Author: Kevin Stone

     I have a lot on my mind, so please bear with me. I’m trying to sort out the “genius” that is Donald J. Trump. Yeah, that’s what I said. He’s got to be a genius, because if he’s not, he’s insane. They say that there’s a fine line between genius and crazy and I’m trying hard to give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, half the country voted for him, so I must be hearing and seeing things in the wrong light. Let’s see. 

     So far, the President has: 

1. Pardoned all the people who stormed the capital on January 6th, 2020, following a rally in which he claimed that the election was stolen. 

2. Is about to start a trade war, using tariffs, with, well, everybody in the world. So that’s how we get the price of gas and groceries down? I never woulda thunk it.  

3. Said he wants to make Canada the fifty-first State of the Union. (I’m sure Peurto Rico appreciates the skip). Canadians ain’t laughing.  

4. Wants to buy Greenland. Nobody is selling. Or offering. Or petitioning to become a part of the USA. But we wants it.  

5. Wants the Panama Canal to return to the control of the USA, despite it legally being placed in control as per the Panama Canal Treaty our country made with Panama in the seventies. American Indigenous tribes everywhere are not surprised. 

6. Refuses to rule out military action to make number 3 or 4 happen.  

7. Put the Richest Man in the World in (unofficial) charge of a made-up organization called the Department of Government Efficiency. Formerly known as the United States Digital Service, whose original mandate was to “deliver better government services to the American people through technology and design”. A perfect vehicle for accessing every governmental computer system. What a coincidence.  

Elon Musk is just a “special government employee” and not in charge of DOGE. Of course he’s not. Who would put a man with billions of dollars’ worth of government contracts in charge of an agency which is mandated with auditing those same contracts and programs? That’d be crazy. 

8. Spoke with the President of Ukraine in a White House question and answer session like a slumlord to one of his tenants late with the rent. Mr. Zelenskyy refused to soft-soap Mr. Trump and agree to talk nice about Mr. Putin, who invaded his country three years ago. I watched and listened as our two top executives “schooled” the President of a war-torn country about making “nice” with Putin and not being “thankful” enough. Mr. Zelenskyy left without signing away billions of dollars’ worth of his country’s mineral rights to Mr. Trump, as the “Deal Master” wanted. Trump told him that he (Zelenskyy) didn’t “have the cards”. Zelenskyy responded, “I’m not playing cards.” Well said. 

9. Trump tweeted “He who saves his Country does not violate any Law” which is attributed to that famous leader of democratic values, Napoleon Bonaparte (not the one famous for wanting to conquer the world and crowning himself Emperor. Nope. The other one.) 

     So that’s the highlights for the first month or so. I just want to point out that this man was put in office by over a third of the eligible voters in the United States. He was voted against by nearly another third of eligible voters. That leaves close to another third of eligible voters who didn’t take part in the election. I hope this encourages everyone to vote next time around. If there is another vote. During the campaign last year Trump said if they voted for him “just this time, then in four years you won’t have to vote again.” 

Genius. 

God bless Y’all.  

     It’s almost March and winter slowly recedes back to the realm of Christmas and snowmen. I, like most of my fellow Southerners, am happy to see it go. The high heating bills, the troubles keeping the car operating in freezing temperatures, the lack of sunlight and fresh air have stolen my joy somewhat. I’m ready for warm days, playing outside with my grandkids, and seeing the buttercups bloom. I love the holiday season but once it’s done the romance is gone. I can understand how coal miners feel after being rescued from a cave-in. Of course, I doubt those trapped coal miners watched as much television as did I. Still, I’m glad to be able to go outside. 

          I hated yard work for most of my life. My dad did the lion’s share of it, although he made sure us kids did our part. I grew up cutting grass with a push mower, pulling a few weeds by hand and raking up the dead grass and leaves. I’ve never really agreed with raking leaves. I mean, they’re natural food for the yard, right? Mulch. So why do we need to tidy them up into a pile and bag them? Sure, it looks pretty when the grass is green and pristine, but I can dig the natural look too. Or maybe I’m just adverse to the work. Yup. I think that might be it.  

          I take pride in my yard, but for different reasons than some folks. My ideal yard has some things in it that some might think unsightly. A swing set is a must. Multiple plastic toys, balls and assorted playthings that are handy for use decorates my front yard. If you drive by my house, you’ll easily spot the swing set, toys and even a tire swing hanging from the big tree out front. There’s a circular garden in between two big trees that my wife’s mom planted roses in, complete with some white metal wagon wheels for them to climb. My grandson, Cayde, loves to play in that thing with animal statues of ducks and an elephant. I never thought roses could be any prettier than when they’re a backdrop for children playing. There’s even a plastic playset that looks like a well, complete with a working pump that the kids love to play with. They play with toy boats and splash around in it with gusto. Yup, my yard is quite the sight. Messy, cluttered even, and never going to come close to winning any prize for Yard of the Year, nevertheless it’s beautiful to me.  

          So, if you drive by the house this spring, or summer, and see us playing in the yard give us a honk. The kids love waving at passerby’s. I’ll be the Old Guy throwing my granddaughter Chelsea a ball or pushing Cayde in his car. If the sun is sinking low, we might even be out there catching Lighting Bugs to put in a jar. You might see other yards nearby that look like the cover of Home and Garden, and those yards are just fine. My yard has flowers in them too. My flowers will grow up beautiful and strong for many years to come. They might even help me cut the grass in a few years. After we have a catch. Find me a well-tended flower bed that can do that.   

God bless Y’all! 

           We rode our bikes to the playground. It was a summer day in Arkansas. We were around twelve or thirteen. She was a skinny brunette with her hair pulled into a pigtail and I was a chubby kid with hair that wouldn’t stay combed. We were in the same class in Junior High. The playground was out in front of the elementary school where we’d attended until a couple of years ago. It was around the corner from where I lived, so I rode the two small blocks around it on nearly a daily basis. We’d stopped to play and started talking.  

          It was the mid-seventies. Star Wars and Smokey and the Bandit were big on-screen. TV was full of All in the Family, Chips, Three’s Company and The Love Boat. I loved the show Soap and Saturday Night Live. And Sam. I loved Sam. Since the fourth grade and the first time I saw her. And here she was talking to me like I was a real person.  

          She told me about how her dad had recently died. Murdered. Just the highlights, because she didn’t know much about it. She spoke softly about how her family had changed. It was hard on all of them. Her mom was depressed and trying to raise three girls and a son without a dad. Their grandparents were a big part of their lives. Sam was confused, mad and sad all at once. She was in the throes of adolescent rebellion, with good reason to be mad. 

We talked as we walked around the playground. We followed each other (I followed her mostly) as we hopped on the roots of the big tree in the middle of the playground. We sat in the saddles between the roots. I listened to every sad word. We sat on the swings for a bit and even climbed the steps of the big metal slide. We slid down and got off before the hot metal had a chance to burn our skin. We wandered, pulling dandelions and honeysuckle from the grass and hedges. I barely noticed the heat as I watched her blow the seed florets from the dandelion. She watched them float gently away with the breeze. I watched her. We ended up climbing the old red metal “monkey bars” that were ten feet off of the ground, shaped like a cylinder with bars coming from the center pole, like spokes from a wheel. We sat quietly for a long time, looking out over the terrain of our childhood. 

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked. I didn’t respond for a long while, because I had no idea. I was twelve. What could I know of what she was going through? My only reference was television. TV often gives us insights into how to deal with situations in real life that we have no experience in, or with. Of course, the insights might be totally wrong, insufficient or unworkable, since they were usually presented in shows of thirty minutes to an hour long. I don’t know if my infatuation with another brunette, Valerie Bertinelli, made me remember the words to the theme song of “One Day At A Time”, but that’s what I came up with. “You’ve just got to live one day at a time. It’s all we’ve got.” I offered. It was weak, I know, but I was just twelve.  I thought it was generically reliable advice at the moment. She smiled the same sad, but attractive smile and looked at me with those beautiful green eyes. She knew I had no idea what she was going through, but she appreciated the effort. “That’s what I’ve been doing.” she didn’t go much further. We climbed down and parted ways. We’d not see each other again until school started. 

I remember that day often. Sam and I had many more moments over the next twenty-five years. Six years after this we were married. By 1989 we had four beautiful children. She was a wonderful wife and mom. We went through a lot together. I’d do it all again, because it was worth it to be with her. Remembering that one day, at the playground, I’ve found that my clumsy advice still rings true. Just because I didn’t know what I was talking about at the time doesn’t mean I was wrong.  This is life. The one we get. So go and have a ball. 

God bless Y’all.  

           Romeo and Juliet were two fictional, hormonal, rebellious and disobedient children that died in a double suicide. Shakespeare writes beautifully of their love for one another, and it is, without a doubt, a story for the ages of romanticized love. I just think it’s a pretty bad example of true love.  

           I don’t recall reading anything about Romeo waiting until he was old enough to support his intended. He didn’t take two jobs, build himself a nest egg, and ready a nice home for the girl. As far as she is concerned, I can’t find anything in the story that says she was prepared to help him build that life and home. I see nothing in the story that shows me “true love” as I understand it. 

           Romance ain’t love, no matter what the poet says. Love is a different thing, entirely. It’s built with the sweat of the brow by both parties. It takes long days, and hard nights. The shared bathrooms try your patience. The cleaning, washing dishes, mowing the lawn and paying the rent and the light bill strengthens the bonds. Hearing the snoring and many other bodily functions tries one’s sanity, much less love. Yes, love is more real than moaning about it on a balcony.  

           You bring to the table a whole bunch of faults. The other person has their own bag of issues as well. You spread them out, accept them, and share them. You give all of yourself to the effort, and you take what is given and you love them.  

            As time goes on, you share everything life has to offer or throw at you. Bills. Aches. Pains. Victories. Defeats. Children. Grandchildren. It gets to the point that your faults and their issues are all the same. You know them. You accept them. You love them.  

           Romance becomes other things. Things like paying attention. Listening. Doing things without being asked to. A hug. A kiss. A touch to the face. Every glance met is understood without words. Every goodnight, goodbye and “I love you” is with the knowledge that they will be there for you, and that they want the best for you, and that they mean it.  

           When you can put their need above yours without another thought; when holding their hand, or giving them a hug, holds as much love as the act of sex; when being with them at the end of the day is your idea of heaven, then you’re a “romantic” just like me. I’d much rather have that than how Romeo and Juliet ended. Yup. That was messed up.  

      Now go do the romantic thing for your better half, this Valentine’s Day. At least give em a hug. Or even scratch their back.  Now THAT’S love.  

God bless Y’all. 

I visited my mom last Sunday. She had an unfortunate encounter with her living room floor on Saturday afternoon, the culprit being gravity. Luckily, she didn’t have to go to the ER, but since she took the fall directly on her face, she ended up with two black eyes, a swollen nose, bruises on her arms and legs, and a knot on her head. In short, the floor won this round. When my sister, Mary Ann, sent me a picture of her I winced. The next morning it looked worse, as black eyes are famous for. She was in good spirits, however, and didn’t let it get her down. Pun intended. 

As I said, I was over to her house Sunday, and we enjoyed talking and eating some fresh yellow cake with chocolate icing she’d just baked. It was delicious, especially with the sweet cling peaches she put with it. I love drizzling the syrup over my cake and the taste of the peaches with warm cake. Makes me love my momma that much more, if that’s possible. While we visited, I let her teacup Yorkie, Sampson, outside to do his business and bark at the dangerous traffic that dared to pass his domain (the front yard). He’s a good little dog, and my momma loves him. Even when he has to be tucked into bed like a baby or curls up on her neck and shoulders and sleeps while she watches tv. We Stones are dog people for sure. I reckon that makes our dogs “people dogs” then, because they’re like family.  

I left mom’s and was home in less than ten minutes. I’d no sooner gotten into my house when she called my cell. “Sampson got out again.” she said, exasperated.  The one really irritating habit Sampson has is that he likes to escape the boundaries of his kingdom and run as fast as a gazelle down the street and into the street. He’s a fast little sucker, too. Well, here I go, back to moms. I remarked angrily that it’d teach that dog a lesson if he got hit by a car. Ouch. It looks even worse in print. I didn’t mean it. I was just ticked off. Still, it was wrong. On the ten-minute drive back to mom’s I realized it and said a little prayer for Sampson and mom. I knew I’d feel like a heal if something happened to him. 

When I arrived at mom’s house there was a bicycle parked by her steps. Since I know my mom doesn’t ride, I hoped that one of the neighborhood kids had caught Sampson. Before I reached the door, my hopes were realized when not one, but two young people exited her house. A young man of maybe thirteen or fourteen, along with a girl of eight or nine came out of mom’s, smiling and carrying a tinfoil covered plate. Mom explained that they had seen Sampson out on the runner earlier and had driven their bike by later and saw him running around. They managed to catch the little rascal and brought him home. Mom rewarded their actions with some warm cake, much to their surprise. I introduced myself and they responded in kind. Unfortunately, I can’t recall their first names, but their last name was Cox, and they were siblings. They smiled, spoke respectfully, and were happy to help. Our conversation was full of “yes sir’s” and “you’re welcome” and I was impressed with their politeness and manners. I gave them a token cash reward and asked if they ever saw Sampson running loose again, they’d repeat the kind act. I knew they would anyway, but I wanted them to know how much I appreciated not having to chase that zippy little sucker. They assured us that they would and took their leave with fresh cake and new admirers.  

To the parents of Mr. And Ms. Cox I say “well done”! You’re raising your kids right, and you deserve praise and appreciation for it. Your children are awesome individuals, and I applaud you, and them. With so much horrible news out there that get so much of our attention and grief, it’s great to meet some young people that are good folks. It encourages me and warms my heart to know that there’s hope out there. And it reminds me that I really should pray before I get agitated at little things (dogs included). It might just save me from running around in circles. That goes for just about everything in life. Pray about it. God blesses that every time. And sometimes people end up with cake, too.  

God bless Y’all!

     Well Donald Trump and Tik Tok are back. One took four years to return, the other was gone for less than a day. Their exodus and returns gave millions of people goose-bumps, either for fear or joy. The two are infamous for making us crazy. Both of them can incite riots, spout insane-sounding ideas, and show us things that we never thought we’d ever witness in our lifetimes. They make us laugh, cry, confused, angry or utterly satisfied with our own sense of superiority over others. They remind me of the old show “Cops”. We watch the stuff they say, and do, and it makes us feel smarter than the average person. At least smarter than the thing we’re watching. The problem is that we’ve elected one to run the country, and we’ve chosen the other to be our number one distraction.  

     Humans, in general, liked to be entertained almost above anything else. Way back in Roman times the emperors used the games in the colosseum to entertain the masses, even while war and starvation loomed. The politicians lied, cheated and stole from the people while giving out free bread and passes to see men fight to the death. Distractions are just as important to the politicians today, and the methods haven’t really changed all that much. Are EBT and Tik Tok any different? Food, and distractions, in exchange for the keys to the kingdom.  

     According to our out-going President, we must be wary of a growing oligarchy forming in the arena of American politics. I’m wondering how he missed the fact that it’s been that way long before he was born.  In the past two hundred years you could always follow the big money as it flowed into politics. Groups of rich people have always manipulated the machinery of government. From the beginning of our nation, it was big landowners and merchants who influenced the government. The Industrial Revolution brought railroad and manufacturing tycoons to Washington to help “lobby” politicians to bend to their will. The Military-Industrial Complex has been directing the arms of Congress since the end of World War Two. Fun fact: over half of congress are millionaires. Let’s not forget that you’ve been a politician and elected official since you were twenty-nine and have a net worth of over ten million dollars. The warning about oligarchy came a couple of centuries too late, Joe. Thanks.  

     We can pull our heads out of the sand and find people to govern us that won’t be dictators or dunces, or we can distract ourselves with things like Tik Tok and let Rome burn behind us like one of my favorite “leaving work like” memes. It’s our choice. Republican, Democrat, Independent, liberal, moderate or conservative is a lot less important than honest, transparent and responsible government that does it’s best to uphold our constitutional rights and provide for the general welfare of its people. If we can’t find those people among us, then God help us. At least we still have Tik Toks to watch.  

God bless Y’all.  

         She just showed up one day. It was raining outside and we heard a noise at the door. I pulled the curtain away from our glass framed door and there she was. A skinny black and white American Pit Bull, with some Boxer mix sat alongside the door, looking as if to say “I’m so sad and miserable in this wet weather. May I come in?” When I opened the door, she walked boldly into the living room and had a seat on the couch. She transformed quickly from an Oliver Twist character into an old diva movie star with a “bring me my dinner, boy” attitude. Our beagle, Jack, was in pure ecstasy. He’d never had a girlfriend before and, despite her being twice his size, had obvious romantic intentions towards her. She WAS quite the beautiful creature. But I was having none of it. My father-in-law “just knew” she lived down the road about a half a mile, and I dutifully loaded her up in the car and took her home. She obeyed, enjoyed the ride, and got out again like she knew the place. I knocked, but no one was home. I reluctantly left her there. She ran around to the back yard as if she belonged. I bid her goodbye. 

     The large girl was back the next day. Jack was very happy. I wasn’t. We didn’t need another dog. After talking to my father-in-law again, we determined that she must have belonged to the people across the street from the first family I’d taken her to, because Max, my father-in-law, “knew he’d seen her there”. So, I loaded her up again and took her to the other house, just to watch her bound around the house to the backyard again, as if she’d grown up there. She came around and scratched on the door, as though she was regularly let inside. Again, no one came to the door and, again, I left her there. Glad to reunite the family.  

          She came back the next day and I gave up trying to take her “home”. She’d already decided that our house was it. She was home. We were family. So be it. She stayed for the rest of her life. Nearly twelve years.  

The pitiful look from the weary, wet puppy quickly gave way to a very self-centered (but loving) diva who enjoyed being looked after and paid attention to. She ignored everything around her except when it came to being petted, fed, played with, and taken outside. She tolerated Jack, which made him very happy. They played tug of war and “two-headed monster” as often as she would allow him to. Ask your parents, kids. I’m not going to spell it out completely for you. She was a seventy-pound lap dog who gave her whole heart away and expected supper to be on time. She heated your lap up during long naps. She ate couch skirts, pillows and books on occasion. She scared the bejesus out of many a delivery, mail or repair person. Her deep, loud bark belied a desire to be loved upon, but also meant she’d chase you for as long as you decided to run away. We’ve never really worried about burglars or salesmen since.  

Laura Gail named her Jill. Get it? Jack and Jill. The name fit and so did she. Even as our family grew and our children married and brought our grandkids into our home, she treated them all as family. We worried about crawling children around her, especially when they went near her food, but she never once hurt, or threatened them. She tolerated them just because they were loved by us. We still watched. Jill was a bit jealous and petty about her toys, but she allowed those humans to climb on, slobber on, and pull on her as often as we couldn’t get to them on time. Just like any good Aunt would.  

She survived parvo, fought with liver disease and a thyroid condition for a couple of years, and grew weaker after each struggling year. Our hearts broke, wishing there was more to be done. Love is immortal. The body is not. We bid farewell to our girl, our family, our Rescue Dog that did the rescuing herself.  

Jack met her on the Rainbow Bridge last Thursday. I bet Jack leapt for joy. They were meant to be together and I have no doubt that they are playing in the tall grass and sunshine right now. I’m grateful Jill chose us to be her family. She took our love and gave us hers like it had been like that for all time. And she was right. She didn’t even hold it against me that I tried to take her for a ride. She knew she’d always come back home.  

See you later, Jill. Play nice. 

God bless Y’all.  

“Coffee black, cigarettes. Start this day like all the rest. 

First thing every morning that I do… 

Is start missing you.”- Some Broken Hearts Never Mend by Don Williams 

Two things help me start my day. Then they stay with me until I go to bed at night. The only reason I don’t do them in my sleep is because I haven’t figured out how to do them when I’m unconscious. Coffee and cigarettes. The legal drugs that make the world go around. The two things that aren’t people that I’d definitely miss if they weren’t around.  

Around 2.25 billion cups of coffee are consumed daily worldwide. That equates to over 815 billion cups a year. I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for at least ten percent of that. There are around four trillion cigarettes consumed yearly worldwide. That’s a lot of smoking while you’re sipping on that cup of joe. I know, because I do it every day. It doesn’t get me high, or even raise my levels of productivity or make me happy. It just keeps me from yelling at people during the day, and has most likely kept me from committing quite a few assaults and battery, and maybe even the occasional murder. So, that’s a good thing, right? And, thankfully, it’s totally legal.  

There’s evidence of tobacco use as far back as twelve thousand years ago in North America. No wonder the American Indians use it in spiritual ceremonies. The whole peyote thing never really caught on, but not every drug can be as cool as tobacco. It’s kinda hard to sell the “cool kids” on a psychoactive cactus that grows near buffalo turds, when tobacco is much simpler. Harder to act cool when you’re being chased by pink elephants, too. Let’s just stick to the smoke that causes slow death by lung complications and cancer. That’s cool enough all by itself.  

If you don’t start a drug, you don’t have to worry about getting addicted to it. That’s great advice. Just say no. Remember Nancy Reagan’s famous anti-drug slogan from the eighties? It does work. If you can do it. It applies to coffee and cigarettes, too. If my Logical Self dared to think about it, I’d deeply regret ever having consumed any caffeinated beverage. That includes soda. I have no idea how big of an impact caffein and sugar has had on the health of the average human over the past thousand years, but I’m guessing it hasn’t made us healthier. Ever since a goat herder in Yemen watched his goats act funny when ingesting a cacao bean plant way back in 574 AD, we’ve been chasing that buzz.   It’s the no-calorie drink that keeps giving. It’ll wake you up in the morning, most definitely. Caffein is also one of the few legal stimulants we regularly give children.  Add some caffein to a soda, with thirty-nine grams of high fructose corn syrup (read “sugar”) and can you really wonder why we’re getting fatter and dumber as a species? It’s the Big Gulp’s fault. Totally. 

Except it’s not. It’s our own fault for telling ourselves that, so long as a drug is legal, it’s okay. It’s not. Not with marijuana, cocaine, meth, alcohol, caffein or cigarettes. The benefits that we experience, mostly temporarily, with any of these drugs is heavily offset with all the adverse immediate, and sometimes long-term, side effects that follow. Being legal just affects who profits and who pays. So why do we keep taking all of this stuff? 

Because we started. We liked the way it made us feel. It gives our brains and hands something to do that’s not work, and feels fun at the moment. Hey, wait. Maybe we need to classify cell phones as a drug, too.  

Wish me luck this year as I attempt to slow down my caffein and tobacco addiction to a manageable rate. I might even quit. I try not to say that out loud, because I might hear myself. I usually use coffee and cigarettes more when I’m thinking of quitting. It’s like my brain knows what I’m up to! Naw, can’t be. 

Y’all pray for me. 

God bless Y’all! 

     Who will you be this year? Christmas is over and the New Year looms. As a matter of fact, by the time you read this we’ll be well on our way into 2025. The decorations will soon disappear, packed into boxes and bins, to be replaced with Old Man Winter’s grey landscapes and dead leaves. The temperature will drop soon and the cold wind will blow hard against our hopes, dreams and resolutions. The question stands like a willow in winter, bare of its leaves and bending against the icy wind: who will you be this year? 

     If you could pile all of your unresolved New Years Resolutions into one place, what would it take to move them? A wheelbarrow, a dump truck or a fifty-car freight train? Personally, I think mine is somewhere shy of fifty boxcars, but not by much. All of my “I’ll lose weight by (fill in the blank here with exercise, pills, shots, or hypno-therapy)” would take up a really sizable space. The “I’ll quit/reduce my smoking by (fill this one in with vaping, gum, patches, or hypno-therapy)” runs a close second. I’ve got an awful lot of “I’m going to eat healthier’s” and even some “I’m going to travel more and go see (fill in the blank with all of those places you’ve always wanted to see but never get around to planning a trip to go see the)”. Resolutions pile up over the years like the lint in a fat guy’s belly button. Graphic, yes, but accurate. Those resolutions will sit there, packed in tight against all the other resolutions, until something is done about it. You’ve got to go in there and get ‘em.  

     What are resolutions, anyway? The dictionary gives a very simple, and accurate one: Resolution-noun: A firm decision to do or not to do something.  Now, that doesn’t sound like something we should throw out there willy-nilly as a wishy-washy plan for the year, now does it? Heaven forbid, but throw ‘em out there every New Year we do. I’m not advocating to stop resolving to do better in our lives or to stop doing things that we know are hurting us. Heck, I’m still a fat, out of shape smoker that listens to most of his books, and eats like a twelve-year old left alone to fix supper. I really do NEED to resolve to do better. I guess the question is: how? 

     A decision has got to be followed by a plan of some sorts. Me, I’m a great maker of lists. I make a lot of lists. Then I forget about them, or I lose them. Then I wing it. And my life reflects the chaos in my piss-poor planning. I need to change that. I’ll put it right at the top of the list. I’m going to start with a simple schedule. 1. Stuff to do before I go to work. This can include writing, exercising, eating breakfast, feeding the dogs and taking the trash out. 2. Stuff to do at lunch break. I could read, or write, during this time. Not much more than that, giving my half-hour lunch. 3. Stuff to do when I get home. Here should be the meat of the resolutions, at least for me. Writing, exercising, reading, house chores, and time with Laura Gail come to mind, in no particular order. It’s not an exact schedule, but it’ll do to start. Oh wait! I put the schedule before the decision about who I want to be this year! Here it is folks, and YOU hold me to it: I’m going to write a novel this year. Yup. I’m going to be a novelist! I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, y’all make a decision in your life to be whoever you want to be. Just do me a solid? Do it all on purpose. And hang in there. Never give up on your goals and dreams. I’ll do the same. 

God Bless Y’all! 

      A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…I was a little boy at Christmas time. I believed in Santa Clause. I waited with rapt excitement for The Charlie Brown Christmas Special, The Grinch That Stole Christmas, and even The Star Wars Holiday Special of November 1978. Mom had the tree put up and decorated, Dad had the Christmas lights stapled to the house, and the chill outside, though devoid of snow usually, since I grew up in Arkansas, set the mood for the wonder that was Christmas.  

     Even though I believed in Santa for a good bit, I knew that Mom usually hid wrapped presents prior to Christmas. I kept a keen eye out for these hidden wonders and wasn’t above trying to poke a hole in one to try and see what it could be. I don’t recall being successful, but I also don’t recall being called out on it. I was a regular chubby little Ninja.  

     If we were lucky enough to see some snow around Christmas, rare but possible, Mom would make snow cream. If you’ve never had “snow cream”, you’ve missed out on one of Winter’s Joys. Especially when my Mom made it. She had us go outside and collect some snow, usually from atop the family car hood. We could reach it easily and see that none of the neighbor’s cats had tracked across it. Nobody likes sprinkles in their snow cream. I know it was just milk, sugar and snow (vanilla extract too, maybe?) but to a kid it was magical.  

     It may sound crazy, but I only remember a choice few toys that I got when I was little. A couple of favorites were a plastic army men set that seemed to have hundreds of pieces. My brother, Joe, and I had many a battle with those poor war-ravaged guys. Another was a Sir Stuart the Silver Knight action figure, complete with his horse Valor. I remember playing with that guy in the back seat of our car when we moved to Georgia. He eventually had many battles with GI Joe (with the kung fu grip), usually losing. Most other toys seem to escape my memory.  

     The reason that all those other toys don’t stay in my recollection, although there were many other great gifts that I received growing up, is that it never was about the gifts. Even for a little kid, the season itself was more magical than that. The fact that everyone was doing all this stuff for each other amazed me. People were nicer (generally) to each other during Christmas. It warmed your heart. As a child I felt it, even if I didn’t quite understand it.  

     To you parents out there that are stressed, worried and trying to give your child all the things you want them to have, please keep in mind the real things they will remember during Christmas. They want you to be there, present with them and doing things with them. Stringing popcorn, making snow cream (or eating candy canes) and wrapping the gifts, no matter what is under wraps. Tell them the Christmas Story. The one about God loving everyone enough to give up everything to be with them. The one about them being loved. That’s the best gift of all. 

God bless Y’all.