No Spanking Zone

I needed to borrow my parent-in-laws' car. There was only one slight little problem; they were out of town. But we have a spare key to their house and I know where they hang the spare car keys. So I went over to, as the younguns say, "jack" the car key. My in-laws always let us borrow it before. I knew they would have let us borrow the car again but they weren't home to officially ask. Still, I felt a little nervous taking the car without asking. The key rack is under a cutesy wooden plaque that says GRANDPARENT'S PLACE. And dangling off the plaque, right next to the car key was a little painted piece of wood that reads NO SPANKING ZONE. Well that was a relief because I did feel a little naughty at that moment. But not to fear; this was a no spanking zone. The car keys were just hanging there – waiting for me to reach out and grab them. That's like the on-your-honor goodies tray. You're probably going to pay for your candy bar, but there isn't going to be any recrimination if you don't. You are on your honor. I looked at the keys. It was all good except for that little nagging problem of guilt. I'm part of generation that knows inculcated guilt. We received consequences for our actions. We lived in a spanking zone.

According to statistics, 98% of kids in my parents' generation ('40s and '50s) were spanked. When I was growing up that number was supposedly down to just below 90%. But I don't know if I believe those stats. I think the number was higher. Pop culture showed us that it was a required family practice. On TV alone; Andy spanked Opie, Laura spanked Ritchie, Mrs. Brady spanked Cindy, Samantha spanked Tabitha, Ricky spanked Lucy – well, maybe that one was different. Did Little Ricky ever get it? And can we talk cartoons and comics? And what about action shows like Bonanza and Wagon Train? Full grown women being spanked by rugged cowboys – but that's back to the Ricky and Lucy thing. Even as a little kid I suspected there was something else going on there. But I digress.

Sure, there were some kids who never seemed to get it. But that wasn't always good either. Being spanked is certainly better than the fear that Beaver Cleaver lived with. His father never touched him but the Beav seemed to live in fear that "Dad's going to kill me." I believe that same psychological abuse made him the supermarket opening celebrity that he is today. Contrast Mr. Cleaver (Mathers) with Sara Blakely, the creator of Spanx underwear. She claims that when she was a kid and about to be spanked she would go and put on all her day-of-the-week panties at once; a less detectable version of the board-in-the-pants. Today she is an underwear maven. You never know where inspiration will take you. Granted, her line of underwear will not protect you from assault, but if you wear enough of them…

Anti-spanking advocates claim that the prisons are filled with convicts who were spanked as children. They claim cause and effect. I claim correlation. They were spanked, and they are in jail, because they are bad people. If we want to believe in cause and effect then I better start walloping my kids because now we know, according to a study published in USA Today, that the nation's top CEOs were spanked as children. Just ask Sara Blakely. Then again, maybe spankings instill a desire to have a lot of money and acquire stuff. Whether you end up in the big office on the top floor or a little cell on the jail-block is just a consequence of career path. Both are after the same thing. AND just by the demographics alone you have to conclude that it would be odd if you could find convicts, CEOs, landscapers, truck drivers, presidents or astronauts who weren't. You could just as effectively argue that spanking makes you older.

Which is another point; today you have all these post-modern granola moms screaming that they can't stand by and watch this child abuse. When did spanking become abuse? Until last Tuesday it was never considered abuse. It was institutional. It was part of education. I started school in 1970. The elementary school where I attended handed paddles out to the volunteer lunch monitors. The cafeteria staff gathered the paddles up after lunch and stored them in a closet until the next lunch shift. The volunteers kept us little heathens in line while the teachers recouped in their lounge observing a deserved respite from their own toils and labor. They spent the days striving to mold us into productive individuals by applying stimuli to us on both ends. I have my own encounter-with-a-lunch-volunteer tale to tell, but that is for another time.

I attended first grade in a small village in Western Pennsylvania. We were a tough bunch to reach. At least weekly some fellow first-grade urchin was taken over the knee of our exasperated schoolmarm and given six good whacks or so. The rules demanded it. It was required to encourage better study habits and classroom deportment. The guilty party only hoped that no letter would be sent home or the operation would be repeated in the privacy of home. Looking back, domestically and institutionally, after the licks, neither the crime nor the punishment was ever brought up again. The slate was clean. Except for this, you weren't really accepted by the other boys until you went through your own proper orientation. There were two ways to undergo the rite of passage. Either suffer under Mrs. Shydow's paddle or be kicked in the butt by the gym teacher – without crying. I never was properly initiated. I think this was because my great-aunt taught at the school. She and my teacher didn't get along so well. Mrs. Shydow probably figured why stir the pot? So I had a modicum of protection. You really shouldn't mess with either side of my family. I believe that they are secret Sicilians. Even so, I think it a good thing we moved after my first year - the second grade teacher's paddle had holes in it.

But I didn't escape. We moved to South Carolina. You would think that the South would be worse. That is its reputation. In actuality, there was less corporal punishment, but that may have been because we attended school on Federal Property as the dependents of U.S. Servicemen. And most occurrences happened in the privacy of the Principal's office. But it could still happen from the teachers if they felt the necessity. I know because I have my own encounter-with-a-teacher to tell, but that is for another time. I can say that the dominant party to that encounter was my 4^th grade teacher, Miss Allen. I think she was my first real crush. She was young and nice and pretty and single. And then she had to go and spank me in front of the whole class including Katie Francis (who I hated). And thus the imprinting for my love life was solidified. Like Lucy and Ricky it could have worked out for me if I were older, but at 9 years old it's a deal killer. Someday I'll tell the whole story – the facts are different than you may think.

For story-time, Miss Allen would sit on her chair with us gathered around on the floor. She would read classics. Tom Sawyer opens with Aunt Polly catching the hero in the act and about to give him a lickin' for getting into the jam. Not one to let a prime teaching opportunity pass, Miss Allen expounded on the plot by commenting that children need a good spanking every now and then or they would become spoiled. None of us really knew what would be so bad about being spoiled. But according to her proscribed cure, I had no fear that I would ever become spoiled. She asked us, "How many of you are spanked at home when you've been naughty?" There were close to 30 kids in the class and everybody raised their hands, except for Katie Francis and Michael Lee.

I suppose that some of the kids who raised their hands weren't really raised that way at home. They could have been caving in to peer pressure and just saying they got spanked so they would be like everyone else. Who wants to be different from your friends when you are in elementary school? Maybe they were just lying. After all, they never got spanked for it. All of us noticed which children had their hands down. Michael Lee was sickly with thick glasses and a perpetual sniffle. He was too fragile to handle without care. Only a cruel adult would lay a hand on him. But Katie was a prime example to us that being spoiled was indeed an awful thing. We weren't like Katie. We almost wanted to write thank you letters to our parents. But we were afraid it would only serve to encourage them to redouble their efforts in our behalf. It would be more prudent to wait and express our gratitude to them when we were grown-up.

Back in the kitchen of my wife's parents, I looked at the sign on the wall. Why didn't they have these No Spanking Zones when I was a kid? Admittedly, I believe that through my parents' ministrations I did have improved behavior, but at the same time they may have inadvertently stifled some of my natural genius. Take for example my innate curiosity for the natural sciences. One unsupervised hour I was bouncing a marble against the sliding glass door to our patio while playing solitaire catch. The game was only challenging if I could toss the marble at sharper angles and at higher velocities. The glass was extremely thick and nothing bad could possibly happen. At some point a sniper decided to take a shot at me and a small bubble appeared on the other side of the glass. It had to be a sniper because the other side of the glass door was where the bubble was. Obviously, IF I HAD broken the glass then the hole would be on my side of the door.

I searched cautiously for the sniper's location. I considered that a friend may have come and seen my game and threw a rock at the door to mess with my head. But there was nobody out there. Curiosity began to get the best of me as a healthy skepticism dispelled my initial supposition. Could I have been the one to break the sliding glass door? Maybe, it slowly dawned on me, the other side of the glass had the bubble hole because the marble had blown out the fractured glass by the force. I decided to test this hypothesis. Instinctively knowing that methodology needed to be exact in order to prove repeatability of results I threw my marble at the other sliding glass door. Harder and harder I bounced it. Soon I was chucking it against the companion glass the way you throw a baseball against a barn wall. Whack, whack, whack – I tested the laws of physics with my little marble. Then, CRACK, it happened. There was a companion bubble hole on the second sliding glass door.

Wow! What do you know – it was me who had done it the whole time! I left my marble and the two rippled and bubbled holes in the patio doors (at right about adult eye level) satisfied in knowing that scientific methodology can discover the truth of the most baffling of puzzles. My enthusiasm was short-lived however. My mother discovered the remains of my experiment and, need I even say it, methodically conducted her own little trial testing the laws of physics; whack, whack, whack... I believe that this disapproval de rigueur discouraged my quest for empirical knowledge and killed my scientific career.

This pattern was repeated throughout my formative years. Seemingly innocent and innocuous incidents in my childhood led my parents to instill the inhibitions that I suffer with today. Painting our fading green Chevy Impala with a can of black spray paint possibly killed my artistic career, not to mention any interest in the auto body business. Studying pyrotechnics behind the house, aka playing with matches, killed my anthropological interest and proved that fire is not necessary to generate heat. Getting caught borrowing the neighbor's darts off his patio put an end to my sense of communal pride through shared ownership. I believe it's why I am not a democrat today. Actually, I'm not a republican either – and I'm sure someday I will find out how my parents ruined that for me too.

Through corporal punishment I learned lots of other important things as well. Hitting mom in the head with a slush ball on her way to a meeting – is not a good idea. Filling the toothpaste tube with Noxzema to trick your siblings but having it discovered by a parent is not a good idea. Filching goodies that were reserved for a visit from company is not a good idea. Well, not unless you wanted to sit on a pillow for dinner. Truthfully, did anybody ever have to do this?

In all honesty, I wasn't exactly traumatized by the experience. There were worse things. Being grounded was way, way worse. This was before TV's in bedrooms, video game consoles, iPods, cell phones and cable. Being kept in was practically the same as being put in solitary confinement. When mom gave the choice between grounded for the rest of the day or a spanking, we took the lickin'. It was easier on her, too. 30 seconds and she was done. She didn't have to enforce a penalty for the rest of the day. We were back outside trying to not do again what got us called inside in the first place. Anecdotally I can testify to the efficacy of a spanking. But as the aforementioned Thomas Sawyer philosophized, "Shucks, what's a licking!"

You can't blame our predecessors for observing this practice. Culture is cruel and society is fickle. Back then you were a bad parent if you didn't spank, they could take your kids away from you. Today, the same nosey busybody types claim you are a bad parent if you do, they could take your kids away from you. It's just so confusing. Which brings us back again to the No Spanking plaque in the kitchen. I guess traditional parents can find absolution if they forsake its use on their grandchildren.

I called my wife to let her know the keys were there. And I told her about the sign, "Looks like a free pass, Babe." Wisely, she reminded me that the plaque reads Grandparent's Place. It didn't apply to their children. She is in the same 90% that I am and knows that by experience. The sign was not there when she was growing up. Her conclusion (one in which I mentally stretched for a loophole), I wasn't a grandchild so the contractual obligation on the wall was null and void as far as my person. Aside: Please tell me why the small print in a contract always works against me?

I stood hesitantly in the kitchen and stared at the sign. Suddenly inspiration hit me. A loophole appeared. Then, in the interest of self preservation and personal security, I let my daughter – their grandchild - take the keys. I also let her drive. I congratulated myself; if you are smart you can usually find a way. However, my wife, the tattletale, in a move reminiscent of Katie Francis, casually told her parents on the phone that, "Rick borrowed your car while you were gone." Her ulterior motive is still suspect. OK, sure my in-laws said that it was fine and everything was okay. Even so, I was tempted to wear a board in my pants the next time we went over to visit. Just in case.

Ouch! One of My Kidney Stones.

This was a big pain in my side.  Let me tell you...

This was the biggest of 3 pieces I passed one happy morning.  At a centimeter long, it makes me wonder (and scared) of what is still up there. 

Memorial Day 2009 - Richard W. Doray, USMC

Bronze Star Medal

Description

A bronze star 1 ½ inches in circumscribing diameter. In the center thereof is a 3/16-inch diameter superimposed bronze star, the center line of all rays of both stars coinciding. The reverse has the inscription "HEROIC OR MERITORIOUS ACHIEVEMENT" and a space for the name of the recipient to be engraved. The star is suspended from the ribbon by a rectangular shaped metal loop with the corners rounded.

Ribbon

The ribbon is 1 3/8 inches wide.

Criteria

The Bronze Star Medal is awarded to any person who, while serving in any capacity in or with the military of the United States after 6 December 1941, distinguished himself or herself by heroic or meritorious achievement or service, not involving participation in aerial flight, while engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States; while engaged in military operations involving conflict with an opposing foreign force; or while serving with friendly foreign forces engaged in an armed conflict against an opposing armed force in which the United States is not a belligerent party. Awards may be made for acts of heroism, performed under circumstances described above, which are of lesser degree than required for the award of the Silver Star. Awards may be made to recognize single acts of merit or meritorious service.

The Year of the Silver

Erie is the 13th snowiest city in the lower 48 averaging 88.8 in/yr,

and #4 for snowiest city with a population over 100,000.

TOP 10 ERIE SNOW SEASONS
GREATEST (I've been here for 7 of these)
1. 149.1" 2000-01
2. 145.1" 2008-09
3. 143.0" 2002-03
4. 142.8" 1977-78
5. 131.3 1993-91
6. 129.2 1995-96
7. 124.9 1985-86
8. 122.6 2004-05
9. 120.0 1970-71
10. 118.7 2007-08

LEAST (Missed everyone of these – darn global warming!)
1. 19.6 1932-33
2. 22.8 1918-19
3. 30.4 1931-32
4. 32.1 1905-06
5. 32.3 1948-49
6. 35.2 1906-07
7. 35.6 1936-37
8. 35.9 1928-29
9. 37.9 1921-22
10. 38.1 1941-42

Spring must be coming.  You can see the deer running.

On Par with Pepys

I have a confession to make. I have to write. I am driven to write. It's the critical overflow outlet for the tangential ramblings of my brain. It's more than a hobby. I could have gone with any other of a myriad of stress-relieving pastimes, ranging from needlecraft, which may have been a modified body-piercing experience, to bodybuilding, but you'd have to needle me to get off the couch. And those would have been productive outlets, but I chose writing. Actually, I suspect that it chose me.

It's not that I write well. It's not that I write anything really interesting to anyone but me. I just have to spill thoughts onto paper so I don't dirty up the floorboards of my mind. Things kind of swirl around in there, morphing into other creatures, and I have to release them at some point. Otherwise I don't have room for the arrival of the next shipment of ruminations. Not to fear, though. It's mostly innocuous. I've never labeled any writing a manifesto, diary, or "my struggle." It's not that politics are off-limits it's just that with 100 million Americans spilling political jargon there are 100 million different definitions of what those terms mean. It's the modern Tower of Babel. So I mainly avoid politics because I pretend that I'm actually writing to someone else and not at them.

Even so, I'm not really worried about offending anyone. Nobody sees my scribblings anyway. I recently backed up one of my hard drives and found almost a gigabyte and a half of writing in My Files. And that's not counting business documents, spreadsheets, pdfs, images, or any other file in a subfolder. That's just straight up Rick's Stuff writings in either WordPerfect or MS Word. From my calculations a good sized book is about 5 megabytes. So doing the math, where 1 GB is roughly 1000 MBs, and if a book is about 5 MBs, that would mean that I have about...um, well, I don't remember how to do all the theorems and proofs, but it's like a lot of books.

You would think with such an impressive voluminous tome there would be something publishable in there. Theoretically, even monkeys banging on the keyboard would produce something publishable by the 1 GB mark. Which is my segue to confession número dos – I hardly ever finish anything. I believe that every project that I've ever finished is the result of time running out. Deadlines are practically my only proof of life; that, and seven children.

This stems from three compatible character flaws. 1) I procrastinate anything procrastinatable (see note below). I've been wondering for 25 years what I want to be when I grow up. And that's counting from when I legally became an adult. Non-legally, I'm still waiting. About two years ago I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling and I casually comment to my wife, "I think I want to be a writer." The reaction was startling. "WELL, HALLELUJAH!" she said, "You've finally decided." I think I stress out the people around me. I also stress out my hard drive. There are too many outlines and fragmented notes haunting the folders of my computer. I'm afraid that if I ever finished one of them the computer may just go into a spontaneous fireworks screensaver. A scrolling banner would read, Well Hallelujah, you've finally got one in the bag. Can we print now?

2) I constantly tinker around with any thought I put down. I'm the artist that keeps rearranging the composition. What would it look like if we did this? Should this go away and then we can add this? It's a game of sketch-creation. Eventually you have to put away the charcoal and lay the paint down on the canvas. But at that point you're kind of committed. I was a psych major – I would like to avoid being committed. Or maybe it's because I'm a guy.

And, 3) I am a closet perfectionist and never think anything is actually good enough for public appearance. But that may be the fear of rejection. Any idea is fine as long as it is still on the drawing board because there are no bad ideas in brainstorming. And as far as drafts, well, it's just a draft, I can always fix it. The perfectionist in me can't always stand to read what I've written. I used to think it was like an actor who doesn't like to see their own movies. But I think it is more like hearing your own voice on a recording. You always wonder, "Do I really sound like that? Is that as strange to people as it is to me?"

My greatest angst has been the number of books that have come out lately with ideas that I have been working on. The premises aren't always exactly the same, but they are close enough for government work. This last year Deseret Book released 21 Days Closer to Christ. Erie friends will recall my 2005-2006 opus 40 Days Closer to Christ, as well as its sequel 40 Days Closer to Christ: The Names of the Lord. I've also got a book in the computer called the Christmas Thief. It's a mock Seussian pictorial book about a little imp who unsuccessfully keeps trying to suppress the celebration of Christmas throughout the past 2000 years. Carol Lynn Pearson just released her novel by that name. There are others I could list, but I'm just whining now.

Just this past weekend, I found another parallel release. And this is one that really gets me; one that hurts. It's not really even a book. It's a new movie called "One Man's Treasure." It's about missionaries in Philadelphia seeking out a hidden mob treasure. I wanted that concept. While I was in Brazil my companion and I met a family who were very excited to meet and talk to Americans, especially me. I introduced myself as from Pennsylvania and their eyes just lit up. Their grandfather had been from Philadelphia. According to them, he had worked for the mafia as an accountant. He had fled to Brazil when it was discovered that he had hidden all this dirty money that he had embezzled from them. This Brazilian family had an old letter, written in grandpa's hand, giving clues as to the whereabouts of the money in the City of Brotherly Love. The family wanted us to help them. We weren't in a position to either help or verify their claim. But I've wondered about it.

That idea has been percolating in my head and notes for years. I've written a similar scenario where two missionary companions have this same experience and then have a less than amicable parting. Ten years later at a mission reunion, the hero discovers that his former companion is missing. The last anyone knew was that he was headed to Philadelphia to "research" something. The hero suspects what that something is and reluctantly goes to find out what happened to his old friend.

If you've read my little note this far I'm impressed. I lost interest awhile ago and I wrote it. So why have I put all of this down? It is so I can ask this question: By definition writers have to write, but do they also have to publish? If all my compositions sit alone in the dark binary world of bits and bytes can I say I'm a writer? Are my three character flaws simply a disguise for fear - the fear to try, the fear of failing, or the most insidiously insane fear of all, that of actually succeeding? To Loved Ones who encourage and patiently wait for me to get my act together, I'm working on it. I've chosen who I want to be. I'm a husband, I'm a father, and I'm a writer. The first two are the most important. And as to the third, hopefully I can get a move on and add something unique to the literary world before all my ideas are used up.

* note – the great thing about writing is you can makeup words that should be words but aren't in any dictionary. English is base words, prefixes and suffixes. You should be able to swap them out anyway you want to communicate your ideas. The Ferrell Bushism of "Strategery" makes total sense to me. I get the meaning. It should be a word. By contrast, Obama uses lots of words that are in the dictionary but I don't always understand what he means by them.

Frozen H2Oh Boy

My second job – the one that makes the ends meet – is transporting the Wall Street Journal from the West Middlesex PA print site up to Erie PA. Technically, I manage the transportation. Practically, I just do it myself and keep the money instead of subcontracting it out. It also lets me keep my cool and just plan to do it instead of having people call off at the last minute. I really don't mind the time alone driving the 180 mile round trip. I listen to Podcasts, audio books, talk radio, etc. I have time to think, ponder, and ruminate over the world's ills. I can sing at the top of my lungs and scream at other drivers without my wife punching me in the arm. It's great. The answer to keeping your sanity with a home filled with 7 children – leave for 4 hours every night.

There have been travels that I will always remember. One happened on the night of a bad ice storm. Or I should say, the night of a freezing rain that coated all it touched and made the surfaces bright. Everything was shiny and sparkly. My wipers had two inches of ice encasing them so they were useless. I'd tried to break the ice off of them by reaching around out the window and banging them against the windshield. But that didn't work out very well. I just got an ice encrusted arm out of it. At the rest-stop before Edinboro I got out and tried to clear the wipers and scrape the windows. My first step out of the vehicle onto the pavement should have been narrated by Bob Saget. There may have been a split second when no part of my body was actually touching the ground. But quickly enough I was reacquainted with terra firma. Ouch. If it wasn't so wet I might have just laid there for a bit while my bones reset themselves. I stood up and gracefully tried to compose myself. I hand-squeegeed the water off my backside and knees and looked around to see if anyone was watching. There were several faces staring at me out of a minivan several spaces down. The lady just gave me a little wave. The kids started cracking up in the back. Nice.

I tried to walk around the open truck door. The not quite frozen rain on the ice lubricated the ground just enough to conspire to teach me about physics. I started to slide away from the truck. I experienced a moment of confusion. Why was I moving without any effort at all? The brain is a wonderful thing. It took in all the data, made some split second calculations and informed me, you're on an incline, You Dolt, do something or you're going to end up halfway to Saegertown! I made a grab for the door and just managed to catch the side of the window. My fingers slipped and I could feel the nails just scrape the textured plastic. One of them bent back and broke. I leaned over and made a last ditch attempt to get the door. One hand pinched the edge and held. But my balance was off and first one leg came off the ground as I started to whirl around, then the other slipped away as I made purchase with the first. It was a kind of wild dance. But I stayed up. I just stood there catching my breath. I was almost proud of my superior dexterity. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. I looked over to see the van rocking back and forth. The kids were in the back rolling around on the floor, laughing. The lady had her head in her hands and I could see her shoulders shaking. Wonderful. No really…just peachy. I bet that when they stopped to ride out the weather they never imagined that it would come with a show.

Ignore them, I thought. Every contestant is booed and cheered in the ring. Everybody is a critic. At least I'm out here doing something. They're just hiding in their van until its safe and secure to move again. I'm the one out here taking chances while they remain conscious of good choices. Okay, so that really wasn't an intelligent winning argument. Let's just clear the windshield and get out of here, I thought. I was more deliberate as I planned my next action. Making my way around the door and holding onto the truck so I didn't slide away I was able to make it to the driver side wiper.

I picked up the wiper and slammed it against the windshield. Nothing. Maybe just a little shard flew off here and there. I picked up the wiper to hit it harder the next time. Just at that moment the intermittent switch kicked on and the wiper tore out of my hand. But I was holding on just hard enough for it to torque my body weight on the slippery ice and slam me against the hood of the truck. I didn't dare look at the van. I consider the decision to not look at the van a correct choice on the road of my life. If I had, the newspapers may have reported on the bodies of a traveling family passing through on a treacherous Erie night being found on a lonely stretch of I-79. A manhunt for the killer would have ensued. Some hack would dub me the Ice Storm Killer. I would go to the State Pen as "The Iceman."

Using my anger in a more productive way, I ripped up the wiper and brought it down hard on the windshield. Bang! Bang! Bang! Ice flew everywhere. I was overcome by my need to destroy the hated ice that was making me the fool! Bang! Bang! Bang! Take that, Old Man Winter! You cannot break my indomitable spirit, You Insensitive, Uncaring Windbag! Perhaps I said more than that. I don't remember. I was in combat with meteorological patterns, seasonal climatic changes and the little cloud with the cartoon face that is always blowing a fierce wind at unsuspecting travelers. Looking at the wiper, I saw that it was now clear of all the ice and frost. I had beaten Old Man Winter. I nodded in satisfied victory. I turned my gaze and looked at the passenger side wiper. I considered the thrill of traveling to the other side of the truck and taking up siege. The ram had touched the wall. Then I said, "Aw, forget that."

I made my way back around the door and I crawled back into the truck, pulling myself up into the driver seat. I noted that Mother Nature had accomplished what no hair product could; my hair was firmly cemented in place. I backed out of my spot and put the truck in gear. Slowly the tires made traction and I rolled away from the rest-stop leaving several entertained souls who were unaware that they were lucky to be alive. I gingerly touched the top of my head and felt the brittle strands of my new hair-do. Hah, is that your worst, you Billowous Blowhard? I laugh at your mousse! I turned up the heater. Five minutes later there was water running down into my face and eyes, down my neck into my shirt, dripping everywhere. My hair was melting. The wind howled, revenge is a dish not always best served cold, mortal, sometimes it needs a little heat to make it work. The driver side windshield wiper screeched as it scratched across my line of vision. It was completely re-encrusted in ice. Each pass was a new taunt; a barometric raspberry. I knew that madness was soon upon me.

15 miles to go; it seemed an eternity. And I'm almost back to Erie. It had been one of those white-knuckle rides and I'm starting to breathe just a little easier thinking that I will actually survive the night. My hair, though still wet, was no longer dripping. I was coming up on the McKean exit. Just "2 miles" the sign informed me. But those are a very treacherous 2 miles. Northbound I-79 takes a nice right-hand dogleg down a pretty steep incline in those 2 miles. I came around the bend. Slowly, slowly, I breathed. I could feel my fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I knew that I was going to have to flex them for circulation at the bottom of the hill.

Just ahead there were yellow flashing lights. I looked and saw a tow truck on the inside breakdown. The car ahead of me started to fishtail and it slid into the next lane before it regained control. I slowed way, way down. Now I saw that there was a car in front of the tow truck. Obviously the tow truck had just it pulled out of the median. Wow, I thought, wouldn't want to be them tonight. The tow truck driver probably charged them $100 for his troubles on this slippery night; especially since he had to crawl down that steep slope in the median to hook up the chain. The car in front of the tow truck began to pull forward onto the highway. They were moving carefully. Maybe they were checking for any new noises, rattles or scrapes that would signify damage. They carefully changed lanes from the passing lane to the driving side of the road. But they were still shifting right. Then they were going into the breakdown lane. And they don't stop! They keep going right. They slip right off the road and slide down the opposite bank. The tow truck driver was standing there looking at it happen. I'm just coasting down the hill watching it happen. We passed each other just as the car disappeared from our sight. He looked at me and I looked at him. He just shrugged and got back into his truck. Out of my rearview mirror I saw the tow truck cross the road and the driver get out and go the edge of the hill and look down.

I started to count my blessings. No matter what happens to you, somebody else has it worse. The wipers screeched again as they passed. I barely noticed. The only thing which would have made my mood more grateful would be if the car which went down the bank was the van from the rest stop 11 miles behind. Oh well, I can always fantasize.

Valentine's Ramblings: or My Wife is Trying to Kill Me.

I like it when my wife laughs at my jokes. She did it all the time when we were dating. She did it when we were newlyweds. But somehow it seems she doesn't laugh as much at my jokes anymore. I'm lucky to get a smile. I know my wit is about a half step behind what it used to be as neural pathways are closing down (see last entry "So you say it's my birthday"). But I think the real problem is she isn't impressed by me anymore. It's not that familiarity breeds contempt, it's just that familiarity breeds…well, familiarity.

Or maybe it does breed contempt. I think the woman may be trying to kill me. I know, I know, you look at her sweet little facebook profile picture and you think, "Who? Her? No way!" But hear me out. I think she is intentionally leaving the cabinet door under our bathroom sink open at night. I suppose you think me mad at this point, but madmen know nothing. I am rational. Let me but explain the genius behind her modus operandi for my demise and you will see. I only ask that if there is a sudden funeral you use my Facebook page as evidence.

Michelle (our baby) still sleeps in a bassinet in our room. So if I have to get up in the middle of the night to make the long trek of about twelve feet to our bathroom, it must be done in the darkest night so as "not to wake the baby." A nightly trip, I might add, that I am having to make more and more frequently (again, see last note "So you say it's my birthday"). Okay so maybe it isn't age so much as my ability to suck down a two liter of diet pop in the evening isn't conducive to an uninterrupted night of sleep. FACT: She buys the pop. Sometimes. Well, mostly I do. BUT she knows I do.

So in pitch black as dark as the deed, I stumble into the bathroom confident of speedy business and a quick return to slumber. But it is not to be. In drowsy haste I feel along for the doorway trim, enter the convenience and run SMACK right into that cabinet door. Man, does that hurt! You should have the coroner check for contusions on my shins. FACT: The little hobbit safely tucked away in the covers she stole from me in the night often leaves the right cabinet door open. If it were the other side left open then I would simply kick it closed. But as it is the right side she leaves fully open, it stands its ground against my weight so that I trip on it. On the other side of that barricade is the toilet and the tub. The aerodynamics of a bathroom fall would land me face first in the bathtub. I have sorted out the possibility of leaving the tub filled at night. But have pretty much discarded the idea because then she might just leave the cabinet door open if she thought I needed a bath. But I digress.

FACT: She is a female. She knows that 70% of accidents at home occur in the bathroom (that's a line just begging for quip). And with over 200,000 incidents a year in the United States, successful completion of her scheme would most likely be officially ruled as just another mishap in the john. Plus, I believe her feminine mind has deduced that should I trip into the bathtub the cleanup will be minimal. Unless the tub is full; then we will need lots of towels.

To date, I have, through pure innate athleticism and nimbleness, thwarted her carefully laid plans and have returned to my cool blanket-less side of the bed with throbbing leg but whole in body. And, as for her? Not an indication or sign from her side of the bed except for a slight shaking under the mound of blankets and the muffled sound of her stirring in the night. Or is that a giggle? I think she could be chuckling under there. Maybe I still make her laugh after all. But I'm thinking I'm going to have to give up the carbonated nightcaps. Comedy is more painful than it used to be. My shins can't take it.