Monica – Page 14 – The Monica Chronicles

February 26, 2015

Still Winter

It snowed again overnight. We were so lucky through the early parts of this winter, that I think we were all expecting a year without snow. Our neighbors even joked that by purchasing a snow blower this year, they had jinxed us, much like washing your car on a sunny day. As luck would have it, over the past few weeks they have more than gotten their money’s worth out of their new machine!

I would be lying if I said I didn’t mind it. First snows are always pretty and an occasional snow day, when my life is put on pause, is fun. But, the day to day drudge of blowing and shoveling the stuff, walking gingerly to avoid slipping on ice and having my routines disrupted by hazardous road conditions has become not so much fun.

I suppose what I really don’t like is the realization this is something I have absolutely no control over. It is what it is and I just have to deal with it. After all, what do I really have to complain about? That I have to reschedule my workout at the gym? That we might have to eat canned green beans because I couldn’t get to the grocery store to buy fresh ones? That I feel cooped up in my house? Wa, wa, wa!

I have no real complaints. Instead, I try to make the best of the time by tending to long put off household chores, writing and reading. Most of all what I find is that I have time to think. With the absence of a need to go, go, go, I am able to sit, sit, sit and think, think ,think.

It really is a gift. And from the looks of the latest weather report, one that I’ll be able to enjoy for at least the next couple of days.

February 23, 2015

For the Birds

Dave and I are avid bird lovers. Every house we’ve lived in has had a feeding station in our back yard within easy few from the kitchen. Through the years we’ve gotten pretty good at identifying the different species of birds on the East Coast by sight and in some cases even by call or song.

Our copy of the Peterson Field Guide for Eastern Birds is well worn with use and is notated with dates some of the more unusual birds have been spotted at our feeders. Properly identification is serious business in our house with the occasional disagreement over which exact species of sparrow or finch has come to visit.

We’ve learned the seasonal routines of our feathered friends; the juncos arrive with the cold weather and leave as spring approaches, the Baltimore Orioles come for a short visit around Mother’s Day and the hummers arrive at the end of May and stay until the end of September. This kind of stuff is important in determining which feeders to put out and who eats what when.

My love for birdwatching is rooted in my childhood, where I would spend time at my Grandma Gray’s kitchen table. The table was pushed up against the wall fronting a large bay window that looked out onto her back yard. Binoculars and bird books sat on the ledge. As a little girl, I liked to play with the binoculars but learned from an early age, they were not toys, they were tools to get a better look at the birds. Even the names of the birds were like music to my ears; chickadee, titmouse, goldfinch and cardinals. Before I knew which birds were which, I knew their names. Knowing their names made them each special and watching the keen interest my grandmother had for these little creatures, instilled in me a desire to learn more about them.

My faith has been passed onto me in much the same way. As a child, I memorized names and stories which were weighted with value because I saw how much they meant to my parents and grandparents. A desire to learn more was planted deep within my soul and nourished throughout my life. Like my Peterson Guide, my bible is also underscored and marked with notes in the margins as “sightings” of God’s kingdom come into view.

I know I have successful in passing down my love of backyard bird watching to my children, my prayer is that I have been as productive in handing down my faith and desire to know God better.

On a lighter note, we had some unusual visitors to our yard last week, in between snow falls. Last Saturday was very windy and the treetops were swaying mightily from side to side apparently making for unsteady perching. So, a large group of vultures descended to our yard and rested in the sun. It was kind of creepy, for sure, but at the same time exciting to see these giant birds (relatively speaking) up close.

February 12, 2015

A Few Measly Thoughts

Can modern parenting get much more complex? It seems every time you turn on the news there is someone offering their two cents about what is and what isn’t good parenting. Lately the debate is centered on inoculating children for measles.

While I can understand a parent’s deep desire to make the best decisions possible to insure their child is healthy and protected from all the dangers of the world, I do wonder if some of the young folks making these decisions have any concept of just what a horrible disease measles is and why it just might be better to take the risk.

I came down with the measles in late April, 1960. My mother first noticed I wasn’t feeling well one Saturday at lunch time when I wouldn’t eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My Aunt Kathy was going to take me to see “101 Dalmatians” and I had to eat my sandwich before she came to pick me up. I couldn’t eat it and began to cry. Since I was such an even tempered child, (I’m taking license here), Mom, checked my forehead, put a nix on the movie and put me in bed.

The next several weeks are a blur. I remember being camped-out on the living room couch with a sheet to cover me and a bucket by my side. My whole body ached and voices sounded hushed and far away. There were glasses of water with paper straws and saltine crackers to nibble on. I had no concept of time, only that my dad would carry me down in the morning and then back up to my bed at night.

Through the course of the disease, I missed almost four weeks of school including the May Day celebration where I had been elected to reign as queen. By my brother’s first birthday celebration on the 11th, I was still too sick to get off the couch. Instead, my parents gave me a couple of balloons to make me feel better.

Fortunately, as soon as I was diagnosed, my siblings received gamma-globulin injections and were spared the full disease and my parents, who were in their mid-twenties, the agony of seeing any more of their children suffer as I did.

Yes, I survived but the weeks of illness dropped my body weight and compromised my immune system leaving me susceptible to almost every other “childhood disease” over the course of the next two years. Consequently, I was very skinny, scrawny little kid.

As I look back at my experience, I can only wonder what those weeks must have been like for my poor mother. Young and with three other little ones to tend to, I can only imagine the anxiety she and my dad both felt and their relief when my fever finally broke and I began to regain my strength.

These days, parents in general are so isolated from seeing their children suffer from these horrible viral infections. When my children were growing, bacterial infections like strep throat and ear infections were the worse thing I had to watch for and even then, antibiotics and twenty-four hours of rest generally took care of the problem. My children had chicken pox and one bout with influenza, but for the most part, were healthy. As a society, we have forgotten how these diseases; measles, mumps, rubella, diphtheria, pertussis and polio once ravaged our communities and indiscriminately took the lives of our little ones.

It is not surprising that measles has shot across the country as fast as it has. Our guard has been down for such a very long time and we have forgotten what it looks like to see our children suffer on an everyday basis. Without experiencing it first-hand or knowing what it feels like to be that sick, how could we know?

In the old days, one thing that kept kids safe was the fact that before they went to school, they stayed at home, where they were generally isolated from the rest of the world. Today, it is the norm that little children spend time together in day care centers while their parents work outside the home. The reality is that you simply cannot take tiny children, whose immune systems are not fully developed and put them together in small spaces and expect they will remain healthy unless some precautions are taken. Immunizations are really the only effective way to manage these viral infections.

Again, I’m not about to tell any parent what to do, but, I do feel that if any parent makes the choice to not have their child vaccinated, they should be fully aware of what they are risking. There has been a bit of chatter correlating the MMR vaccine to autism, none of which has been clinically substantiated. We all know what autism looks like and it is indeed a frightening thought for any parent. But now, maybe after parents re-examine what measles look like, they might reconsider why the vaccine was such an important discovery and not discount it.

The simple fact is that I was very lucky. Given the severity of my case of measles, without proper care or a handful of other variables, I could have died. Now that’s scary!

January 27, 2015

Forever Stamps

Forever Stamp I took advantage of a few quiet moments yesterday morning to write notes to two friends who were suffering the loss of loved ones.

The first note was to my friend Ellie, whose mother passed away on Saturday, just a few weeks after celebrating her 100th birthday. Her life was a long fruitful one. Although her mind was sharp, her body was failing badly and she was very limited in mobility. Her death was not a surprise, she was ready to be with God and her family was as prepared as they could be.

The second note was to my friend Teresa who is approaching the end of the first year since the death of her husband. He was a young man, in excellent physical health and his death was sudden, unexpected and almost surgical in the manner he was so swiftly removed from our lives. There was no time for preparation.

Coming up with the perfect words to use in sympathy notes is nearly impossible. I’m never quite sure what to say and it is my hope that my feeble attempt to provide comfort will come through in my words.

As I sealed the envelopes this feeling inadequacy overwhelmed me. How could my awkward words of consolation really help anyone through the pain of losing a mother or husband? I reached for my stamps and carefully placed them in the right hand corners when the image on the face caught my attention. It was a simple picture of paper-white blossoms with the word, “FOREVER” beneath it.

To me, both were a reminder that death is not the end of life, but the beginning of the next phase. The paper-white, a member of the narcissus family, begins life as a dried, lifeless looking bulb. When potted and watered it sprouts life and eventually produces lovely, fragrant blooms. It is a symbol of everlasting life. The word, FOREVER, underscored that fact.

How silly of me to have forgotten that all I can really offer is support. True comfort comes only from faith in God and the promise of His covenant with His people. In God’s eyes we are all stamped “FOREVER.” We do not have expiration dates; instead we move from one phase to another.

I’m not sure this realization will make my notes anymore eloquent, but I certainly do appreciate the reminder.

January 21, 2015

If Chickens Can Be Free-Range, Why Not Children As Well?

My friend Louise's hens, Lucy and Ethel — My friend Louise’s hens, Lucy and Ethel

The other day while in the grocery store, I noticed Dave’s furrowed brows as I placed a carton of eggs in our cart. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I’m just wondering why you’re paying twice as much for brown eggs.” He replied. I explained they weren’t just brown eggs, they were “free-range” eggs and I feel better about buying them. The thought of chickens being treated like machines, cramped in tiny laying boxes doesn’t sit well with me. “It just makes me feel better.” I told him. It is a quality of life issue.

The next day I saw a report on the news regarding a woman who was being investigated by CPS in her town for allowing her two children, aged ten and six to walk together to a neighborhood playground “unsupervised.” The children have been tagged as “free-range” kids.

Like most folks my age, I guess you could say I was raised as a “free-range” child. I’m not sure I like the term which implies I was allowed to wander where ever I wanted, but I was given a much larger area to roam than my children were. Part of the reason I had a larger area to roam was that since as I child I lived in the same town my parents did as well as some generations back, there was a sense of security, of knowing who lived in each house and their knowledge of who I was and who my family were.

But, when my family moved away from our home town when I was nine, nothing really changed. My brothers and sister and I walked to school each morning while our mother stayed at home with our newborn brother. We never thought there was anything odd about our walking the several blocks to our school, rain or shine. We learned how to dress appropriately, navigate the streets and get to school on time.

These lessons were not always easily learned. Sometimes we would get a late start to school or dawdle making us late for assembly. Those times we faced the stern looks and scolding of Sister Veronica. In all fairness, she was not a harsh woman so we were not scarred by the experience but knew full well we didn’t want to have to face her again under similar circumstances.

As a child, walking was my main source of transportation. We walked to our friends’ homes, to the movies, to girl scout meetings and occasionally downtown to spend our allowance. For safety reasons, we travelled in pairs; either with a sibling or friend. These little adventures on our own helped us to build important life skills in time management, navigation and most importantly in dealing with strangers. They were important steps in developing into strong, confident, independent young people with good instincts regarding situational awareness.

It’s a tough call to know when to hold children close, and when to let them have some growing space. I know I held my own children to a smaller range area than I had but I also eventually let them go off on their own adventures. To say that they were unsupervised because I didn’t hover over them would be wrong. They couldn’t go off without permission, they had a specific place to go (which I’m now learning isn’t where they always went, but that’s another story) and had to be home at a certain time. To me, this is parental supervision. I suppose the question is at what age letting two children go to a neighborhood playground unescorted is appropriate.

Again, it’s not an easy question to answer, but I do believe that it is one best answered by a parent; someone who knows their children and trusts that they are old enough to handle the situation. In the case of the family in the news story, the parents seemed pretty ordinary. There was no sign of neglect or lack of concern for the children’s welfare.

I don’t pretend to know the answer for all parents, but I think one good way to begin would be to take some quiet time to determine what is tempering your decisions about your children; instinct or fear? Fear is never a good point to start from. Once you find your instinct, you can begin to encourage your children to develop theirs and their confidence along with it.

And Dave, I’m going to continue to pay more for my free-range eggs. I can’t say that I notice they taste any different, but they make me feel better about myself.

January 12, 2015

Packing and Unpacking Christmas

All the Christmas decorations are stowed away for another year.

Yesterday marked the official end of the Christmas Season on the Catholic Church’s calendar with the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord. It is when the decorations come down and the Church transitions into ordinary time until Lent begins. As I packed up the trappings of the holiday, I began to “unpack” the events of the Christmas Season.

I know many people believe that the focus of the Christmas holiday is the birth of Baby Jesus and to some extent I’ll go along with that. Seeing the baby in the stable is a good image for children to gain an understanding of just how Jesus humbled himself by allowing himself to be born in such a modest way. For us grown-ups though, I just think it stops there. To coin a phrase of a dear friend of mine, “And so what?” Aside from the warm fuzzy initial feelings most of us get when we see images of a newborn, what other responses should we have to the birth of the Christ child into the world?

I had an epiphany on Christmas Eve as I listened to the Gospel. We’d had a potluck dinner before Mass and I was having a touch time settling myself. Our priest is newly arrived from Africa, and paying close attention is required to understand his words. Despite these challenges, the Spirit came through and I heard Luke’s story in a very different way. I began to think of the story of the birth in the stable with quite a different perspective.

It’s only natural to place yourself in character in these stories, to empathize with the ready-to-pop expectant mother having spent hours on the back of a donkey, just waiting for a place to rest for a while or Joseph, the tired father, feeling the tremendous urgency to find a safe place for his wife to stay but what about the inn keeper?

We’ve all seen portrayals of the inn keeper in the movies, plays or on tv, often as a grumpy, frustrated or even kindly man doing his best to accommodate the couple but this year I took the idea of being the inn keeper in a different direction, looking at the story of the inn keeper as a parable.

During the Advent Season, our focus is to prepare for the coming of the child by reflecting on the barriers in our lives that distract and distance us from God. By the time Christmas arrives, if we’ve done our job, we are ready; the nursery is complete, the crib up and there is plenty of room to welcome the child into our lives. But, often we get so caught up in the details of our lives that we lose focus and when we welcome God into our lives, we don’t have the room we’d like to have, so we try to cram the baby into whatever spot we may have available, like a stable. And let’s face it, even the cleanest stable isn’t a nice place to give birth to any baby let alone the son of God.

Taking the parable one step further, now that we have received the Christ child, what do we do next? Take down the creche and pack it away to try again next year? I don’t think so.

Instead, I believe our answer to the question, “And so what?”, despite where the baby is received should be to nurture to adulthood the mission of the child; to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, give hope to the despairing, shelter the homeless, comfort the sick and set the captives free. If we are Christians, our baptisms have charged us with these challenges.

This year I think I’ve at least intellectually put the pieces together. My personal challenge for this year will be remember to not pack my Christmas epiphany away. I’ll need to start now to clear away the clutter, a little bit at a time to make room for the babe before next Christmas. Four weeks of Advent is just not enough time to prepare for the coming of a child!

Babies are born on this planet every micro-second. Each is a child of God, created in God’s image

January 2, 2015

What’s Another Year or Ten Anyway?

A couple of days ago my husband Dave passed a major age milestone as he turned sixty. Although he’s in good health and isn’t showing anymore signs of losing his mental capacity than he ever did, there is no point in denying that at sixty, there will be fewer birthdays ahead of us than we can look back upon. And, even though his birthday is several months ahead of mine, I think of us as the same age, so when he changes his age, I mentally change mine as well.

We are blessed with what our friends claim is a youthful appearance. We often hear, “you don’t look that old!” but I’m never quite sure whether those who are offering the complements are truly good judges of what a sixty-year-old person should look like or if they are in denial of how old they are and they want us to look young.

Dave and I as we look like in our mind's eye. — Dave and I as we look like in our mind’s eye.

I’m not so sure I know what sixty-year-old people are supposed to look either. I don’t know why, but I look back to my childhood to look for references of old people. For instance, Mrs. Wilson, the kindly older woman who lived next door to Dennis the Menace; was she sixty? She had all the outward appearances of an older woman, grey hair, glasses, and slightly thicker figure. Is that how I look? Except for visibly grey hair, I am Mrs. Wilson. The difference between us is that she seemed to act old and I am convinced that I do not.

Thankfully, looks aren’t everything and except for the occasional stiff muscle and body ache after I’ve been on my feet too long (like spending hours baking Christmas cookies), I don’t feel old. Inside I am the same kid I always was, inquisitive, teasing, silly and loving. The years haven’t changed that, but they have worn my sharp edges making me more peaceful, confident and relaxed.

There may not be as many birthdays ahead as there are behind, but if the past is any indication of the future, the years ahead will be full of life and as Martha Stewart would say, “it’s a good thing”!

December 22, 2014

On Giving and Receiving

As the saying goes, it is much better to give than receive. At least I felt that way yesterday afternoon when I dutifully responded to cat cries and got up from my recliner to let Izzie inside, only to discover she had a wiggling mole dangling from her mouth! She was so proud of her gift to me, as she tried to gain entry into the kitchen. I was torn between wanting to give her the recognition she so wanted and the sympathy I felt for the small creature whose life was in jeopardy.

I did what any red blooded American woman would do; I called for my husband to come handle it!

The actual times he has been around to handle this type of situation have been so few, that I felt it was only fair that he be included in Izzie’s gift. After all, I was certain it was intended for the both of us. He eventually came to my rescue and went around back to see if he could coax Izzie to bring her present out through the cat door. That didn’t work, but she did drop it and I was able to get her to come inside, allowing me to go out to the porch and unhook the door so that Dave could rescue the mole. We’re not sure how extensive his injuries were, but Dave carefully placed in back in the woods under cover to meet his destiny.

As we move into the final days before Christmas and the tension builds as to whether I’ve made the right choices, I worry about just how my gifts will be received. Will my gifts be received with joy or will the reaction be as if I’ve offered rodents to my friends and family?

I wonder if God feels that way sometimes when He looks down at us at Christmas. These days the focus on the holy day is so much more about us and our hopes and dreams with a smidgeon of welcoming the Christ child into the world and less and less about the real meaning. I believe the true meaning isn’t about babies and stables but that we as Christians have been given the task to bring Christ into the world. Just as Mary bore him in the stable, it is our job to be Christ-bearers.

It’s not always an easy gift to receive and accept or even understand. But some gifts are like that, aren’t they Izzie?

December 17, 2014

Diving Into the Holidays

Every year I seem to get caught in a wave of holiday activities. On the onset, it never appears like my calendar is that full, just a smattering of events here and there. But before I know it, the tide catches me and off I go, riding the swell towards Christmas.

This year for Thanksgiving, we did the unthinkable, we got in the car and drove north, racing a major winter storm to spend time with my sister (and Thelma to my Louise) Barb and her husband Pete in Chittenango, NY. Our drive was uneventful but once we arrived, the skies opened up and we were treated to a beautiful layer of the white stuff that I remember so well from my time living up there. Snow is a wonderful thing if you are in a place where the public works folk deal with it on a regular basis.

Throughout most our marriage we’ve lived far away from family so our Thanksgivings and Christmases have been shared with “loci familia”, close friends who gather to share the time away from blood kin. Those have been times when we have shared our cherished memories of the holidays. With Barb, we tended to have lively discourse on whose memory was correct calling into question whether my memories are even correct. I could argue that since I am older, my memories are better. On the other hand, she could argue that as the older sister, I am apt to have more clouded memories. The debate continues!

Barb inspects the table in typical Farner girl style, with arms akimbo! — Barb inspects the table in typical Farner girl style, with arms akimbo and a discerning frown.

Despite the historical disagreements, our time with Barb and Pete was wonderful. The snow didn’t hamper our celebration and was a beautiful site to behold as I woke in the morning cozy under the covers, to see the snow covered branches outside my bedroom window and later to look out the kitchen window to scan the vastness of the snow covered fields behind their home. Admittedly, I’ve lost some of my self assuredness driving on snowy roads, and I remembered the many trips I took on these roads in my youth in my Gold Duster and thought how brave I was to drive those dark, icy roads alone with no cell phone. Ah, those were the days!

Once we returned home I was slapped in the face by the reality that Christmas was only three weeks off and I’d done little in preparation. Compounding my situation was a nasty flu like virus I’d been fighting since early November which left me zapped in energy and feeling more like being a couch potato than elf. As we know, elephants are best eaten one bite at a time and that’s how I tackled my holiday tasks. I also had help from Dave who took it upon himself and decorated most of the house except the tree while I was at a meeting one evening. In my younger years I would have had a fit, feeling he had usurped my roll as homemaker. This year I was so pleased and thankful. I also realized that maybe he enjoys Christmas nesting as much as I do.

Like all years, I say I will do less baking. And, like all years, I seem to produce bountiful containers of cookies from my kitchen. Instead of trying to do it all in one day, I do a little each day I have a few hours and I am enjoying it more than I have in years. I will really have to begin seriously counting calories after the new year, but what the heck?

Last weekend Dave’s employer held its annual holiday party. It is an event that I look forward to with both excitement and dread. While I love getting together with his work-mates, it is also the one night of the year when I feel obligated to wear heals. High healed shoes don’t work well with my everyday togs anymore, so finding the right pair to spend hours wearing as I mingle is of utmost importance. On the occasions I’ve chosen poorly, I’ve paid the price not only with the painful preoccupation with my feet when I should have been actively engaged in conversation but also with swollen feet and terrific back pain the following day. This year I chose wisely in both footwear and my outfit and learned that it is just as important to be comfortable in all wardrobe respects while partying. It is no fun to be constantly on guard for things popping out over over course of an evening. I hope my memory isn’t too clouded next year to remember this epiphany!

Aside from the most excellent camaraderie of Dave’s office folk, this year’s party offered a photo booth where subjects could choose funny hats, glasses, boas, etc to allow their alter-egos to emerge. My first thought was that it was a silly thing to offer at a Christmas party. Why would anyone want to have pictures taken with costumes over their party attire? Then I spotted the Viking hats and braids. The rest is history.

I don’t know how much more free time I’ll find between now and the New Year to sit, ponder and plunk the keys here in my office. I hope that you find joy and merriment in the little things through the holidays. The little bites of the elephant are the best!

Merry Christmas!

Monica

November 7, 2014

Submitted For Your Approval

…….A young, middle-aged woman, while confined to her home suffering the ravages of a nasty cold she contracted from her spouse, spends long, cough filled days in her recliner, binge streaming scores of episodes of a program she recently discovered on Netflix called, “The Dead Files”. The series chronicles the paranormal investigations of physical medium Amy Allan and her partner, Steve DiSchiavi, a retired NYC cop, as they respond to requests from desperate people seeking answers to unexplained paranormal occurrences in their homes and businesses. The two work independently, coming together only at the end with remarkably similar findings. Is it proof of spirits living amongst us, or just a carefully choreographed hoax designed to mislead the viewer? Come, explore with me in the Twilight (of cold meds) Zone…..

Yes, I am the ailing body with toes pointing towards my contact to the outside and in this case, the other world. Almost everyone who know me well accepts the fact that along with my deep spiritual belief in God, I also firmly believe in angels, and allow for the possibility of a host of other types of beings unseen by the average person. Programs like this attract me and entertain my mind. That being said, I’d like to switch gears here and focus on a very much human part of this equation; the people who feel these entities sharing their homes and the effect that this belief, real or imagined could have on a family or individual.

As a part of Steve and Amy’s investigation, family members, including the children, are asked to describe what they have been experiencing. One little boy, about seven, sat on his bed, his legs swinging, telling about the person who visits him at night. Another, a girl, spoke of a little girl who played in her closet. Both said they never shared what happened at home with their friends. I wondered what it would be like for these children to live their everyday lives holding such potentially socially explosive information under wraps.

Remember those kids in school who, although they seemed pretty normal, seemed to make it a point to become part of the woodwork, never doing anything that could in any way bring attention onto themselves? They just seemed sad. Their body language said, don’t come any closer, like an invisible wall protecting them. The question is from what?

In the lexicon of my childhood, there was really nothing I could identify as a reason for this kind of behavior. I could understand shyness because I was painfully shy, but in my shyness I always felt open to anyone making that first move. I understood sadness. I’d lost pets and known kids who’d lost their grandparents and even a parent. As a child I feared losing my parents. I understood illness. As the oldest member of my family and therefore being the first child to enter the germ pool that surrounds elementary schools, I pioneered most of the horrible childhood viruses that have been replaced by vaccines. I was a pro at knowing what it felt like to sick. The only thing worse than losing a parent to death when I was a kid was having your parents divorce. It just didn’t happen very often and the stigma on children was very real.

The things I had no frame of reference for are the things a child could suffer I have become aware of in my adulthood. Sadly, I now know just what kinds of fears a child could be hiding behind an invisible wall, abuse, gun violence, substance abuse, sexual abuse, ear of abuse; both physical and sexual, the pain of a family deteriorating, the uncertainty of sexual orientation, the pain of being hungry or even homeless and worse of all, the fear for personal safety. These are all things that most certainly existed in my childhood, to some degree, but they were not visible to me. I wonder how many of the quiet kids in school who appeared to be suffering from youthful insecurities were in fact suffering far worse. I have no idea what a scrawny little kid in braces could have done to make their lives more bearable, but I hope just as fervently that I’d didn’t make them any worse.

As for “The Dead Files”, don’t judge me. I don’t make fun of most of the country spending their Sundays watching grown men jump on each other in tight-fitting clothing. Okay, so maybe I do, just a little!