of aging? No problem! Mash up a banana and spread the paste across your face. No more ‘prune face’ for you!

Have the runs got you down? Just boil a raw banana, mash it to a pulp, add salt and butter, and eat that mess. You may throw it all up, but by gosh, they tell me that diarrhea will disappear.

And that’s not all!

Try filching a couple of banana leaves next time you buy your bananas right off the plantation. Apparently if you take a couple tablespoons of burnt banana leaves and mix them with honey, you’ll never have another hiccup. While you’re there, also filch a stem from the banana tree and sip the extract. Presto! There goes the old bacteria that causes tuberculosis. Boil down the banana flower (whatever that is), mix it with buttermilk and, ladies, you’ve got something to help you out during that “time of the month.” Sorry, but you’ll have to do your own Google search on that particular miracle cure.

Bananas apparently cure alcoholism too. The web site for Secret Tenerife says you can combat alcohol addiction by drinking “a small glass of the boiled mixture consisting of 3 banana peels, Tabasco, water or milk from 1 coconut, brown sugar or sugar loaf to taste. Let it ferment for 3 days and add snifter of liquor. Do this for nine days.” I’m not sure how adding liquor to that concoction helps you stop drinking alcohol - but the other ingredients alone would swear me off drinking anything.

So there you have it. Bananas. The fruit that cures everything. You can’t make this stuff up...

But don’t get too carried away with the many benefits of this miracle fruit. Experiment slowly, maybe with eradicating that wart on your nose that everyone’s been too polite to ever mention to you. You know, the one that looks like a small igloo. Slap a banana peel on that baby tonight and secure it with a square of duct tape. It should melt away in no time. Or rub a few peels on everyone’s mosquito bites during your next pool party. Just be cautious about where that one might lead... I’ve heard stories.

Makes me wonder what kind of cures have come from the humble potato skin or the rind of a Casaba melon. Why don’t you go Google those...I’m too busy wiping banana slime off Linda’s desk after her Ziplock bag broke. The peels apparently aren’t any substitute for furniture polish.
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I don’t know about you, good Folks of the North, but I think I’ve had enough for this year. Yeah, I know it’s “only” February and, despite the sleeping habits of some fat rodent in Punxsutawney, we could still be looking at another month of this. But, for my two cents, I think I’ve had my fill of snow for the venerable 2007-2008 winter season right now. Today. About three minutes after I woke up this morning to find another six inches of snow covering the driveway.

To be sure, it’s a pretty sight. Several inches of snow outlining the branches of every tree, covering the tops of rock walls, birdfeeders, and the heads of small children left out overnight. It really does create a winter wonderland. Until the plows come rumbling through with their loads of salt and sand, and turn that wonderland into a practical rendition of the roads you expect to drive on in the summer months. Complete with ugly mud hills on the side of the road. Can’t have it both ways, I suppose.

The sight of the season’s first snowflakes certainly borders on the enchanted, generally falling here in New Hampshire around, oh, September or October. They’re bearable then - just enough snow to grab a few flakes on the tip of your tongue like you did as a child - and pray that nobody sees you doing that.

Then the first storm comes racing in. Kids get excited - every inch of snow that piles up gets them closer to a day off from school. Adults, too, succumb to the excitement of the first snowfall. It’s something different after the bleakness of bare trees and frozen fields that follows our spectacular fall foliage season. Of course, half of them aren’t prepared for it. They don’t remember where they stored their show shovels. They waited too long to prep the snowblower. Or they forgot that their kids went off to college this past fall, so there’s no one else to do the shoveling except them. More than half will hop in their cars and drive to work, knowing that their normal 20-minute drive will turn into a two-hour drive that morning. But they’ll take the chance, because they don’t want to be seen as the wimp who couldn’t get to work that day, for fear of “a little snow.” And they will learn en masse, on a crowded highway, how to once again drive in the white stuff.

This year, I too survived that first storm. Miraculously, I had even prepped my old snowblower, which, like its owner, has become tired and finicky from years of winter storms, throwing snow shorter distances now and not at all during a really wet snowfall. But we gelled that first storm and both cut through the snowfall without a glitch. I think we had 10 inches that time.

The next couple of storms were OK too. The snowblower fared well through the first, but the second storm was a manual shoveling operation. No problem - my driveway is built on a hill, going down to the road. I just dig a pathway down to the bottom, then turn and start shoveling up the hill. Save my precious back, bending only half the distance to shovel the side of a hill. Sheer genius, to my mind...

That fourth snowstorm this year was a doozie. Heavy, wet, and over a foot deep. Another shovel-only storm for me. Luckily, half way through, my neighbor saw me looking for a branch to toss a noose over and happily offered to plow the whole driveway, with two passes of his Ford F-150. Thank God, that God made trucks, huh? And neighbors like that.

The fifth storm this year (or was it the sixth or seventh, I’ve lost count) was an average one. Of the typical 8-inch variety. Once again, I shoveled it. Good exercise is always my rationalization. Plus, my daughter parks in front of the shed where my snowblower lives. But my back held up well. And the next few storms were minor so I scraped those down too - in my shorts, winter coat and boots. New Hampshire just brings out the country in me.

The last big storm saw me trudging out at around 8 a.m. to clear off the cars and as much of the driveway as I could. It wasn’t until I finished the cars that I realized the driveway had already been cleared. The telltale tracks told me this was the handiwork of another neighbor, “the snowblower guy.” Eternally grateful, I still wondered if maybe he just forgot which driveway was his...

During all of these storms, I’d been concentrating on clearing the driveway and the front walkway. Last week I got novel and decided to clear off the back deck, just so we could get to the bird feeders and the recycle bin. After two swipes with the shovel, I promptly threw out my back. I spent the next three days walking stiffly like Clank, the Tin Can Man.

Then came this week’s storm, which tailed off by Saturday morning. Before I could even get to the driveway, that mysterious snowblowing ghost once again had cleared my hill. The guy apparently never sleeps, for which I am, again, eternally grateful. But I still had to shovel the walkways, which I did grudgingly - and gingerly, given my back. Then I sat down with a cup of coffee and it struck me that, while snow is indeed a beautiful sight, it really was starting to wear on my nerves this year. A storm or two is fine - it is, after all, winter, and I’m all for replenishing the earth’s water supply and staving off global warming.

But if I have to shovel another foot of snow between now and Memorial Day, I think I just may go postal. Yep, that’s right - move right off into another postal zone. Somewhere far south, where my only worries would be jungle rot, rain, and tarantulas. Before I do, however, can anyone tell me if they shovel anything in Belize? I just don’t want to make the same mistake twice...
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I’ve been there with them, you know. Right there in the trenches. And I’ve been extremely proud of the way they’ve conducted themselves. At all times.

We’ve risen together early in the morning, before even the sun itself thinks about rising. We’ve been cold and hungry and often exhausted. We’ve traipsed together through the hottest weather, when miraculously, only a few ever drop from the heat of the noonday sun. We’ve marched for miles through blinding snow and driving rain, always maintaining precise formation, never missing a beat. We’ve survived an outbreak of the flu that humbled nearly 25 percent of them, with some still recovering in triage on one of the biggest days of their lives - while the rest marched on valiantly for their fallen comrades. And did themselves proud.

But it’s not what you think. I was not on patrol with an Army Ranger unit, struggling to secure a base in the highlands of Vietnam. Nor was I entering Fallujah with the Marines, going house to house in hand-to-hand combat. Heck, I was in the Air Force, remember?

This wasn’t even a military venture. I was simply serving as a chaperone with the Marching Lancers of Londonderry High School. A four-year voluntary commitment that my wife and I undertook from 2001 to 2005, when our son made an extremely correct decision to become a proud “band geek” and tote his trumpet literally across the country. As part of a high school band that has very few peers nationwide.

Now the incidents I’ve mentioned above are all true. This band has marched in all manner of conditions. Through ankle-deep snow on St. Patrick’s Day in New York City. In the heat of mid-August during the Old Home Day Parade. They’ve risen at 4 a.m. to prepare for the Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena, Calif. Marched down the Boardwalk in Atlantic City for the Miss America Pageant, where they had to compress their marching from nine students wide down to three without notification - and did so flawlessly. They’ve been to Orlando more times than Tom Brady, marching at DisneyWorld, Universal Studios, in the Orange Bowl Parade and the Citrus Bowl Parade.

They begin their school year in July, learning a new football half-time show every year and practicing it at Band Camp for hours on end, learning their steps. They’ve taken long bus rides to various destinations, arriving tired, but willing to get right off those buses - I think they need eight or nine of them these days - and practice marching around the parking lots of whatever hotel they are staying at until the sun goes down. Many also participate in other LHS musical ventures - the symphonic band, the jazz band, the orchestra, the choral group. I may have missed one or two of these other opportunities - so sue me...There are just too many, each of these groups talented, award-winning, and traveled in their own right.

Over the years, the band faces have certainly changed, as one class graduates and another group of freshmen take their place. Except that the new class of band geeks is larger every year, to the point where the current band stands at 320 or so kids. Sure, it’s a bit of a logistical nightmare for the band parents assigned to uniforms. Volunteers who need to combine band uniforms for kids who range in size from 4-foot 8-inches to 6-foot 6-inches, and range in weight from 90 pounds to 300 pounds. Thank God, the kids need to buy their own shoes...

Being a member of the Lancers Marching Band takes time; it takes effort. It’s a rewarding experience in different ways for different kids. Of course, they all love music. And a large percentage of them go on to college to major in Music or some aspect of that profession.

Some love the social advantages of the band, which are innumerable. In what other high school activity do you see freshmen and seniors working side by side, one becoming not only the mentor of the other, but both often becoming good friends? Other kids join for the teamwork, or the uniforms. Many are hooked by the traveling opportunities that the band provides. What kid doesn’t like to go to Florida or California - or how about...China?

But they also make themselves available for local town parades and ceremonies - from Memorial Day to Old Home Day to Veterans Day. They march in other towns too - in Derry, Manchester, Salem, Allenstown. Even in Massachusetts, from Haverhill to Cape Cod. They have opened the NASCAR races at New Hampshire International Speedway for years and have played on the ice, between periods at Monarchs games - where no one has ever gone down. The Londonderry Marching Lancers are known and their reputation has grown. There is no better tribute to a supporting community, no better proof of a successful music program, than the Lancers Marching Band.

Now they are off to China...that’s right, CHINA. Next June. To march in Beijing before the Summer Olympics, as the largest participating band in something called the Beijing 2008 Olympic Cultural Festival. Only the Chinese could come up with a catchy name like that, complete, of course, with a picture of happy, smiling panda bears. I understand the Lancers will probably get to play on the Great Wall of China. Imagine that? On one of the Wonders of the Ancient World, built 500 years before Christ was born. I just hope their music doesn’t loosen any of those stones...

I am excited for this band. I am proud of these kids and Andy Soucy and his staff, who have done a tremendous job of taking little elementary school kids and molding them into fine musicians. And also, believe it or not, into respectful, caring kids who function as a team. Nice job, folks!

And I am jealous of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that this current group of kids, these truly international ambassadors from Londonderry, NH USA, will be undertaking in just a few short months, half way around the world. This is a special moment.

I would be remiss if I didn’t also take a moment to shamelessly tell you that the Lancers could use your monetary assistance to afford this trip to China. And I make this pitch all on my own. Not every family in this supposedly “rich” town can really afford the $3,000 it will cost to get each of these kids to Beijing.

So every time you see a band kid holding a donation can or trudging through the neighborhood selling coffee or cheesecakes or raffle tickets, don’t just think about helping him or her. Do it! The band’s supporting organization, The Friends of Music, is holding their 2008 Auction Gala, a fundraising dinner and auction, at the Atkinson Resort and Country Club on Friday, March 7. This will, by far, be their largest fundraising event, benefiting not only the Marching Band, but also those who of you who participate in the auction. Details of the Gala - and everything you’ll ever want to know about the Londonderry Marching Lancers - are available at their web site www.lancermusic.org.

Be proud of Londonderry’s worldwide ambassadors! Be supportive! Heck, live vicariously through them if you want! Feel good about something that goes beyond the materialism of today’s society - and let the Lancers’ music touch your soul.
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I made the mistake last week of opening a long forgotten kitchen cabinet. I shouldn’t be near a kitchen cabinet anyhow. But especially in this instance, because the devastation was immediate. An avalanche of travel mugs gushed forth, covering the floor. There weren’t just a few of the little suckers in that cabinet - there were 62 of them, each one, no doubt lovingly constructed by some cheap labor, high polluting, sweatshop factory somewhere on mainland China. All shapes, all sizes, each displaying a logo from some company or event that somehow fell into my life over the last five years. Maybe even 10 years.

In “the old days” (anytime before 1963 is the old days to me), logos were splashed across things like ashtrays and coasters, usually limited to items that people lingered over - society did a lot of uninhibited drinking and smoking in those days. Then advertisers discovered pens - I’ll bet your home has no less than a dozen of those with someone’s unreadable logo squeezed onto them. Some of them even write.

Today, advertisers use every spare inch of space to get their message out. Witness professional racecars covered with so many logos that you can hardly see the paint job. Logos are splashed on everything from calendars to polo shirts, from sticky pads to mouse pads. Even the hallowed Green Monster at Fenway Park now sports the logos of companies willing to spend big advertising bucks to deface that wall with their messages - no doubt, to keep those ticket prices “under $100.”

But today, the travel mug has become the fashionable advertising piece. It has decent logo space, and cheap manufacturing sources overseas make it a very affordable advertising venue. Just enough to allow 62 of them to enter my home.

So, as that avalanche of plastic bombarded me last week in the kitchen, I decided to take inventory of this junk before throwing most of it away.

I was impressed with the higher quality mugs. The set of four from the Marine Corps Reserves are cool, with the Corps’ emblem splashed across them. Those guys always seem to have a pretty hefty advertising budget, don’t they?

My four EWTN mugs, proclaiming that they are “Heaven Sent,” rank right up there too. God would expect nothing less, I believe. The Grappone Companies mug is high quality too, probably because the company was “Celebrating 80 Years - 1924-2004.” I’m sure they’ve returned to pens by now. I wasn’t too impressed with my last purchase from Grappone, but I hope they continue for another 80 years. For the sake of their grandchildren.

Our Royal Caribbean mugs seem to have come from the same mold as the EWTN mugs - literally. God gave us the former mug free - the latter mug only cost us $1,200 for the cruise. Per person. But at least these were made in the USA.

Colleges provide some pretty cheap mugs - more like water bottles than mugs actually. No doubt because they want to retain as much as possible of your kids’ tuition money. My Husson College and University of Maine water bottles fit that mold. Cheap and disposable, unlike the educations they provide.

My Au Bon Pain mug has survived a good 10 years in our kitchen. I got that mug during a job interview, although I didn’t get the job. Consolation prize, I guess.

My years in the cable industry have provided me cheap mug support from such hallowed cable channels as the ISP Channel - “Run With the Fast Crowd” states their mug. Much Music also provided the best lingering plastic taste of any of my travel mugs. I think both companies are out of business these days. But their taste lingers on.

I have a great travel mug from the D.A.R.E. program, which my son won in middle school a number of years ago for his essay on resisting drugs and alcohol. Good thing most little kids don’t drink coffee - I got to use this mug for a few years because of that.

There’s a nice water bottle here from Roller Kingdom, whatever that is. Mental midget that I am, I suspect it’s a roller skating rink, given the big skate splashed across its side. It’s in mint condition. Never been used. And I can see why. Pity that it’s on its way to the big roller rink in the sky.

K106 FM - Kickin’ Country somehow snuck a travel mug into our hallowed home. I’ve no idea where that came from. I mean, it’s a cool mug, but that’s like hiding a Merle Haggard record among my Beatles albums. Sacrilegious.

And that’s a sampling of my “collection”... Oh, I’ll keep a few of these travel mugs. I can never throw out anything with a Marine logo on it, at peril of isolating my son. And I’ll always keep my water bottle from the Treasury Inspector General, a gift from the IRS when I first went to work for them. Never know when I’ll need to use the tax hotline number scrawled across the bottom of that little sucker. That’s 1-800-366-4484 for those of you who might like to report a neighbor for tax fraud this season.

But most of those travel mugs and water bottles will be hitting the recycle bin next Friday. If by chance, you’re interested in any of those babies, come on by and help yourself. They’ll be on the side of the road, in a blue bag, until the trash man comes. Chances are, however, you probably have your own cabinet of mugs to cull through. And that’ll take time. So get to it - before they become an avalanche.
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My guess is that most guys don’t much enjoy shopping with the women in their families. After all, it’s usually a jaunt to the clothing store, a shoe shop, or some ungodly, day-long venture to that most dreaded of forums - the Mall. While we guys may go along for the ride - generally, as the chauffeur - we aren’t overly enthusiastic about these destinations.

For many guys, life wasn’t always like that. Somewhere in your distant past, guys, you may recall having relished - or at least tolerated - entering a store with the ladies of your household. For instance, when our kids were young, I personally enjoyed those trips with the family to Toys R Us. Of course, it was two on two back then; two boys and two girls. Both kids were just as happy as I was to run over to a stack of Talking Elmo dolls and press as many buttons as we could, just to hear them all chatter away at the same time, while my wife stood far away, shaking her head and disclaiming any relationship to us. That was fun shopping. Didn’t spend a dime and I could just tell the kids to make a list for their birthdays as we left, so they always had something to look forward to.

These days, my daughter isn’t as interested in having me hang around with her while she shops the mall, bustling through stores like American Eagle, Express, and Forever 21. On occasion, we do revert to our earlier shopping tactics, as when we ran through Wal-Mart, pressing all the buttons on a shelf of Dora the Explorer talking dolls a month ago. But for the most part, she shops on her own time, her own dime, and I on mine. I guess that’s called growing up - on both our parts.

As you may be shocked to hear, my wife really isn’t interested in me tagging along on her shopping ventures either. Any advice I might offer is generally useless. Last week she asked for my advice as she shopped for a bit of costume jewelry. She held up one piece and I said, “Oh, that’s nice, dear.” She held up another and I repeated the same glowing statement. A third piece brought a slightly different response - I think I said something stellar like “Oh, yeah, that’s very nice.”

My response? “Gee, they’re all very nice. But it’s your choice!” I don’t think this was very helpful to her. Usually, when I tell her which one I like best, she instinctively knows to select a different one. But without offering my advice, she appeared to be lost. So she didn’t buy anything. In hindsight, I guess that’s one point for me, huh...?

Last week, however, I did go shopping with my wife and daughter. Miraculously, they had even invited me to go... Our mission? Eyeglasses. My daughter has apparently inherited her father’s eyes - so in addition to having my brown eyes (she swears hers are hazel), she also has the vision of a mole exposed to the sun. Well, OK...they aren’t quite that bad. But she did need glasses. So we went shopping. First a quick visit to the eye doctor - I decided to have my eyes checked too, as long as I was there. Then a jaunt next door to the eyeglass store. As it turned out, we would both be shopping.

Now a trip to the eyeglasses store is a pretty focused shopping jaunt. No stroll through the jewelry aisle, no stopping to check out the sweaters, not even a glance down the lingerie aisle - although I guess I really wouldn’t have minded that part. But we still managed to have fun. My daughter tried on lots of glasses and selected a pair - with matching parental approval even. Quite chic, I must say. I tried on a dozen pair too, everything from those huge picture frame spectacles from the ‘70s to the latest brands from Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren. Beats me how clothing designers ever got involved in eyeglass frames, but there we were. Having never had the intestinal fortitude to plunk down wasted dollars on their expensive clothing, I wasn’t about to do that on their eyeglasses. I found a less expensive pair.

For my daughter and me, this kind of shopping was Toys R Us and Talking Elmo all over again. And the woman who waited on us was pleasantly surprised that she had found three customers that day who weren’t grumpy. Buying glasses can be a downer for some folks - especially after presentation of the bill. For sure, the three of us walked out of there $704 poorer too - and it wasn’t much consolation to know we even saved $300 with our coupons... But we sucked it up and did what all good people do when they develop sticker shock - we went to lunch. Soup always eases the pain.

Such is the way shopping with the women of the household should be, don’t you think, guys?

I know that when I retire in about 100 years, I’ll probably accompany my wife to the mall on her shopping expeditions, like so many other retired guys. And like them, I’ll plop down on a bench in the middle of the mall, just to watch the world go by. But I’ll always be certain to have a book or newspaper with me, or a notepad to write down my observations so I can continue to write this column in publications with names like “Senior Weekly” or “Growing Up - Not.” Because, by then, I’ll probably have bought everything I’d ever want to buy - except maybe a villa overlooking Dawn Beach in the Caribbean. Maybe my wife or daughter will buy that for me, huh? Or at least ask my opinion...
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Pig. It’s just a three-letter word for a simple farm animal. Nothing fancy about it; nothing remarkable. P-i-g. Pig.

The dictionary defines the humble pig as a member of the kingdom Animalia, the phylum Chordata, the class Mammalia, the order Artiodactyla, the family Suidae, and the genus Sus. Of course, we all knew that. It’s an impressive pedigree. For a pig.

They go by other names as well. Some people call them hogs - mostly farmers, I think. They’re the folks who most often interact with pigs, so they certainly have that right. Even if the vast majority has never competed in the National Hog Calling Contest, first held in Arkansas in 1961 - and, no doubt, duplicated around the country ever since. Most farmers use special calls to get their pigs to the trough, personal calls to which their pigs have been trained to respond.

“Sooiee!” is the call most recognized by hog laymen. Others yell out “poing, poing, poing” or “burp, burp, burp.” I know a lot of humans who would respond to that last one. My favorite pig call is one used by some farmers of German descent in the Midwest. They yell out “komm schweine!” which loosely translated means “come swine!” Makes perfect sense to me. Those Germans have a way of saying exactly what they mean.

Scientists tell us that the pig is a highly intelligent animal. I researched that, because I wasn’t sure if my consumption of a ham and cheese sandwich might be denying the world the next Einstein. Not to worry - the pig is just slightly more intelligent than a 3-year-old child. That doesn’t say a whole lot to me. I’m told my cats have the intelligence of a toddler and I’d stack them up against a pig any day. Although I’m not sure I would have bet on my kids against a pig when they were 3-year-olds...

But I still concede that pigs have some smarts. They know enough to cover themselves with mud when it’s hot. They do that to cool off because, previously unknown to me, they apparently don’t sweat. I’m not sure who did the original research on that, but I’ll take his or her word for it. It must have been a messy project. Today, people pay $100 an hour to have someone spread mud on them in a spa. That begs the question - who’s really smarter - pigs or humans?

But I must agree with the term messy, as it applies to the humble pig. I recall taking our kids on vacation years ago, when my son was, coincidentally, about 3 years old. We spent one particular night at a neat bed-and-breakfast farm, complete with all the little farm animals. Among them were two pigs. The next morning, safely ensconced behind a wood rail fence, my son and I watched these pigs undertaking the lost art of wallowing in their mud pit. A great word, wallow. Suddenly one of them just stood up and raised his tail straight in the air. A steady gush of “Number 1” came flowing out, stronger than the flow of water from my kitchen faucet. The other pig immediately ceased his wallowing, stood up, and waddled over behind the first pig to sniff away at this torrent of effluents. My son has never forgotten that sight - neither have I. It’s the only thing he remembers from his time as a 3-year old.

Now, I know that pot-belly pigs are popular house pets in some parts of the world, in countries like Vietnam and Thailand. I’m not sure if they fetch their owners’ newspaper or slippers, but somehow, I don’t think so. Not if they are anything like their pink American counterpart - although the only American house pig I ever saw was Arnold on the old Petticoat Junction TV series. He was a spoiled “only pig” of the childless couple, Fred and Doris Ziffel. All he ever did was sit around in his chair, play piano, watch TV, go to school, and oink. Never fetched a newspaper in his life, except to read it himself. Arnold was Every Man’s pet pig.

But certainly humanity has a sordid way of using the word ‘pig,’ such that we demean the chubby little pink fella, don’t ya think? We’ll frequently use a phrase like “He’s a real pig!” which often causes real pigs to lift their heads in disgust and give those demons the ol’ sideways stare. Can ya blame them? I can just hear a couple of pigs saying to each other “What’s THAT supposed to mean?”

We often use the term to label others as pigs - sometimes cruelly, as with someone who eats too much or is on the plump side of life. Other times, we toss the comment to someone who utters foul language or dresses sloppily. I can see the pig’s point of view on this, can’t you? Why can’t humans say, “He’s a real porcupine” or “What a giraffe?” Why not spread these insults around the animal kingdom and not simply confine them to the family Suidae, genus Sus?

So, in the grand scheme of things and in the interest of fair play, let’s all just try to remember that pigs have feelings too, OK? And, oh yeah, keep in mind that they come in many delicious flavors - like pork, ham, bacon, sausage, ham hocks, pig’s feet, and the ever-popular sweetbreads (if you have to ask...don’t). But if you want one to fetch your newspaper, well...good luck. I think he’d be insulted. And that may just cause him to raise his tail...
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I don’t know about you, but I have a teensy weensy bit of a problem with the plethora of so-called “news” that greets me from the magazine racks, on my way through the supermarket checkout line. Dozens of scandal magazines. Healthy living magazines. Improve-your-life magazines. Basically gossip, sensationalism, and weak medical advice wrapped into magazines that provide very little education to the American public.

It scares me. It scares me even more that people actually buy this stuff... although I admire the stealth of those who read this junk while waiting in line and then quickly return it to the rack before their purchases are rung up.

Now I certainly have no problem with freedom of speech - or freedom of the press, if you actually have the audacity to call these magazines “the press.” And I am generally an optimist about life, which is why I always prefer to see a half-full glass, rather than a half-empty one. But I can’t seem to find a good reason why the paper in these magazines shouldn’t have been allowed to remain as trees, rather than be processed into pages of mindless drivel.

So what’s been happening this week in the world of drivel? Well, lemme tell ya...

Let’s look at the cover of People magazine. Here’s a nice shot of Matthew McConaughey, whose name I could never spell without the help of Google. One of America’s current hunks, Matthew is proudly exclaiming, “I’m Gonna Be a Daddy.” Now that would normally be great news, wouldn’t it? Except for one little item. This child will be Matthew’s “love child” with a girlfriend. No talk of commitment, no talk of marriage. After all, why would we expect ‘superstars’ to consider trying something rather novel to them - you know, like marriage first, then kids? Call me old-fashioned...

The headline on the cover of Us magazine touts “How I Got My Body Back” by someone named Trista, who wants to feel sexy again after having a baby. She weighs 116 pounds, but wants to get down to her pre-baby weight of 106 pounds. Gimme a break. But at least she has a husband to play father to her child - right, Matthew?

Reader’s Digest, once an exclusive publishing outlet for budding novelists, has apparently found a journalistic niche, asking the proverbial question, “How Safe Is Your Drinking Water?” I’m glad they’re concerned.

Walking Fit magazine is highlighting their latest exciting walking news. This month’s article, “Walk Off Your Belly,” probably follows equally exciting articles from previous months such as “Run Off Your Belly,” “Jog Off Your Belly,” and of course, “Eat Off Your Belly.”

That stalwart of gossip-mania, Globe magazine, has the latest on “Anna Nicole’s Baby Going Blind.” I hope for the child’s sake that that is as untrue as most of their “reputable news.” But, to the larger point, is there any child anywhere in the world who has the capacity to become a more dysfunctional person than the offspring of Anna Nicole Smith and that loser who supposedly fathered the poor child?

Another pillar of busy-body garbage, the National Enquirer gives us the latest scoop on “Oprah to Dr. Phil - You’re Fired!” Gee, could it have come any sooner? One down, another hundred or so to go.

In Touch magazine apparently has the inside scoop on who’s pregnant and what they look like. Their “Exclusive Pregnancy News” this week highlights “The Tell-Tale Bump” on Angelina Jolie, complete with a picture of Angelina and a little arrow pointing to her stomach. So they surmise she’s pregnant - even though she’s adopted a rainbow coalition of kids over the last few years. She probably just ate a hamburger and gained four ounces.

Good Housekeeping, a magazine once dedicated to homemakers like my mom, who stayed at home to raise the kids, appears, these days, to be more into numbers than cookie recipes. Their headlines this month tout “122 Quick Changes” to something or other, losing 30+ lbs., re-doing a room in 24 hours, saving $100 on heating bills - and my favorite, “Look 5 Years Younger.” I wonder how much five years really means to a reader who is 58 years old? “Gee, Donna, you don’t look a day over 53.” On second thought, maybe that does work for some people...

Another rag highlighted “The Only Way I’ll Marry Spencer,” as told by Heidi from “The Hills.” Now I have no idea what “The Hills” is or who Heidi is, but I assume this is one of those mindless evening soap operas set among the rich brats of southern California, with characters played by “actors” who are themselves rich brats. I think I probably care more about the latest research on hemorrhoids in laboratory rats than I do about Heidi and Spencer - whoever they are...

The final magazine on the rack, before we thankfully got through the check out line, reminded us about “Britney’s Multiple Personalities.” But let’s not even go there...

So when it comes to trashy news about spoiled, self-indulgent “superstars,” what do you think? Are their problems really more important to America than, let’s say, starving children in Africa or the war in Iraq? I would hope not. Whaddaya say we ship them all to one of those hot spots where maybe, just maybe, they could help people with real problems? Then, my glass would still be half full. And all would be well with the world.
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I haven’t lived in the “big city” for many years; that would be Boston, in my case. And I count my blessings really. Not that the lure of the city is taboo to me. I like visiting Boston. It’s fun to walk down Newbury Street or the Theatre District, even through Boston Common and the Gardens. That’s mostly because I like to watch people.

And there are certainly enough people to watch in a city like Boston. They range from the street people who sleep each night on the Boston Common, migrating to the sidewalk subway gratings on cold nights, to the young ladies out there looking to be seen by all. But there’s a fairly new phenomenon prancing around town these days - the newly christened metrosexual man.

You probably wouldn’t see many of these guys in New Hampshire, but I saw a ton of them at a convention in Boston last summer, as I sat in the lobby of the Prudential Tower with a co-worker on a beautiful summer day. Lunchtime on a day like that brings everyone out of the woodwork to roam the malls of downtown Boston. And like most of us, I enjoy the opportunity to point out the more interesting characters I see. So when I noticed a couple of interesting pretty boys flailing away in the lobby that day, I quipped to my friend, “How about those two?”

“Where?” he asked, not sure which of the 2,000 people walking by us I was referring to.

“The two perfect guys over there near the Joseph Abboud window,” I responded. By their exaggerated gestures, they seemed to be arguing about which of the suited mannequins in the store window looked best. I thought a slap fight was about to break out.

“No, METROsexuals,” he reiterated. “They’re God’s perfect creatures, according to today’s fashion experts. Some people think they’re gay. But they aren’t necessarily - they have their own stereotype. They’re guys who like to be looked at - narcissists, I guess you’d call them.”

Now for a simple guy who decided long ago that “out-in-the-country” New Hampshire was the place I’d like to raise my family, I have a bit of a problem relating to this type of guy. Why? Well, let’s look at the stereotype of the metrosexual man. According to Wikipedia, that on-line encyclopedia in which anyone can go in to update whatever information there is on a topic, the metrosexual man is generally a single, young guy with a high disposable income, who lives or works in the city. He seems to love shopping - of course, only in the “best shops” - dresses like someone out of the pages of GQ Magazine, and while he loves himself and is concerned about being seen, he is apparently also a bit confu