The all-important issue of what you as a grandparent are going to be called

Cal and me

The most common question I received before and after my grandson Calvin was born three weeks ago was what exactly the little guy would call me.

My answer was always the same: "I don't know, and I mostly don't care. He can call me whatever he wants."

Within reason, of course.

The early favorite seems to be the straightforward "Grandpa." To our kids, my dad was "Grandpa Tennant" and Terry's dad was "Grandpa Ross," so the title is already ingrained into our family culture.

But nothing is set in stone, especially since the little guy is all of 21 days old and hasn't quite yet mastered the art of speech.

The people who will have the greatest influence on how Cal refers to his grandparents are his mom and dad, Chloe and Michael. Whatever they call us is very likely what he will call us.

Terry has lobbied to be known as "Grammy." Which is great, but again, unless Cal hears it a lot at home, it's not going to stick.

In any case, the list of potential grandparent names is certainly varied. For men, beyond Grandpa, I've also heard Gramps, Grampy, Grandad, Grandaddy, Grandpap, Papa, Papaw, Poppy, Opa, and the hilariously 21st-century "Granddude."

For women, there's Grandma, Grammy, Grams, Nana, Ga-Ga, Memaw, Mimi, Nanny, Nonna, and another hysterically modern and perhaps tongue-in-cheek selection: "Insta-gram."

Often we take on whatever name our grandchild calls us when he or she is a baby and just learning to talk. So far, in Calvin's case, the only sound he has made when looking at me involves a raspberry and copious amounts of spit.

Somehow, though, "Grandpa Brzzzzzttttfoooo" doesn't have much of a ring to it.

We're enjoying having a college kid in the family again

Jack on his first day of college

The recent birth of our grandson has somewhat overshadowed another significant family milestone, which is the fact that our youngest son, Jack, started college a couple of weeks ago.

Jack is a freshman data science major at Cleveland State University. He's a little older than the typical freshman at 19 1/2, the result of a two-year process of trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to do in life.

Lots of young people go through the same extended period of self-reflection that Jack did, and I'm surprised it's not even more common. Asking 17- and 18-year-olds to pinpoint exactly what career path they're going to follow is a tall order, especially in a world that changes as rapidly as ours.

Since graduating high school in 2023, Jack has had a brief fling with community college, considered a career in the trades, and worked full time for nearly a year cleaning cages in an animal research laboratory.

Eventually he came to Terry and me and said he thought it would be best to go to college and earn a bachelor's degree of some sort. He is interested in statistics and data analysis – a field that will surely be reshaped by the emergence of artificial intelligence – so data science it is.

Starting in 2012 when Elissa began her own four-year journey at Cleveland State, we had a kid or kids in college continuously for 11 years. For me as Dad, it was a blur of FAFSA forms, dorm move-ins, and essays to edit.

Now, after a two-year break, I'm excited to get back into that world.

Like me so many years ago, Jack is a college commuter. He lives at home and drives downtown five days a week to attend class. There are advantages to doing that (particularly financial ones), but it can also mean being somewhat disengaged from school activities outside of the classroom.

I made an effort to be involved in the band and the school newspaper when I was at John Carroll University, at least until the demands of a nearly full-time work schedule at The News-Herald made those extracurriculars impossible. Jack has talked about joining the CSU pep band, and I hope he does. It would be good for him.

You know, becoming a grandparent can make you feel old. But I'm finding that once again having a college kid in the family balances that out. It makes Terry and I realize we're still very much in our primes.

Good luck to Jack, and go Vikings!

You've heard all of my stories. We're scaling this blog back to one post a week.

I like to say I've been blogging since 2011, but that's not really true.

For one thing, the blog started in December of that year, so it barely made 2011. (The posts I have here from 2006 and 2007 were from a separate blog, and I just keep them to make sure they don't disappear into the ether.)

More to the point, check out the number of posts I've put up each year since then. (Note that the current 2025 number is actually somewhere north of 100, but it was at 89 when I wrote this in late July.)

Clearly, I've taken my fair share of months/years off from blogging. What was going on in 2014, 2018 and 2019 that I couldn't at least dash off a few words a week? I don't even remember. 

I am still impressed I cranked out 287 posts during the Covid year of 2021, though.

Anyway, in the past when my schedule has filled to overflowing and/or I felt like I had run out of ideas, I simply stopped blogging for extended periods.

Nowadays, while I'm definitely feeling like I've run out of ideas, I still want to keep going.

Only less frequently.

As of this Monday, September 8, 5Kids1Wife.com will go from a Monday-Wednesday-Friday posting cadence to Monday mornings only. New posts going up at 8:00 AM sharp, as always.

Terry and I have a new grandbaby, of course, and my work and PA announcing schedules are such that finding time to write has become difficult.

Not to mention the fact that I don't even know what to write about anymore.

I'll throw some thoughts up here once a week in case you're still interested, and I figure I can start building a stockpile of stories and interesting topics to cover as I learn to be a grandfather.

Maybe in a year or two we'll go back to posting multiple times a week.

In the meantime, thanks for reading. I always appreciate it. I hope you'll keep stopping by on Monday mornings.

The only time I become an automotive expert is when my daughter has car trouble

I am not a car guy. Nor am I a fix-it guy.

I'm a guy who drives a car. When it breaks, I call a car guy.

I do, however, stay on top of car maintenance. Which is to say that every few weeks, I check Terry's car, Jack's car and my car to ensure tires are properly inflated, fluids are topped off, no one is due for an oil change, etc.

Beyond that, I'm not the first person you call when your car is making a funny noise.

Unless you're my daughter Melanie, in which case I am absolutely the first person you call when your car is making a funny noise.

In the past few months Mel has called me when her battery died (remedied by an easy jump start that even I could manage) and when her brakes started grinding (I know the sound of worn brake pads when I hear it...we took the car immediately to our mechanic Randy, a true car guy).

This makes me feel good because I'm able to help Mel and because it's very much a dad thing to come to the rescue when your child needs help.

I can, by the way, also replace engine and cabin air filters, and I know how to change a tire. But that's about the extent of my skills.

I could probably change my own oil if someone showed me how, but instead I pay someone to do it for me.

Where I DO excel is in maintaining a file on our computer with maintenance/repair records for each of our cars. It shows the dates and mileage for oil changes, new tire installation, and major procedures like brakes, belts and transmission flushes.

That way I can figure out when a car is really due for periodic maintenance and when the mechanic is just trying to upsell me.

One way or another, my nerdy organizational and computer skills always make up for what I lack in other departments.

There is good in the work that we do

"Now you say that the answer's within ourselves

And that time is a wish come true

And no matter how troubled the toiling seems

There is good in the work that we do."

- Bill Staines, "Philosopher's Song"

Unless you're born into considerable wealth, or maybe you win the Powerball or something, you are likely going to spend half or more of your life working for a living.

This is traditionally seen as somewhat of a curse, even in a Judeo-Christian society in which a strong work ethic is celebrated. It likely has some connection to God's words to Adam in Genesis 3:19 - "By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return."

How you view work also depends heavily on how much you like your job, of course. I happen to like my job quite a bit. I get to work with good people and do some interesting (interesting to me, anyway) stuff.

But if I had my druthers – and maybe your druthers, too – would I choose to continue working as a communications director for an advanced materials manufacturing company?

Of course not. I would do things about which I'm more passionate and from which I derive some higher level of satisfaction and enjoyment.

But it turns out reading World War I books and PA announcing and all the other things I like to do in my spare time don't generate much of an income. And income is what we need to put food on the table and pay our bills.

So off to work we go, usually five days a week.

That doesn't mean work has to be seen as a bad thing, though. Hard work does build character, as cliche as that sounds. It's the primary way many of us contribute to society. And it builds structure and satisfaction into our lives in ways that might otherwise be lacking.

Whatever your personal definition of "work" (inside or outside the home, full or part time, you're a student, etc.), this Labor Day is a good time to celebrate yourself. You put in a lot of time and effort, and you should feel good about that.

I hope you take a moment today to step back and appreciate all you've accomplished along the way in your career, and all you will accomplish. Even if you see work as a necessary evil, there is something good there that makes you better for having done it.

Happy Labor Day, my fellow laborers.

(NOTE: For a somewhat different perspective on this topic, check out this excellent blog post by my friend Peter Vertes.)

My wife and I brought back date nights. It was a good call.

A few months ago, I decided Terry and I should have once-a-week date nights.

This is in no way an original concept. Lots and lots of couples have intentional/scheduled date nights, to the point that we're probably a little late to the party.

It just wasn't something we had done before, or at least not something we had done in many years.

When you've been together for any length of time, it's easy to stop thinking of yourselves as a couple. If you have kids, you are instead co-workers in an ongoing enterprise, the goal of which is to keep your offspring fed, clothed and educated.

You get so caught up in it that sometimes you forget that, at one point, the two of you had a romantic relationship (which is of course what led to you having a family in the first place).

So you have to make sure you carve out little chunks of time dedicated to being together, preferably away from the children if they still live at home.

It doesn't have to be expensive, though a couple of our date nights have centered on dinner at a restaurant. Nor does it need to be elaborate.

It just needs to be the two of you together, as free of distractions as possible. We've gone to movies, taken walks, watched Jack and his friends play volleyball...whatever.

So far I think it has been good for us. I like to believe I've always appreciated my wife, but talking to her one on one always reminds me again how smart, funny and full of life she is.

It also affords us some time to talk about short- and long-term plans. What's next for our house? What vacation will we take this fall? What does she have coming up that she's excited about?

In short, date nights have been nothing but good for our relationship. I just hope we can continue coming up with stuff to do each week.

It's the activity brainstorming that's the real trick.

Introducing Calvin: The Official Grandchild™ of "5 Kids, 1 Wife"

 

The handsome young gentleman pictured above is Calvin, my grandson. He is two days old and the first grandchild with which Terry and I have been blessed.

We are, naturally, smitten.

Little Cal made his mother Chloe (our daughter) work hard through her first labor and delivery. She went into the hospital at 8am Sunday to be induced, the result of high blood pressure readings that prompted her care team to take Calvin from the relative warmth and comfort of the womb three weeks before his official due date.

It took nearly 23 hours for Cal to make his entrance, ultimately via an unplanned C-section. Despite the best contraction-inducing drugs and techniques modern medicine could offer – along with 3 1/2 hours of exhausting, heroic, middle-of-the-night pushing on Chloe's part – the little guy simply wouldn't come out.

This was largely because of his big head, an anatomical feature I will freely admit he inherited from his maternal grandfather.

So C-section it was. He came into the world at 6:43am on Monday, measuring 21 inches in length and weighing 8 pounds, 7 ounces.

Let me say two things about his weight:

• Terry, Melanie, Jack and I were sitting around the fire pit in our backyard Sunday night taking guesses as to what Cal's birth weight would be. One person was spot on with his guess. I will not tell you who that was, except to say it was me.
  
  
• If Chloe's pregnancy had gone the full 40 weeks, using the very general rule of thumb that babies gain a half pound a week in the final days of pregnancy, he would have been pushing 10 pounds just like his uncles Jared (9 pounds, 15 ounces) and Jack (9 pounds, 13 ounces) did.

Calvin has needed a little help breathing, which is why he has spent the first few days of his life in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). This is common in babies born even as late as 37 weeks – especially boys, for whatever reason – so there was no cause for alarm.

As for Chloe, in addition to the normal fatigue of labor, she also developed an infection that resulted in a fever, AND she hemorrhaged a bit after the C-section.

Give that woman a medal. Give every women who has a baby a medal, as far as I'm concerned.

And give her husband Michael a medal for keeping her going and supporting her through the whole ordeal.

When Terry and I got to the hospital about eight hours after Cal was born, I saw this wooden disc resting on Chloe's bedside tray:

Until that moment, while we knew Chloe was having a boy, we didn't know his name. That was the one thing Chloe and Michael had kept secret from the rest of the world, which I thought was perfectly fine. It was only fitting that Mom and Dad had at least one surprise to reveal.

It took me a minute to register exactly what the information on the little wooden circle meant. Then I realized not only that our first grandchild's name would be Calvin, but also that his middle name would be Scott.

It made for an emotional moment. It was all I could do to keep from breaking down and crying right then and there. What an honor it is for your grandbaby to share your name. It's something for which I'll always be grateful to Chloe and Michael.

I have a feeling I'll be grateful for a whole lot of things as Baby Calvin grows up.

The three mornings a week I don't exercise are as valuable as the four I do

This guy is a good example of how happy I am in the morning
on my "off" days.

As a creature of habit, I follow essentially the same morning schedule most of the time,

Two days a week, I go for a brisk 2.3-mile walk.

Two other days a week, I strength train in our home gym (upper body one day, lower body the other).

The remaining three days are "rest days," at least as far as intense physical activity goes. Those are the days when instead I exercise my mind.

And I so look forward to them.

I enjoy sitting at the kitchen table doing my New York Times puzzles, playing games on my phone, and catching up on the news. It's a fun way to spend those first couple hours of the day, and it gets me mentally ready for work or whatever else I have to do.

It also allows my body to recover from the relative pounding it takes walking on hard asphalt and slinging around heavy (heavy for me, anyway) weights in the basement.

Going to bed the previous night knowing that in 7 or 8 hours I'll be trying to figure out the Wordle or playing solitaire on my phone, rather than sweating through my shirt, is a good feeling.

Don't get me wrong. It's not like I don't want to exercise.

It's just that, much as even the most satisfied employee welcomes the weekend, recovery days are a good way to break up the demands of physical activity. They are always well received.

Because I tend to like order and routine, those off days are still somewhat regimented. After I feed the cats, get them fresh water, and scoop out their litter boxes, I make myself a cup of coffee, sit down at the kitchen table, and do the following things in the following order on my phone:

• Play Wordle (I do OK)
• Play Connections (usually perfect, but not always)
• Play Strands (my strongest puzzle)
• Play Mini (my weakest puzzle)
• Play solitaire until I "beat" the game
• Play Yahtzee until I score a combined 750 points over three successive games (this can sometimes take a while)
• Read my news digest emails, including the 1440 (highly recommended), the Cleveland Plain Dealer's "Wakeup", and my customized Google News update

Only after all of those things are completed do I make myself some breakfast, eat, wash my dishes, and head to the shower to get ready for the day.

As I type this, tomorrow is one of these off days. In just 12 hours I'll be awake and Wordl-ing away.

I can't tell you how excited I am.

When your kid is expecting, your perspective changes in unexpected ways

This is one of those 4D ultrasound images. Taken last month, it shows my grandson at around 30 weeks gestation. Ain't he handsome?

For years, my kids were vocal about their desire to add a pool and a trampoline to our backyard.

My answer was a consistent "no, not happening." Setting aside the financial outlay, I was simply too lazy to mow around more obstacles, and I wasn't interested in taking over the ongoing maintenance a pool requires.

As the kids moved out, the pool and trampoline discussion subsided.

Until one day earlier this summer when Terry and I were sitting on the deck and she matter-of-factly raised the question of where in our backyard we would put an above-ground pool. I reflexively expressed my reservations, at which point Terry played what has become the ultimate trump card.

"Our grandson will love coming to our house even more if he has a pool to play in," she said.

I stopped cold. Chloe hadn't even birthed this little boy, our first grandchild, and already he was coloring the way I saw the world.

And for the first time ever, I was open to the idea of becoming a pool owner.

I love my five kids. They're all great. But why was I suddenly OK with a pool for a baby I haven't even met after years of not being OK with it when my own children would ask?

Practical reasons, for one thing. I no longer cut our grass, so mowing around a pool becomes a problem (admittedly a very slight one) only for Nick, our lawn guy. Plus, honestly, we're simply in a better financial situation now than we ever were when the kids were little.

There's also the ever-present and powerful desire to spoil our grandson and make Grandma and Grandpa's house the fun place to be.

The point is, I can't believe how attractive the idea of a pool suddenly sounds after years of resisting it.

As far as a trampoline goes, that request will have to come from the grandbaby himself. If he wants one, we'll look into it.

Why do I get the feeling that all of his adult aunts and uncles on our side of the family will be whispering in his ear to ask for that trampoline in a few years?

Car trips with my wife are fun but often involve stopping at places like the Libbey Glass Factory Outlet

Last month, Terry and I drove up to Detroit to spend a little time with our son Jared. He was on an extended road trip with the Tampa Bay Rays (his employer) that included some games in the Motor City. Since we're only 3 hours from Detroit, we thought it would be fun to hop in the car one morning, meet Jared for brunch, and attend a Rays-Tigers game.

And it was fun, no doubt. Jared lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, and while Terry travels down there quite frequently, we still don't get to see Jared and his fiancée Lyndsey nearly as often as we would like.

The morning after the game, we again met Jared for some brunch (actually for pastries at a bakery in the tony suburb of Birmingham, Michigan, not far from the Rays' hotel). Then Terry and I hit the road again to return home.

We made the usual lunch/bathroom stop, but before that we took a detour into Toledo, Ohio, to visit the Libbey Glass Factory Outlet. This store is situated maybe 1,000 feet from the banks of the Maumee River in what I assume is the heart of Toledo, and as you might imagine, it features a lot of glass products.

Like, a lot of glass products. Several thousand square feet of glass products and related merchandise, much of which is priced ridiculously low.

This store is – again, as you might imagine – much more Terry's jam than mine. My interest in glassware was limited to seeing if I could find a coffee mug to add to my collection (I did not) and discovering if I could successfully navigate the store with a shopping cart without breaking anything (I managed it).

Terry, on the other hand, happily walked around the Libbey Glass Factory Outlet for 45 minutes, leaving with an array of items, not all of which were made of glass.

I followed her around patiently and was actually way more engaged than I thought I would be. There was some pretty cool stuff in there, though that may simply reflect the fact that I'm entering old manhood. Thirty-year-old Scott never would have been as interested as I was.

My favorite part of the experience was being there with my wife and watching her enjoy herself. Because that's what you do when you're married: You take pleasure in your spouse's pleasure. Even if it's not your favorite activity in the world, you do it because he/she wants to do it.

And honestly, it wasn't any sort of big sacrifice. We walked around laughing and talking as we do, then we paid for the stuff Terry had picked out, carried it to our car, and took off east toward Cleveland to finish the drive home.

Do I look forward to returning to the Libbey Glass Factory Outlet any time soon? I do not.

Do I want to make my wife happy and preserve my marriage? I do.

I have to admit, though...it was fascinating to see just how wide a selection there is for anyone interested in discount glass stemware.

You sleep on the same side of the bed every night, right?

Yeah...I'm with Jeff on this.

(Our monthly Blog Rerun series continues today with this post from August 18, 2021. For the record, Terry and I are still sleeping on the sides of the bed we chose when we got married 33 years ago...)

I guess it happened on our honeymoon in 1992, but at some point, Terry and I settled on which sides of the bed we would occupy for the rest of eternity.

From the point of view of someone standing at the foot of the bed (creepily staring at us as we sleep), you will always, always, always see me on the left side and Terry on the right.

Was there a reason for this? Or did it just kind of happen?

I don't know. You could argue it should be the other way around, since this arrangement puts our non-dominant hands nearest our respective night stands (Terry's left, my right). Not that it's a problem to roll over a little so we can use our preferred hands to grab our phones or whatever, but I can't remember if there was a reason we settled into our permanent sides of the bed.

NOTE: This is assuming we're both on our backs. I start on my stomach and end up on my back, so I guess it's not a problem at the beginning of the night and turns into one by the time I wake up.

Interestingly, when I travel for work and find myself alone in, say, a king-size bed, I sleep way over on my normal side. The other side remains untouched, as if I'm expecting Terry to show up in the middle of the night and just slip in beside me.

Most of us are intractable creatures of habit, to the point that it's uncomfortable for us to do certain things in our lives any other way.

I could sleep on what I consider to be Terry's side of the bed, but it would feel weird.

I could also vary the order in which I wash myself when showering, but again, weird.

Granted, to keep your brain sharp as you get older, it's a good thing to vary routines and challenge yourself every day. But I guarantee I will be sleeping on the same side of the bed and making my breakfast the same way until the day I'm 6 feet under.

Some things may not be worth changing.

Five highly underrated candies

(5) 100 Grand Bar

When I was growing up, this delicious mixture of chocolate, caramel and crisp rice was known as the "$100,000 Bar." I have no idea why they changed the name, but thankfully, they don't seem to have changed the recipe. I could eat a dozen of these. I won't, but I could. 

(4) Chunky

The key here for me is the raisins. I love me some raisins. I realize some people do not love them some raisins. It's their choice to ignore one of the greatest snack foods mankind has ever known. Anyway, the chocolate and peanuts help, too. I feel like Chunky bars had their heyday 30 or 40 years ago and are just kind of hanging around the candy universe these days. When I buy one, I like to think I'm helping the brand stay relevant.

(3) Charms Blow Pops

All Blow Pops are good (I especially like how the Blue Razz turns your tongue a completely different color), but cherry Blow Pops are the default classic flavor. It's the one I'm looking for anytime Blow Pops are an option. Actually it's like having two options, since your reward for getting to the center is a nice chewy piece of bubble gum.

(2) Raisinets

Quintessential movie theatre candy. And again, we get back to my love of raisins. If I'm having candy at the movies, it's almost always going to be Raisinets. Chocolate-covered raisins are dangerous in that I could eat several boxes. Not only does that mean copious amounts of sugar and a high calorie count, it also means the very real possibility of intestinal distress thanks to the raisins. So yeah, gotta be a little careful here.

(1) Charleston Chew

I never understood how Charleston Chews weren't more popular. I particularly love the strawberry flavor, but chocolate and vanilla are also great. And of course, to have the full Charleston Chew experience, you have to put it in the freezer and let it harden, then rap it against a table edge to break it into pieces and eat cold. Absolutely delicious. I associate Charleston Chews with a 7-11 store that used to be near my house, but I think you can still get them anywhere? If not, try Amazon. I'm telling you, it's worth it.

Four days without air conditioning revealed just how soft we've become

Like much of the U.S., Northeast Ohio has experienced extended periods of heat and humidity this summer.

At first we barely noticed, as we spent much of the time cooped up in the house with our central air conditioning working 24/7 to maintain a comfortable temperature.

That is, until our AC gave up the ghost.

Thankfully, it happened after the worst of the first heat wave had passed, but it was still plenty warm and humid outside.

Soon, it became warm and humid inside, as well. And the three of us (Terry, Jack and me) were miserable.

It turned out our entire AC system needed replacing at a cost that was not unexpected but still painful.

In the four days between the start of the problem and the installation of the new system, we lived much like I remember living in the 1970s and 80s. We sat around under ceiling fans, sweating and generally longing for winter.

We also complained. A lot. That's not something we did much when I was growing up on Harding Drive. Back then, having a hot house in the summer was just a fact of life. I knew very few people with central air.

My parents did have a powerful window AC unit in their bedroom, and on the hottest nights they would set up blankets on the floor so I could sleep in comfort with them.

But most of the time you just kind of gutted it out.

The whole thing made me realize just how dependent we've become on central air, and how we simply don't need to be as tough as we used to be in order to live day to day.

I love technology, but perhaps predictably, for many of us it has stripped away our ability to deal with any sort of adversity, no matter how minor.

The only thing I can think to do is purposely shut off the air several times a summer and force my family to endure heat the old-fashioned way.

I would probably only get to do that once, though, because Terry and Jack would rip me apart once the indoor temperature hit 80 degrees.

Instead, to ensure my own safety, I'm just going to pray the AC never gives out again.

I know almost nothing about plants other than the fact that Japanese knotweed is evil

My wife is a gardener and somewhat of a flower/plant expert. Well, "expert" when compared with me, anyway.

I have little knowledge and even less interest in all things botanical. When it comes to the greenery in our yard, I care only about the grass getting cut and potentially hazardous tree branches being trimmed.

The rest is Terry's domain.

Over the years, she has done the majority of weed pulling and flower tending, and she is a saint for it. The kids have gotten involved sometimes, and I'm out there whenever she needs a little extra muscle or simply cannot take bending over to pull out stray thistles and morning glory vines anymore.

We've spent considerable time in the flower beds this summer removing unwanted green things, some of which were quite obviously weeds even to a novice like me, and others of which I would have just assumed were desirable plants but in fact were also weeds.

An example of the latter is Japanese knotweed, a plant that has been growing freely in our backyard bed. It's the one in the photo at the top of today's post.

I thought it looked kind of nice, but do a little reading on Japanese knotweed and you'll find it to be the very definition of "invasive."

For one thing, it's roots run deep and strong. We're talking roots that go down 30 feet or more. To the point that they can break through concrete, choke out native plants, and do a heck of a number on backyard ecosystems.

You can pull it up – and we did – but it's almost certainly going to come back in time.

I only learned all of his about Japanese knotweed from my daughter Elissa, who gave us the details about the demon plant infesting our backyard after I identified it using the highly useful Google Lens app.

We removed enough Japanese knotweed to make the backyard look nice for my daughter Chloe's baby shower this Saturday. We will, however, inevitably have to deal with it again, and soon.

This is one reason I can't stand pulling weeds. It's a never-ending job, and it seldom feels like you're really getting anywhere.

On the other hand, I do have some appreciation for the beautiful flowers Terry has planted around our yard. They look nice, but I never know what each one is called.

I can point out marigolds and black-eyed Susans when I see them, but beyond that, I tend to be lost.

That's why I made up a fake/generic name for any plant or flower I can't identify. One time Terry saw a plant she wasn't sure about, so I confidently told her, "Oh, those are Jupiter Polkas."

She looked at me strangely, as this would have been the first time I've ever known the name of a plant she didn't. After a half-second of bewilderment, though, she realized I was just making stuff up.

Which is what I do 99% of the time. I seldom really know what I'm doing or what's going on, so I just make stuff up. You would be shocked how well this approach to life works.

In fact, let that be your takeaway from today's post: If someone asks you to identify a plant, flower, shrub or tree, just tell them it's a Jupiter Polka. And say it with conviction.

If it's not Terry you're talking to, they'll be so impressed, trust me.

Tonight we will be among the old people gathered to listen to (and cheer for) Men at Work, Toto and Christopher Cross

 

Only one of these original members of Men at Work will be onstage this evening at Blossom Music Center.

I have long since passed the age when you fret over the fact that the music you listened to as a teenager is now regularly played on "oldies" stations. That happened years ago.

On the spectrum of musical fandom, I'm at the point where I willingly attend cheesy, nostalgia-laden reunion concerts. I revel in being surrounded by other mid- to late-middle-aged people whose enthusiasm is perhaps muted compared with what it once was but who can still be described as "spirited."

I also make no apologies that the average age of the crowd at the concert I'll be attending tonight (along with my brother Mark and sister Debbie) is likely to be older than 50 and possibly pushing 60.

That's the demographic I expect will turn up at Blossom Music Center in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, this evening for a triple bill featuring 80s acts Men at Work, Toto and Christopher Cross.

I suspect most in the audience will be there because they're particular fans of one of those three bands. For Mark and me, anyway, the clear headliner is Men at Work.

I have been a pretty ardent MAW fan since 1983, when the first 45 I ever bought was their single "Down Under" and the first cassette I ever purchased was their album "Business as Usual." (Northeast Ohioans will appreciate the fact that I bought both of these items at Zayre's.)

The thing is, as is so often the case when bands tour decades beyond the peak of their popularity, the group performing tonight under the name "Men at Work" only has one original member. That would be lead singer and guitarist Colin Hay.

Mark (along with his son and my nephew Mark) and I have seen Colin perform live several times as a solo artist, and we saw this incarnation of Men at Work play a few years ago. You can say we're fans.

Don't get me wrong, I'm also looking forward to hearing Toto play its hits, notably "Africa" and "Rosanna." And there's no doubting the talent Christopher Cross brings to the stage with his "Sailing," "Ride Like the Wind" and "Arthur's Theme."

But I'm there for the Men, who actually now include two women. One is a wonderful musician named Scheila Gonzalez, who plays saxophone, flute and keyboards in a way that eerily recreates the sound and vibe of the late Greg Ham, Men at Work's original multi-instrumentalist. (NOTE: Since writing this, I've come to find out Scheila won't be there tonight, but is instead touring with Weird Al Yankovic. Darn.)

The other is Cecilia Noël, Colin's wife and a talented singer and performer in her own right.

We'll have a good time, I have no doubt. It will be 2-3 hours of letting the music take me back to when I was much younger and much dumber. And also skinnier. With more hair.

You couldn't pay me to actually go back to that era of my life and live it again, but I don't mind taking a temporary trip back in time. I look forward to the whole thing.

As long as the bands don't play too long, of course. I need to get home and get my sleep, you know.

Determine whether you're a Real Guy in three easy questions

Some years ago, I developed a three-question quiz a man can take to figure out whether he's a "Real Guy."

By "Real Guy," I mean a truly masculine man, at least so far as society tends to define masculinity.

The quiz is easy and somewhat reliable, in my experience. As I said, it's only three questions long. For each question you earn either 0 points, 1/2 point, or 1 full point. At the end you add up your points, and that total determines your Real Guy Quotient (I just made up that phrase, but it sounds very scientific.)

Before we dive in, let's be clear on a couple of things:

1. My Real Guy Quotient is 0. I fall short on all three questions and am not a good example of modern masculinity. I have learned to accept this about myself.
   
   
2. To that point, there are many women who score higher on this quiz than I do. And that's saying something when you consider that, for most females, only the first two questions really apply.

OK, here we go. Again, this is a self-scoring exercise, so be honest:

QUESTION #1: Can you explain in some level of detail what a joist is?

• If the answer is no, or if you have to look it up to provide an answer, give yourself 0 points.
• If you sort of know the answer, or if you made the common mistake of confusing a joist with a beam, give yourself 1/2 point.
• If you can instantly give the correct answer, take 1 full point.
  
  

QUESTION #2: Do you own, or have you ever truly and genuinely wanted to own, a motorcycle?

• If you're like me and the answer is an emphatic no, it's 0 points for you.
• If you've at least considered it but didn't necessarily have a real passion for owning a motorcycle, you get 1/2 point.
• If you've owned a motorcycle or have spent your life really, really wanting one, grab that 1 full point.
  
  

QUESTION #3: Do you refer to your friends as "buddies?" That is, will you say something like, "A buddy of mine has a truck just like that" as opposed to "A friend of mine..."?

• Again, if you're me and you've only ever had "friends" and have never referred to an acquaintance as a "buddy," mark yourself down for 0.
• If you have an even mix of "buddies" and "friends," you've earned 1/2 point.
• If you refer to other guys solely as your "buddies," or your buddy-to-friend ratio is at least 80/20, take 1 full point.

All right, add up your score and use this handy scale to determine your Real Guy Quotient:

2 1/2 OR 3 POINTS: You, sir, are basically Rambo. You will likely be killing a deer with your bare hands this evening to provide dinner for your family.

1 1/2 OR 2 POINTS: You're in good shape. Very masculine. Maybe not top tier, but there's a good chance you'll soon be riding your motorcycle to your buddy's house to discuss joists. And spit a lot.

0, 1/2, OR 1 POINT: Welcome to the club, Cupcake. You and I are going to have a blast watching Lifetime movies together.

Sometimes it feels like your kids match their chronological age and sometimes it doesn't

Tomorrow our son Jared turns 27, which feels about right.

What I mean is that, yes, instinctively I think of Jared as someone in his later mid-20s. Or early late 20s. However you want to say it.

He's well established in his career, he has a wonderful fiancée we all love, and he's a responsible adult of the sort you expect your kid to be at this age.

Our other kids are also doing well for themselves, but with Elissa, for instance, I still can't believe she's 31. I can't believe she's 30-anything.

Maybe it's because she's the only one of our kids who has crossed that three-decade age barrier, but man, I have a hard time equating 4-year-old Elissa (who by my reckoning was part of our lives as recently as last year) with successful, mature 31-year-old Elissa.

It just doesn't seem possible.

And Chloe? Same thing. She's 28, married, and on the verge of becoming a mother. But to me she's "Little Chloe," which is how she would refer to herself when she was of preschool age. "Little Chloe, coming through!" is something she used to say that Terry and I reminisce about often.

Don't even get me started on Melanie and Jack. They're doing adult things now but simply shouldn't be. Maybe I've tried to hold onto their youth too long simply because they're our two youngest children, I don't know.

But yeah, Jared turning 27 feels about right. I've often called him "the hardest working man in sports communications" and I still think that's true. He puts in a lot of time and effort on behalf of his employer, the Tampa Bay Rays, a sure sign he has made significant progress since he was a hard-working but somewhat disorganized high school student 10 short years ago.

It's baseball season, so Jared is of course hard at work. He can't be in Ohio celebrating with us, but we'll at least grab him for a quick phone conversation tomorrow, I'm sure.

Happy 27th birthday to our oldest son and a man who fits his age.

When people start giving you stuff like this, grandparenthood suddenly gets real

Last month I was in the grocery store and ran into Jenny, a high school classmate and track teammate of mine. We were chatting and updating each other on our lives (as one does while standing in the produce section) when I mentioned that Chloe was due with our first grandchild in mid-September.

Jenny, a grandmother herself, lit up.

"Oh," she said, "it's amazing. You have no idea how much you can love a grandchild until they're actually here. You hear about it and agree that of course you'll love that little one, but you don't really understand until you hold them."

I've heard lots of people say things like that, and it makes me even more excited than I already am to become a grandpa.

That word "grandpa", by the way, sounds much older to me than "grandfather" goes. Your grandpa has white hair and walks with a cane. Your grandfather has salt-and-pepper hair and plenty of energy to play with you.

It's all semantics, of course, and as I've said, I really don't care what this little boy calls me. I just can't wait to meet him.

This year for Father's Day, Chloe gave me a bag of Starbucks coffee (she knows me well) and the mug pictured above. When your Father's Day presents become more like Grandfather's Day presents, you know you're entering a new phase in your life.

Well, the grandparent phase, of course, but also the phase when I will only drink out of coffee mugs 10 ounces or larger. I have no time for those useless little 8-ounce teacups...

If you have a basement gym, you might as well use it

Over the last year, I've gotten a lot of mileage here on the blog posting about my adventures at the gym.

I was never a weight lifter until May 2024, when Elissa and Mark bought me four sessions with a trainer named Kirk at Ohio Sports & Fitness (OSF) in Willoughby, Ohio. My knowledge and enjoyment of strength training really blossomed under Kirk's guidance, and I enjoyed working out with him twice a week almost without fail for 13 full months.

As of a month ago, however, I no longer go to OSF, nor is Kirk serving as my trainer. This has nothing to do with the gym or with Kirk. The facility is great with a lot of friendly and very helpful people. As for Kirk, what can I say? He's an amazing personal trainer whose extensive knowledge blends well with his positive personality.

He's a good egg, that Kirk.

No, my disengagement from the gym has nothing to do with them. It was simply a decision I made several weeks ago when I decided I needed to free up some time in my otherwise hectic life (something I mentioned this past Monday in an egregiously gratuitous game show-related post).

One of the changes I made in my routine was to shift the site of my twice-a-week strength training to our house rather than an outside gym.

It turns out we have a pretty nicely equipped gym in the back room of our basement, thanks to the efforts of my son Jared. When we still lived with us and was really into lifting, he stocked that room with everything you really need to build muscle.

That includes two adjustable weight benches, a rack for bench pressing, a barbell and various weight plates, a full assortment of dumbbells, a machine for hamstring curls and quad extensions, and a bunch of other stuff I won't even list here, all placed on a series of heavy-duty rubber horse mats.

For the longest time I felt guilty I wasn't taking advantage of this nice exercise setup located right in my own home. Now I do.

I admittedly miss Kirk, and I miss the atmosphere at OSF, but so far this change has been for the better. It cuts significant time off my morning routine, and it doesn't involve any sort of membership or personal training fees.

It also helps that my strength training goals are relatively modest. I'm not looking to bulk up or anything. Really, all I want is to maintain what I have in an attempt to stave off age-related muscle loss.

The Tennant Gym is more than equipped to help me do that.

Now if only I could get a machine for the basement that makes me not want to eat cake all the time...

I was a contestant on two TV game shows (and I'm so very sorry for bringing it up again)

Earlier this summer I seriously considered making this a once-a-week blog in place of the three-times-a-week cadence I've followed for the last couple of years.

For one thing, I was looking for ways to free up my daily schedule, and reducing the amount of time I spend writing each week seemed like an easy fix. Secondly, and probably more importantly, sometimes I simply don't know what to write here.

I have the hardest time coming up with blog topics. I feel like I've told you all of my stories. I already rehash old posts once a month as part of our Blog Rerun series, and there are subjects I've covered two, three, four times or more.

Apart from Terry and the kids, who naturally are the main focus of this blog, the topic I've come back to time and again is my appearances on the game shows "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" and "The Price Is Right." Longtime readers of the blog are sighing right now and getting ready to click away, as they've heard me drone on about this over and over.

As for the rest of you, I won't even get into the details other than to offer video clips of my appearances below in case you're bored and somewhat curious about them. If you want to know more about the what, how and why of these little adventures of mine, just use the search box at the top of the blog to search for "Millionaire," "Price Is Right" or "game shows." That should bring up past posts on the subject.

(NOTE: I've never been able to figure out how to get the search box to appear on the mobile version of the blog, so if you're on your phone, scroll to the bottom and click on "View web version." Everything will get really small, but you should be able to zoom in on the search box in the top right of the screen.)

Anyway – and please understand how much I feel like a digital harlot right now – here's my appearance on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" from January 30-31, 2003. It's low-res, but it works:

Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
Recorded from WOIO-TV 19, Jan. 30-31, 2003

You can also watch that same video here on Vimeo: https://vimeo.com/736926100  I used to have it on YouTube, but a few years ago the folks at Sony forced me to take it down because of copyright violation. It had something like 70,000 views at the time, and while it didn't seem fair that I needed to remove a 20-year-old VHS-recorded video clip, I didn't have a choice.

On the other hand, CBS doesn't seem to mind that my "Price Is Right" video is on YouTube and still going strong 18+ years since I appeared on the show on February 16, 2007. It has 95,000 views to date, though that has nothing to do with me. I've discovered there's an ardent digital community of "Price Is Right" fans, and I believe my recording of that particular episode is the only one that's easily accessible online.

"The Price Is Right" - February 16, 2007
Also recorded from WOIO-TV 19.

I went home with $32,000 on Millionaire and four electric guitars plus $2,500 from Price Is Right.

Again, anyone who has read my stuff over the years already knows all of this. To them I apologize for rehashing it, but I'm telling you, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO POST SOMETIMES.

Maybe I'll come back Wednesday with a little more inspiration.

The fleeting summer

Now that all of my kids have graduated, the end of the academic year doesn't mean as much to me as it used to (other than high school sports PA announcing opportunities drying up for a few months).

The only thing I really notice is that my drive to work gets faster in the summer.

I drive past a busy elementary school on weekday mornings. When school is in session, my commute usually coincides with drop-off time, and the line of cars backs up into the street I take to get to the office.

It's not that big a deal, especially because there's a friendly police officer there every morning directing traffic, and he allows those of us not dropping off kids to pull around the line and be on our merry way.

But that's not until we get relatively close to the school driveway. Until that point, I sit in stopped traffic for a few minutes, particularly if the school crossing guard is having a busy morning ferrying kids across the road (which he generally is, given that this school is in a residential neighborhood and features a lot of parents and kids walking to school).

Much like an 8-year-old in June looking forward to a long summer vacation, once school lets out, I get excited about 12 weeks of drop-off line-free driving in the mornings. It feels like I'm going to be zooming to and from work forever.

But before I know it, and way before it feels like it should be happening, the drop-off line is back. Early September rolls around and those same kids, all a little older and now a grade higher, are back out there clogging up the roads in pursuit of an education.

Again, not a burden at all, but it does remind me how fast summers go, especially when you live in a place like Northeast Ohio where cool (or freezing cold) weather is the rule eight months out of the year and sometimes longer.

We so look forward to summers here on America's North Coast (we're the only ones who call the southern shore of Lake Erie that) that once they arrive, we sometimes hang our entire emotional wellbeing on them.

"Please, please, please stay warm and dry. Just for a little while. Please. The snow will come soon enough. Whoever is in charge of the weather, I will pay them $1,000 just for the opportunity to wear flip-flops for a few weeks."

This helps to explain why so many people around here, especially boys in the 12 to 16 age range, start wearing shorts when it's still freezing outside. We're so desperate for warm weather that we'll pretend it's here once the weak, early-spring sun comes out, even if the air temperature tops out at 40 degrees.

All of this is to point out what you already know: (A) It's July 25th. Somehow. (B) It's still summer, but kids start going back to school in just a few weeks. (C) Nothing good ever seems to last.

Enjoy it while you can, gang.

Every scar tells a story

I wish I looked as good as this guy, though I could do without the foot-long leg scar.

You might have read today's headline and assumed I was referring to emotional scars. While it's true those types of non-visible scars always have a story, today I'm talking about actual physical scars.

I have four of them on my body, and on those rare occasions when I notice and think about them, they take me back to different times of my life.

There is, for example, the gash on the side of my right leg I got when I was 10 and we were jumping over the bushes at Mike Ostack's house.

As I leapt over those bushes and landed, I grazed against the jagged edge of a rusty old metal garbage can on the other side. It was enough to tear my jeans and the skin underneath, resulting in my first set of stitches (five of them). I think there was also a tetanus shot involved, or at least I hope there was.

Mike was one of my best friends in the world, but within a year he and his family would pack up and move to Stone Mountain, Georgia. I've seen him only a few times since. Nowadays our only communication comes in the form of LinkedIn messages exchanged once a year on his birthday in February.

Life goes on. We all have people who come in and out of our little spheres.

There's also the cut on my chin I got playing football.

Well, to be honest, I wasn't "playing" football. It was during pregame warm-ups my junior year. I was on the scout defensive team as a cornerback. On one play, Dave Engeman, a strong, talented senior guard, pulled around my side and gave me a stiff forearm to the chin strap.

I walked back to the sideline, unbuckled my helmet and felt my chin, only to pull back my hand and see it was covered in blood.

That was a four-stitch cut sewed up by our team doctor in the locker room. He used a topical anesthetic that lasted for maybe two of the four stitches.

I'm not going to lie: It hurt. And later the cut got infected and smelled funky for days.

On the top of my left foot is a gnarly scar I picked up in my friend Matt's basement, sometime between the garbage can and football cuts. We were playing hide and seek in the pitch dark, as we often did, and I somehow managed to rake that bare foot across the sharp metal corner of a dehumidifier unit.

You have to understand, kids: In the 60s, 70s and 80s, consumer products were often made with only functionality in mind and not necessarily safety.

My mom took me to the hospital, and amazingly the staff there decided not to stitch the cut but instead just bandaged it. It eventually healed after several weeks, but I always thought that was the wrong call.

Anyway, the only other prominent physical scar I have is actually two scars, and I don't remember a thing about how I got them.

They were the result of a hernia surgery I underwent at 18 months of age. I've heard stories of how I would cry and cry at night, and no matter what my mom or sisters tried, they couldn't comfort me.

Turns out I had a bilateral hernia. One day they dropped me off at the hospital for the surgery and I had to stay there overnight. My sister Debbie always says it was the saddest thing to see me in a crib in my little cowboy-themed hospital gown as they waved goodbye and left me alone.

All's well that ends well, though, and I'm happy to report I've had no issues since.

I was thinking of leading today's post with a photo of one of my scars. I didn't ultimately do that, but rest assured that if I had, it wouldn't have been the hernia scars...

The long, long days I wouldn't trade for anything

It was a pretty typical Tuesday in mid-June, if a somewhat exhausting one.

Up before 5am, get dressed for the gym, have some coffee and do my New York Times puzzles, then head out for a lower-body workout with trainer Kirk.

Lift, grunt, suffer a little. Legs feel like jelly, but I get through it.

Head home. Shower and dress as quickly as I can, then hop in the car for the 15-minute ride to the office. Resting on the passenger seat (and the floor) next to me are my laptop, my lunch, my PA announcing bag, and a separate bag with a change of clothes.

Get to the office, go right into meetings. Rip through my to-do list as best I can over 9 hours.

At the end of the day, I head to the men's room, lock myself in a stall and change into more casual clothes in preparation for announcing that night's Lake County Captains baseball game.

I get to Classic Auto Group Park two hours early to prep. Go through lineups, pronunciation guides and game scripts. Put my pregame and in-game reads in order in the thick three-ring binder handed to me by Jason, the Captains' game operations manager. He's good at what he does and very funny, but he also runs a tight ship. We all want our game production to go as well as it can.

As game time approaches, I exhort the fans in the stands to get loud as I read the Captains' starting lineup with all the energy I can muster.

The game itself goes pretty well. I don't miss a cue, and there's good chemistry between me and Liv, the talented on-field host.

After the last out, I pack up my stuff and head back to the car. I get home a little after 10pm. I brought my dinner to the ballpark and already ate, so I jump right into the shower.

Once I'm out, I move to the kitchen to pack my lunch for the next day. Then I shave, brush my teeth and climb into bed. I've been texting Terry throughout the day, but we chat for a few minutes and catch up on our lives.

By 11pm we turn out the lights. I plan to walk my normal 2.3-mile loop first thing in the morning, so I won't get more than 6 or 6 1/2 hours of sleep. That really isn't enough, but it's something I accept. I'll catch up tomorrow evening.

This can all be a little tough on my 55-year-old body, but here's the thing: I choose to do it. I control my schedule, and I love it all.

It is maybe the ultimate freedom to be able to determine how your days are spent. I have a job I really enjoy. I have the ability to exercise and take care of my body four mornings a week. And I have a supportive spouse who allows me to pursue my PA announcing passion on many an evening (more than 100 events a year).

There are ups and downs, of course. Some days feel better than others. My mood fluctuates like anyone else's, often because I fail to be grateful for everything I have.

Still, it's all perfect. Or maybe "perfectly flawed" is a better way of saying it, because problems and issues still come thick and heavy. But they're only so bad.

After a day like this, I worry whether I'll have the energy to pop out of bed the next morning and do it again.

One way or another, though, I always do.

I couldn't begin to ask for more.

Birthday Week makes you take stock of the relationships in your life

My brother Mark had a birthday yesterday.

There are a couple of times each year when I have a slew of family and friends celebrating birthdays all at once.

One is the month of March running into early April. I won't even get into the list of people in my life who have birthdays during those five weeks, other than to say it's long and includes both Terry and Elissa.

The other stretch of birthdays happens right now in mid-July. It doesn't involve as many people as that March/April run, but it's no less important.

It began yesterday with my brother Mark's birthday, it continues tomorrow with my good friend Kevin's big day, and it concludes on Sunday when my sister Debbie turns a milestone age.

I won't tell you exactly how old Debbie will be, other than to say it's a number ending in 0 that falls somewhere between 69 and 71. And she makes it look good.

Oh, and also, when my Aunt Peg was alive, her birthday was also this week.

All of these people have played important roles in my life, and they're all good folks worth celebrating.

The fact that they're each a year older this week makes me appreciate them all the more.

As I've often (morbidly) pointed out here on the blog, we all have an expiration date. As much as we would like to believe life as we know it now will go on forever, it won't.

One by one, I and the people celebrating birthdays are going to shuffle off this mortal coil. And that's OK.

Really, it's OK. It's the way of things, and there's no getting around it. Acceptance feels a lot better than dread and denial.

Anyway, I digress. Here's wishing the happiest of birthdays to my big brother, my big sister, and my buddy Kev, and here's to the memory of good old Aunt Peg.

I only wish to point out that you're all older than me and always will be.

My wife has been a great sport since the very beginning of our marriage

You could argue that the simple act of marrying me makes Terry a great sport, but it has always been more than that.

Like, on our honeymoon in 1992, she spent a day with me at the Kennedy Space Center. I was fascinated, but I know she was bored out of her mind. What can I say? She loves me.

Speaking of our honeymoon, she also agreed to participate in the video from which the screen shot at the top of today's post was taken. And she did it in defiance of her own good judgment.

Click to here to watch that video.

To explain: We had spent a day at Universal Studios, and as we were getting ready to leave, we came across a "Screen Test Home Video Adventure" exhibit where you could insert yourself into a scene from "Star Trek." Terry did not want to do this, but I really did, and eventually I convinced my new (and reluctant) wife to come in and act with me.

That is, if you want to call what we did "acting." We are not Shakespearean dramatists, as you will quickly see, but it really was a lot of fun. At least it was for me, as I didn't have to wear the pointy Vulcan ears Terry did.

The video (which, again, is linked above) is the real point of today's post, as is the fact that I have the greatest wife in the world.

May she live long and prosper.

Allons, enfants! Bastille Day is as good a day as any to celebrate all things French

Image credit: CultMTL.com

(NOTE: This is one of our Blog Rerun posts. It originally ran here on 5Kids1Wife.com on this day in 2021.)

Today is Bastille Day. I'm always reminded that, on this day in 1989, my friend Kevin and I went to our high school French teacher's house unannounced and drank wine with her in celebration of the holiday.

I give Madame Whitehorn credit for being so gracious to us. She was under no obligation to invite two former students (who showed up unexpectedly on her doorstep) into her home on a mid-summer Friday morning.

Yet she did, and she remains one of my favorite teachers ever, as does another former French teacher of mine, Madame Pumphrey.

As I've mentioned, I took 14 years of French classes between the Wickliffe City Schools and John Carroll University, so I have a deep interest in French language and culture. It also doesn't hurt that, as a First World War buff, I have a relatively detailed knowledge of the geography of Northeastern France, where so many battles were fought.

By the way, contrary to what you may think you know about France's military history, the French army was a tough out in WW1. The Germans had deep respect for their tenacity and fighting capacity.

I've visited Paris four times, but I've only scratched the surface of things to see and do there. I also someday hope to make it "en province" and experience some of the non-Parisian parts of the country.

The closest most Ohioans get to all things French is visiting some part of Francophone Canada. I have been to Montreal five times, and while it's lovely, it's not the real thing.

Nor should it be. It is a wonderful city with a mystique and culture all its own.

French people have a reputation for being rude and snooty, and I'm sure many are (just as many Americans are). But during my trips to France, the people I've met have been nothing but kind and gracious.

That includes the French woman whose job it was to stand in the men's room while I peed at the Gare de Nord train station in 1999. I don't know if she kept any notes on customer behavior, but if she did, I'm sure she noted my exceptional cleanliness and respect for French urinals.