What can I say about another year gone by that hasn’t already been said? I could write about how our 401k’s have now all been turned into 201k’s. Or how every time someone in Europe sneezes, our stock market drops to yet another new yearly low.

Or how because those folks in Washington keep acting like children and can’t agree on how to run things, homes are now worth about half what they were at the beginning of this year.

I could write about all that stuff. But then again, it wouldn’t make for a very happy column, now would it? Read More»

It’s been over 45 years since I’d seen them. Toys like the ones I played with while growing up at 110 Flamingo Street have long been gone from store shelves.

Gone are balsa wood aeroplanes, the Slinky and jacks. No one plays with jacks anymore. Alas, jacks have gone the way of dominoes and pick-up-sticks. Windup toys are even a thing of the past.

Toys now run off batteries – toys that’ll be outdated and discarded in less than six months. Not so with toys of old. Jacks last forever. Read More»

The fruitcake has somehow gotten a bad reputation, and it’s time once and for all to put an end to it — the bad reputation, not the fruitcake.

The multi-colored mixed fruit and nut concoction is indeed a holiday treat for some, a gag gift to others, and — to the very young — a food item to be avoided at all cost.
Some even say there have been only a few thousand fruitcakes ever produced; they just keep getting passed around from one family to the next. Read More»

Most of my childhood memories from growing up at 110 Flamingo Street are pleasant and still warm and fuzzy in my mind. This story, however, ain’t one of them.
Nope, this story is about blisters, pain, and life lessons learned the hard way. Funny, it seems life lessons are never learned the easy way. Looking back, I guess there are many techniques Dad could’ve employed to teach me. But “split and stack,” to this day, I’ve not forgotten. And how could I? I still wear the scars. Read More»

When I turned 6, all I wanted for Christmas was snow. We’d just moved into our new house, it was three months until Christmas, and I’d never seen the white stuff before.

A steep slope that bellied out into a long flat area, our backyard would make the perfect sled run. Magically, that winter I got my wish. Read More»

Normally by this time of the year, I’ve exhausted all the topics that cause me to jump up on my soapbox and pontificate. I can relax, pen a few lighthearted articles, and slide right on into the New Year. But with only four more columns ‘til 2012, I find I must pull out my soapbox and stand upon it one last time. There’s still more pontificating that needs to be done and, after all, it is my soapbox. Read More»

Few have reached the age of 100 unblemished by time and circumstances. My life has now spanned over three generations, and there’s really no telling how much longer I’ll be around. They say I’ve never looked better, but I know the truth. I’ve faded somewhat, have a crack and a chip. Even so, I’ve been more fortunate than most.

Over the years a few mishaps have taken some of my brothers completely from me. Oh sure, they’ve been replaced quickly. The replacement of a piece of fine china is easy nowadays. But the replacement of generations of holiday memories – that’s impossible. Read More»

Suddenly, I couldn’t catch my breath. As muscles in my arms tightened, my hands gripped the steering wheel. Childhood fears of grease paint, bulbous red noises, and floppy giant shoes came rushing back in a torrent almost smothering me in a sea of emotion.

About a mile down the street was the undeniable red and white striped canvas. Huge poles stretched the canvas skyward into four pinnacles. It could only mean one thing. The circus was back in town.

With it, I’m sure, came a miniature car full of those hideous clowns. Read More»

The sheets slowly rise and fall next to me. The Wife is peacefully asleep. Our two cats are down for the night. They say if you can’t rest, you have something on your mind. I must, because I can’t.

Usually it’s worrying about money (or the lack thereof) that is the thief of my slumber, but not this time. It’s something much more important. Read More»

It was there the entire time we lived at 110 Flamingo Street. No matter how many times we tried to get rid of it, the thing always seemed to return. With each move we made, Mom thought we were finally going to be free, but after only a few months in the new house, it found us once again.

No one really claimed ownership. Mom said it all belonged to Dad. Dad said it wasn’t his, that it belonged to everyone. Looking back, I now know differently. The rightful owner of the dreaded drawer in the kitchen was me. Read More»