My Life As A Hobby

  Since February is the month of love, and I have a signed, notarized contract from my wife, I’ve decided to write this story. So, if I come up missing, or you drive by my house and see all of my stuff in a pile by the mailbox, you will know that she chose not to abide by our agreement.  I’m going to tell you about my first kiss. This wasn’t a good night kiss from mommy, or a peck on your cheek from your Aunt Eileen; I’m talking about a real face to face, lip to lip, kiss from a girl my own age. Some of the details are a bit fuzzy; that’s what time will do. However, many of the events that day are still clear in my mind, so it obviously had an impact on me. It’s not unusual - lots of people I’ve talked to remember their first kiss.  For a 12 year old boy, there’s no better place for a first  kiss than the woods. That’s where it happened for me.  There was a big rope swing in a forest not too far from my house where kids would gather regularly.  On this particular day, Marcia was th

  When I was growing up, I loved swings. Who didn’t? Kids and swings just naturally go together. Like Clearasil and pimples. For me, it began on the playground, where I would swing so high that the legs on the frame would pull out of the ground.  That gave me a kiddie rush that was almost equal to eating a half dozen Pixy Stix.  Homemade swings were even better. I won’t say that you needed a swing like this to truly call yourself a southerner; but for so many of us who grew up in the South, a homemade swing was a big part of our childhood.  We had one. My Dad found an old tire, and after cutting a hole out of the bottom for drainage, he married it up with a length of  heavy rope. After looping it over a limb on a perfectly located hickory tree, he tied the ends securely. Soon my sister and I were gliding high - up and back, up and back.  So simple. So perfect. With a little effort I could almost touch my feet to the eve of our house.  And what a bonus it was if there was a swing in the

The Super Bowl and  office pools go together like peanut butter and Ritz Crackers. You know how it works: everyone buys a square with a random numbers for each team. If your numbers match the last two digits of both team’s final score, you win the cash.   And I can’t think about playing this game without thinking about my Dad and laughing.  My father hated the University of Nebraska. Everything about that school revulsed him, even the “N” on their helmet, which became a joke he told me time and time again. “Hey Joe, do you know what that N on Nebraska’s helmet stands for?  Knowledge!”  His favorite two teams were Alabama, and whoever was playing Nebraska.  It was unnatural for an Alabama fan to have such loathing for any team not named Auburn, but he did.  It all began on January 1, 1966. Alabama was playing Nebraska in the Orange Bowl. The stakes were high that night - the National Championship was on the line.  But that wasn’t the only reason the game was so important.  My Dad wa

  It’s hard to believe that it’s almost been a year since I began writing newspaper columns. It has gone by fast!  I especially remember the first piece I did,  for a lot of reasons.  Some of you may recall it: I told everyone how I began writing one-liners for the Tonight Show. In fact, I titled it, “The First Joke - Thanks Leno!”  As soon as it was published, I began basking in the glow of  being a real live columnist - and fretting over the newspaper photo that makes me look old and fat. Which is probably because I am old and fat.  Several days later, I’m sitting at home, probably enriching my life by watching a TV show about UFOs, when my cell phone rings.  The screen shows the caller as an “unavailable number”. Nope. I don’t need anyone to tell me this is the last chance to get my car warranty extended.  Two minutes later, the phone rings again, another call from “unavailable number”. Click. Two minutes later, I get the same call.  “I’ll give this Indian operator something t

  My son lost one of his two dogs yesterday. Zoe was almost 16 years old, when the combination of old age and bone cancer forced him into making a decision. She lived a long dog life, full of love and joy, but it’s hard for him to see thru the hurt right now. The pain of the loss is indescribable. My son lives alone, so his dogs are his only children. That said, Zoe was the special one. His hurt will eventually become manageable, but it will never heal. I know.   Pet owners know.   My wife and I loved Zoe as well.  When we got the message, we wept bitterly. Tears are still flowing as I type these words. Last night my son sent me a piece of writing that describes pet owners perfectly.  Thanks to Suzanne Clothier for writing it.  I wish I had.  “There is a cycle of love and death that shapes the lives of those who choose to travel in the company of animals. It is a cycle unlike any other. To those who have never lived through its turnings and walked its rocky path, our willingness t