The Gospel According To Daniel

This past Saturday, the wife and I managed to get three of our four children over to the house for a visit. Of course, with two of the four kids living in the house you would assume that getting the three over would be a cake walk since we only had to convince one to visit, but it's not. After a child leaves the nest, even if they come back to stay, as our two youngest boys are doing, they have this feeling that their life is their own. They don't have the same enthusiasm for coming over for a family dinner like they did at age 10, when life revolved around them. We now find that we are competing with game conferences, time away with friends, and other priorities.

For child number one it's getting all six of her kids in the car(s), and getting them to behave as they undertake the long journey to Papa's and Grandma's house. That half an hour, 16 mile drive must be hell for them. The grandkids are usually on their best behavior and why wouldn't they be, coming to our house is like winning a trip to a place called "Funland".

I don't know what your memory of your grandparents is like but mine, to be honest, sucked. I met my father's parents three times, (which is exactly how many times I met my father), and my mom's dad three times. Loved my grandmother on my father's side, as did everyone, tolerated grandpa, he was a strict southern man, mostly an unkind man, with occasional outbursts of complacency. Adored my mom's dad, but the miles were too great to have the relationship I wanted to. As for my grandmother I grew up around… well she didn't have the best life, 8 husband's in her 61 years, and she was never married to Grandpa. She battled every ailment known to man and womankind. Going to visit Grandma's was like going to see the World's Biggest Ball of String… exciting the first time but seeing it week after week, year after year. "Kid's, get in the car, we're going to visit GRANDMA!" "Wow, I can't wait." (Cue Funeral Dirge)

Our house, on the other hand, is the place to be and it's better than McDonald's, the zoo, or Disneyland. The wife and I are in a lifelong contest to be loved and adored more than any of the other grandparent's in their lives. We are not beyond slowly poisoning the others to death, if necessary. We are united in our goal to be number one and beyond. We want other people's kids to wish we were their grandparents. We're ruthless, ruthless parents.

But we are not without a motive for our enthusiastic approach to being grandparents. And we think, no we know, that the reasons for our actions are very justifiable.

We're enacting revenge upon our children for their behavior when we were raising them. What better way to do that then to be grandparents? And now, I've decided to break the vow of silence that all grandparents take and share some of our innermost secrets with their parents.

We love you. Hold that thought now…. got it? We'll come back to it.

Okay, what does 7-11, Baskin & Robbins, Mrs. Fields, the grocery store, Halloween, and our house have in common? You got it, SUGAR! Our number one goal in life is to see how much sugar we can pump into your children at least one hour before we return them to you. And they follow us like Lemmings! The definition of "Papa" is really "Free Slurpee's for Life!" Ice cream? You're not having a good time if you don't have at least 2 helpings, "would you like some chocolate sauce on that, oh look, caramel too!" Rules, we have them, but once you, their parents, walk in the door, most of them get suspended. Usually, it's when your mom says no to dessert because you didn't eat your dinner. Then we jump in and say, "but at Grandma's house" you always get dessert, especially when you don't eat your dinner. Perfectly behaved children are swinging from the chandelier as soon as you walk in the door. What's my favorite thing to hear the grandkids say? "Papa said we could."

Hey kids! Remember that time you sassed your mom, say that one time when you were 13-16 years old? Yea, we've got sugar revenge for that. Bedtime for your kids is what, 8pm? Papa says you haven't lived if you don't try to stay up all night watching TV and playing video games. Don't forget the sugar! "What, they're tired, I don't know why Sweetie, they didn't hardly do anything."

I'm surprised that my grandkids don't get Diabetes just giving me a kiss.

Are you still holding that "We Love You" thought?

You're childhood actions are responsible for our actions, because, we all know that for every action there is an opposite reaction.

And you, as their parents, can't do anything about it, oh, I'm not saying you can't or won't try. But if you enact revenge on us and ever ban them from coming over, we do have the final say, because, and pay attention, etch this little bit of wisdom into your minds.

We babysit for free and at the last minute.

Revenge is sweet.

The company that I pay a hefty portion of my salary to, to insure my auto, home, and riding lawn mower, are running a series of commercials here in our neck of the woods to salute how different people in the Pacific Northwet are. One commercial focuses on "socks and sandals guy", a reference to those who wear socks and sandals at the same time, another is about the "blue tarp camper", acknowledging the die-hard campers who are out every weekend in the outdoors, even if they sit miserably around a very sad campfire, soaked to the skin, but under a blue tarp (because that makes it worth it). The idea is to salute their customers, like myself, and that they can be as different as we are. Sure, and one day you're going to come to your senses and refund all of the money that I've paid you over the years, just to be different. I'm not holding my breath on this one.

But I digress.

This is about levels of insanity and how our early childhood shapes who we are. Because, we are all a little insane, and while the quote "In an insane world, the sane appear insane" has a measure of truth to it, the trick seems to be to keep your level of insanity at a point that is tolerable for most of the civilized world, if not your neighborhood. For instance, if you find yourself running down the street naked, yelling "I'm a hamster, I'm a hamster", you have more than likely crossed the line from mostly sane to barking lunatic. I'm not saying that it's the worst thing you could do, but, I'm not saying it isn't.

I'm not a student of the human psyche, I think that I'm more on the psycho side. For instance, I used to be a Democrat, then a Reagan Conservative and now I'm just voting for the candidate that took the better picture in the voters pamphlet. I'm also not saying it's bad to be a Democrat, it's just that the reason I was one is because of everyone crying when I was five-years old. See, here is where the insanity comes in. When I was five John F. Kennedy died. And I remember watching the funeral on TV and everyone around me was crying. Of course, at the time I had three siblings, all under the age of four, and crying was their national pastime. But I remained a loyal Democrat because of that experience. Until I was old enough to vote.

The issue of aliens has been on my mind since I was four-years old. I remember laying in my bed at night, we lived in an area south of Seattle, and watching from my bed, the different searchlights that were advertising the new mall that had been built. I didn't know they were advertising the mall when I was young, I found that out later in life. But I was afraid of the "aliens" that the searchlights were trying to find in the night sky, maybe too much Buck Rogers. I remember that my mother assured me that there was no such thing as aliens. Based on this experience with the lights, and my mother's reassuring response, I determined that my mother lied to me. Because my mother said that there were no aliens I believed her. Imagine the emotional scars that I carry now, especially when I would watch the TV commercial, put out by the government each year that said; "If you are an alien living in the United States, you are required to register with the Department of Naturalization". If, as my mother said, there were no aliens whch would the government ask them to register? I'm going with the government on this one.

I think that it's crazy to put so much love and devotion into a pet as some people do. I've tried, but the truth is that there is a certain point when the vet tells me how much it'll cost to treat "Spot", that I start weighing the cost of the treatment with the cost of putting the dog down. More than $5 difference and that little doggy "Goes to Heaven"! I've had my share of pets and I believe that they can be very smart and fun to be around. However, I tend to choose my friends using the same reasoning that I have for choosing my pets. For instance, I don't tend to create a real emotional bond with an animal that in addition to fetching the newspaper, chasing the neighborhood cats, and giving me "doggy kisses", also barks at the air and eats its own puke and poop. I feel the same way about people. My motto is: "Never Take Advice From Someone More Screwed Up Than Yourself". Which explains why I don't have a close relationship with my brothers and sisters. And to be fair to them, they don't eat their own puke and poop. Barking at the air… well, insanity runs rampant in my family tree.

Marriage is a different type of insanity. Dating is when you go out into the world and actively try to find someone that is warped enough to say "I Do", which is really saying "I'm willing to have your babies", which is supposed to indicate that you're compatible with each other, even if it means you're total opposites. And marriage might be the ultimate insanity. I now understand that my search for a wife was really about trying to find someone that wasn't like me at all, I didn't need the competition. If you marry someone just like you it's tempting to go with every fashion suggestion that the other suggests. Next thing you know, matching shirts on the Christmas card, letting her eat off of your plate, one type of ice cream in the house, and kettle corn instead of real popcorn. Marriage is God's way system of checks and balances on your life.

Disclaimer: None of the above makes any sense and any sense that it does make isn't intentional. The events described are not fictitious and, in fact, are true, and bear resemblances to people living and dead. And please, don't forget to tip your waiter.

I know that some people would say that my most recent post could be compared to the story of the "boy that cried WOLF". I say, whatever conclusion that you made while reading is not my fault. You shouldn't jump to conclusions. Besides, this was the second time that some of you fell for my little writing deception. I don't feel for you, BOO HOO!

So, I'll give it to you straight. We've had another death in our house. I haven't even told my wife about it yet.

And I'm worried because "they", whoever "they" are, say that stuff like this comes in threes.

My favorite power drill died today. A few weeks ago it was my wide screen TV, now it's my power drill. What's next? My chop saw, my IPod, say it won't be my computer.

And yes, Ladies, I know what you're thinking. How could you be so upset over a power tool? Well, this particular drill has been around longer than my relationship with the wife. And yes, it is just a tool, but I'm a guy and so simple that if it was left up to me I'd drive a Jag and live in a grass hut like Gilligan. And yes, I'm more Mary Ann than Ginger.

Take an informal poll among your guy friends and they'll tell you. They'll tell you that they are very loyal to their tools. Sure, I have two more drills in my power tool arsenal, a Black & Decker corded unit that holds my Sears Quick Lock drill chuck and a Black & Decker cordless 18v that came as part of a kit. Okay, I admit that I use them occasionally, small jobs, and quick jobs, for the little things. But my old drill was like the Lone Rangers horse Silver, reliable. Our relationship was like Timmy and Lassie, peanut butter and jelly, Batman & Robin, butter on popcorn, Gilligan and the Skipper, Siegfried & Roy, okay, not Siegfried & Roy. But we were close.

Right now it's at the bottom of a waste basket at my church, where, appropriately it died, drilling through the mortar between bricks, just so I could hang a white board. And yes, they make noises when they die. Grinding, friction, and sparks. Lots of sparks!

Oh, the inhumanity.

And no, it wasn't the prettiest girl at the dance, but it could dance! It never ran out of power like the cordless, unless of course, I unplugged it. Sure it wasn't as smooth and light as the B&D corded, but, I ALWAYS GOT FROM IT WHAT I ASKED FOR. It never gave up. And in the end it just quit. Froze up harder than Walt Disney in his cryogenics Popsicle suit. I held it gently while I pulled the plug out of the outlet one last time. My fingers caressed the cord, bandaged with electrical tape in order to cover the many cuts, nicks and slices that it experienced over its long, long life.

This, my friends, is what they refer to as "durable goods". I loved it. There, I said it. I loved it more than any tool I have ever owned. Certainly more than any hammer, more than the dozens of screwdrivers that have been a part of my toolboxes over the years, more than any single socket or ratchet set I have ever owned.

Now, I have to choose a new favorite tool. Very difficult, very trying times. I'll have to spend some times with my individual tools, get to know them, see what they're made of, and put them through a few challenges. And in the end I'll have a new favorite tool. In a few days I'll wander out to the garage and get back in the game. You can't hurry things like this.

But it won't be the same. I'll never use a drill again without thinking about my ol' Skil, I'll use my other drills but they'll never replace this drill.

And a part of it is still with me, the chuck key works with my Black & Decker corded.

Do you think I can get bereavement leave from work for this?

I think I need counseling.

Fridays are usually happy days. For some it is the end of a (long) work week, for others camping is on their minds. Some go fishing, others engage in sports, or the like. This Friday was not a typical one, for I lost a dear friend.

It has been one of the strangest relationships that I have ever been in. To say this friend has influenced my life is one of the great understatements of life. I've had mentors in my life but this friend has been more than that. An entertainer at times, a teacher, a friend who has broke the bad news to me when others couldn't find the words. My friend's talents have kept me captivated when it told stories, animated at times, colorful when the occasion called for it, but sometimes my friend gave it to me in black & white.

I'm sad but this isn't unexpected. Three years ago there were warning signs, the light seemed to dim. You could tell that he'd lost his balance in life and we had to call in for emergency assistance. A week away with some specialists fixed the problem that plagued him but he came back to us with the warning that another incident could be fatal. And so it was this last Friday. One last day, one last time to share his stories, to teach us from the vast library of wisdom that he had stored and one last day to make me laugh. And it was sudden, I returned home to get the bad news from one of my sons. My old friend was gone.

I was stunned. I sat down in my chair and reminisced about the "good ol' days" that we had. And then, once the shock and the permanency of the moment had sunk in I began to call the rest of the family and inform them. My son in Spokane and I talked about the first time that they'd met. My youngest son was away for the weekend, his brother called and informed him of the loss. I think that being the youngest it was harder for him to believe. He was still a teenager when our friend experienced trouble the first time. Everything lives forever to a teenager.

My wife was surprised, even somewhat shocked, she has a friend with similar characteristics, but younger. From a long distance she comforted me as best as she could. But deep down I knew that she didn't really understand my hurt, my anger, my frustration. Women never seem to in these situations.

And now the question is what to do?

So, a few days later I am trying to deal with the death of my old friend, my friend who has meant so much to me. And I wonder if I will ever recover from this tragedy.

And I know that I will. I believe that the sun will come out tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, the next day.

But the big question is still out there.

Should I go with a 73" DLP Rear Projection or a 63" LCD Widescreen?

And what do I do with the old TV?

Decisions.

By nature I am a minimal risk taker. I've only been in one fight in my life, around 12 years old, unless you want to count the past 25 years of marriage. Food, I tend to stick to my "usual" on a menu. Clothing; comfortable and unfashionable. I've only worked for two companies in the past 27 years, 22 with my current employer.

And then every few years I do something a little daring. Something for a thrill, and lately, something as a stress buster.

In the spring of 1984 I took off in a small Cessna airplane, as a passenger, and fell out of the plane… at 2,400 feet up. Over the next month I did that three times. It wasn't luck that I lived, each time I got out of the plane I had a parachute on and each time it opened up. I learned important lessons from those experiences. For instance, if your chute doesn't open at 2,400 feet in the air the trip to the ground is only about 17 seconds. If your chute does open you are about 2 minutes from the ground. If you chute doesn't open you are going to die or become your families favorite vegetable. Live, Die, or Vegetable.

But in 1984 I had very little responsibility. No wife, no children, no job that was so important that my life was going to end without any one of them. But over the years I got married, we had kids, I got better at my job, we bought a house, a car, things became important. And even though I had read Dale Carnegies "How to Stop Worrying and Start Living", eventually the stress got to me.

In 2002 the wife and I went to see David Gates of Bread in concert in Las Vegas. While there I rode two roller coasters (not the ones on top of the Stratosphere, New York, New York and Speed), in between the roller coaster rides I bungee jumped from 170 feet. Okay, same three options, you live, you die or, or you get the nickname "Brussell Sprout" from the family. Oh yeah, and don't eat Chicken Fried Steak for breakfast before being shot out of two roller coasters and jumping from a construction crane with rubber bands around my ankles, because the end result is upchucking all over my wife 3 hours before our flight home. But the incredible side effect, from the bungee jump, was that I was totally relaxed. My stress was gone and I felt really relaxed and peaceful. I could have tried skydiving without a chute after that and not have been bothered by the impending conclusion of the jump. Death! Ha! I laugh in thy face!

Seven years later, 6 more grandkids, another child married, a few restraining orders between some family members, my potential nervous breakdown, my company merging for the second time in five years, four bosses, three surgeries, kids moving out, kids moving back in and out and in again, people getting divorces and people thinking about getting divorces, the Seahawks lose the Superbowl, my 9-month old granddaughter nearly dies, health scares, weight gain, weight loss, and then weight gain again. Okay, the stress has been a little unmanageable.

Friday, September 25^th, right around 2pm, my son Preston and I went to the Puyallup Fair, one of the top ten fairs in the country. This fair has everything, big name concerts, big name vendors, the Earthquake Burger, Fisher Scones, Krusty Pups, Elephant Ears, Corn-on-the-Cob, exhibits, 4-H displays, street performers, outrageous prices, and the like. Oh yeah, and did I mention they have carnival rides?

The Big Sling is the reason that I went. For 50 dollars American, per couple (my son and I counted as a couple), you get loaded into a two-person seat, a bar is lowered down over you and they secure the bar with an old seat belt from a 1974 Pinto. Then they lean you back, pull on these already really tight springs and then with a "here you go" launch you about a 185 feet into the air. Think of it as a reverse bungee jump. I went from joking to HOLY CRAP!!!! in less than a second. By the time we had flipped around in the air and saw my house, your house and the International Space Station, I was into Wooooooooooooooo Hoooooooooooooooo mode. There was a moment in the ride that I announced, to the world it turned out, that my butt cheeks had clenched together. Did I mention that the ride was caught on camera? The entire ride is posted on YouTube. Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=re03ucE_zKI I'm the good looking one.

My stress had been seriously reduced. But not enough. Turns out that the Extreme Scream was 2 for the price of 1. Five minutes later we were strapped to the outside of a 185 foot tower, this time the safety equipment latch was a seat belt from a 1977 AMC Pacer Wagon. From my viewpoint on the ground I thought that this ride would be exhilarating. AND THEN THEY SHOT US INTO THE AIR LIKE WE WERE HUMAN ROCKETS! Gone was the relative safety of the ground. I experienced g-forces in the magnitude of 10 to 100, and then we went weightless, playfully being dropped and shot up and down like we were a baby on Papa's knee. Then the ride slowed down and began a slow climb to the top of the tower. In between yelling at my son I HATE YOU! a number of times, there was a click as the chair locked into place. 185 feet in the air. About that time my son pointed out that you could see all the way to the top of the hill, to the mall. And that's when some sicko on the ground pushed a button that dropped my seat ¾ of the way to the ground or about 140 feet. After the ride was over my stress, or shall I say the remaining stress, was completely gone.

So, for now my stress in gone and life is good. I'm going for long walks on the beach, listening to the sounds of children playing, happy just to be me.

And I can't wait until the Spring Fair in Puyallup to ride or get shot out of the Big Sling again.

I was notified today that if I don't start writing my blog again I'm going to lose my legions, I mean my hordes of, excuse me, my fan.

And it's not my fault that I haven't been writing. It's just that over the past month something really strange has appeared in the sky here in Washington and we, as in the general public, have been mesmerized by this strange and bright object, our bodies have been warmed by the heat it puts out and our skin tones have changed from Mr. Clean white to shades of tan. They tell me it's called the Sun and that all life depends upon it. I've heard that it appears on a regular basis in places like Hawaii, Arizona, Texas, and California. If you live in any of these places it's really easy to tell a tourist from the Great Northwet because when the sun comes out we walk around staring blindly at the sky like we've just seen a UFO.

Okay, when you last visited the blog we were singing the praises of my middle granddaughter Girlie who had just turned 7-years old. However, her birthday is over and I've been continuously reminded by her how embarrassing my blog was. She's like old news now.

So I thought I would share with you some the exciting events that have made up my summer.

First, shortly after my granddaughters birthday, I had one of those experiences that happen only once every ten years. And I'm 50 years old. You would think after an experience like this one that I would have gotten at least dinner and a movie. Yes, I had the every ten-year probe of my body, specifically my bottom. I know, it's kind of gross, but everyone has to go through it about 4-5 times in a lifetime. Let me say this from the experience, if aliens ever do come and take me for a ride in their spaceship I'm going to whip out my ID that says I've been anally probed recently by someone much more qualified than them.

One would think that the full physical alone would have made for a more than exciting summer but no, something else medically trumped that experience. Since I'm 50 and slightly overweight, you know, 10 – 100 pounds, the doctor thought that it would be prudent to run a stress test on me. Unless you're a guy you have no idea how excited I was to find out that it was a Nuclear Stress Test! You don't' exactly glow in the dark but you do glow under the camera. C'mon, they inject you with low level radiation! How cool is that?

The outcome of the tests did reveal a problem that had been previously undetected and, luckily, was caught early. You guessed it, I actually have a heart. I know, I was surprised by the news myself. I had to get some smelling salts for my wife when she found out. She had some inkling that I had one but had previously surmised that mine was made of stone.

The other big news for our family is that we have added a new member to our already growing clan. No, we haven't had another grandchild, I've added another car to my stable. Let me take a moment and tell you how much I love Craigslist! It was a simple posting, "MG for Sale". It turned out to be an exact match for the car that I already had in my newly remodeled garage, a 1972 MG Midget. Problem with the car in the garage is that it has a cancer (rust) problem that was going to be costly to repair. Now I'm just putting the new parts that I own on the new car that I've bought. Of course, one of the reasons that you buy an MG, or any British car for that matter, is so that everyone can make fun of the car. Now, my grandson Chandler is the first to tell you that MG stands for "Morris Garages", while his mother used to say that it meant "Mostly Garbage". She doesn't' get to ride in the car for a while. I've been working diligently on the car in between roofing my house, rebuilding my porch, going to insignificant family events such as weddings and family reunions, and fulfilling my responsibilities at church. And now we, I mean I, hope to have the car running on the road in the next week or two.

And now, summer is over, at least in Washington. We're going to have one of our typical "Indian Summers", whatever that means.

Now that I've repented and started writing again I promise that I'll write more often and share with you some of my warped views of the world.

I mean, we haven't even touched upon the health care issues that seem to be the talk of the town, maybe one day we should have that little discussion.

So, if you've missed me, go ahead and leave a comment, you don't have to log into comment and no silly word phrase required. You can even leave comments anonymously.

Today is my Girlie's birthday. Now I know what you're thinkin', he's going to write a real sweet blog about his smokin' hot wife. Wrong, this is about one of my six other girls, the main girls in my life.

Let's see, we have Summer, who is sometimes known as Sum, Gummer, Princess, and pain in the... well, that's all girls. Then there is Jessica, I think I call her sweetie more than her own name, she's my daughter-in- love, married to oldest boy Westin or Binkie as he has been known in the past or when we want to embarrass him. First on the granddaughter list is Clairese or "Red" as I call her, a beautiful and sweet 13 year old redhead who rumor has it loves her Papa. Next in line is Kaisa, Katii, Pinky, or as I love to call her, "Girlie". Abigail or Grabby is next on the list, she's a sweet, little two year old who just takes your heart every time you get near her. Last is Binkie and Jessica's little bundle of joy, Heidi. I'm still working on her nickname.

I have three sons and four grandsons but we'll leave them out of this right now, with a side note on the Chanman later in the blog.

But let's talk about the Girlie. She came into the world screaming and kicking and for a good part of her first four years continued to do so. In the first few years of her life we took more family pictures of her screaming or kicking rather than smiling and looking cute. She came out ornery and stubborn and stayed that way for a long time. As her life has played out, she has turned into a sweet and somewhat innocent little bundle of sugar and spice and everything nice. And if I may say so DANG CUTE!

When she was born there were only two men present in the room, the doctor and me, the Papa. Being invited in to watch your grandchild being born is more than a little intimidating. What really put the pressure on me was when the doctor turned to me right after he did that whole baby delivery thing, he flipped the scissors around to me and asked if I was ready to cut the cord. Well, I did have a Sports Illustrated article that I wanted to finish in the hallway but he insisted. "It's tough like a garden hose" the doctor counseled, "rarely does anyone cut it all the way through the first try. I girded up my loins, fresh courage took and cut that cord in one shot. I have rarely felt more manly than then.

Of course, the next day I made a visit up to the hospital to see the child when she didn't look like a lizard. It's so nice of the hospital to give them their first bath. The main purpose being to make them cute so the parents will take them home. I recall that I was detained prior to going to the hospital because I hadn't pushed, thrown, allowed, my 21 month old grandson a chance to fall out of the second story window yet. After spending an hour in the emergency room to check for internal injuries to him and to get myself a tranquilizer, we wandered up to the second floor to see this new bundle of joy.

Well, to tell you the truth cutting the cord was about the most fun her and I had for the first three to four years. That child had learned some physical moves and screams in the pre-existence that I didn't know were available. And bad hair days? She's had more than a few. I didn't think that she would ever have a good hair day.

What was really frustrating was the rejection. I've been rejected more times than I care to by women over the course of my life but my own granddaughter! Did she not know that I was going to be her endless source of candy, Slurpees, dresses, and chocolate? She knew she was going to bed if she had to come to our bedroom to "watch TV with Papa". Wink, Wink, Nudge, Nudge. The poor little thing would have to be pried from underneath my body as I was usually comatose. She usually came out all sweaty, dripping wet from head to toe.

Our relationship changed one day. I don't know what she did to me but I didn't like it.

"They", whoever "they" are, say that you should only punish a child by placing them in timeout for one minute for each year of age. To me that's like paroling Charles Manson after sixth months for good behavior. The Gospel According To Daniel says that you will sit there until you apologize for the wrong, and then give me a kiss and a hug to show no hard feelings, or in other words, you will rot and decompose in timeout unless you do those three things.

And she refused.

I sat her down in my chair, held her against her will, possible kidnapping, and then spent the next hour and a half listening to her scream with the occasional kick. The Chanman, her older brother and the aforementioned "child who fell from the second floor" was walking around flaying his arms about and repeating over and over again, "Alls ya gotta do is say you're sorry!" I have to give the girl credit, she went an entire hour and a half before she quietly whispered in my ear, "Papa, I'm sorry."

Then she gave me a hug and a kiss and I placed her down on the floor, gave her a playful slap on the bottom and said, "Get out of here you monkey." You know what she said? "I want to sit with you".

And one day she's going to be a rock or pop star. And I think she can do it.

Just don't forget to give your ol' Papa a kiss and a hug.

Happy Birthday Girlie.