Why does everyone around me suddenly seem so young?

I feel a lot like this white-haired guy each time I announce a baseball game.

Recently I was chatting with some of my Lake County Captains co-workers. (I say "co-workers," though it should be noted I'm not a full-time employee of the team. I'm just there on most game days to serve as the public address announcer.)

Jack, who directs game operations and is my boss, was celebrating his 25th birthday. He was born in 2001, about five months before September 11th. One of two young women in our conversation mentioned that Jack was "a pre-9/11 baby," while they were both born in the months after 9/11.

I casually noted that I was nearly 32 years old on September 11th, 2001, had been married for nine years at that point, and already had four kids and a mortgage. Which they all thought was pretty funny.

I did, too, though my laugh was a somewhat half-hearted one as I realized how often this sort of thing happens.

As you enter the later stages of your career, you find yourself with increasing frequency to be the oldest person in the room. You look around and think, "I literally have a pair of jeans older than him."

Which is somewhat jarring, though I still manage to find the humor in it. Even the absurdity.

Those three kids on the Captains staff have lived in parts of three decades. Me? I've touched seven decades, having been born in late 1969.

The great thing is, they don't treat me like the old guy. I get the same in-game feedback they get whether I do something well or I screw it up.

That is, of course, how it should be.

I will also say this: The young people working for this minor-league baseball team are impressive. They're smart, driven, and focused on delivering the best experience possible for the fans in attendance. I learn something from them every game.

I also like to think they learn something from me, though often that "something" is only the name of a random 80s song playing through the ballpark sound system.

Hey, if I have to be the most chronologically gifted person on the game day staff, so be it. I'll crank up the hearing aids, polish my cane, and do my best not to worry about the fact that almost none of my co-workers were around when Ronald Reagan was president.

Or George H.W. Bush.

Or Bill Clinton, for that matter.

Sigh.

Everything can change (for the better) with a single phone call

It was a Thursday in late April. I was working from home and had come downstairs to spend a few minutes with my daughter Chloe and grandson Cal. They were hanging at our house that day while son-in-law / husband / dad Michael was out of town for work.

I was holding Cal and talking to Chloe when her phone rang. She looked at the screen and said, in a tone of excitement, "That's a 216 number!"

It took me a second to realize what she meant.

Chloe had been accepted into The Ohio State University College of Medicine a few months earlier. She had visited the school a couple of times, and she and Michael were already making plans to sell their house and move to Columbus.

The only thing that could keep them in Northeast Ohio was if Chloe were to gain admission to the Cleveland Clinic Lerner College of Medicine.

Or should I say "the highly selective Cleveland Clinic Lerner College of Medicine," as that's sometimes how you see it referred to.

Chloe had been waitlisted at Lerner, which essentially means, "At the moment, we're not accepting you. But we're not rejecting you, either."

She had also been accepted to one other med school and waitlisted at yet another, but ultimately, this was a two-horse race. It was either going to be Ohio State or Lerner. She had told the Lerner folks that, if she were to be admitted there, she would absolutely attend, no questions asked.

The problem is that only 32 students are admitted to the Lerner College of Medicine each year. That's 32 out of about 2,000 applicants.

There is no doubt Lerner is an outstanding medical school. Elite, even. But for many, one of the main draws is the fact that it's free.

Completely free. A five-year medical degree without charge.

Even with its relatively affordable tuition, Ohio State can't compete with free.

So before diving in and making full preparations for a move south, Chloe wanted to hear one way or another from Lerner. She needed closure, which is understandable.

As a frequent participant in online medical school applicant discussion forums, she knew exactly when the Lerner folks were likely to make their "yes" or "no" calls to wait-listers.

Which is why the appearance of an unknown 216 (Cleveland) number on her phone in late April gave her a jolt of adrenaline.

She answered the call with a cautious "Hello?"

You know how, if a room is a relatively quiet, you can hear someone on the other end of a cell conversation? I made out just enough to decipher that the caller was Dr. Christine Warren from the Lerner College of Medicine.

I heard Dr. Warren say she was calling with good news that they were formally going to offer Chloe admission. I saw Chloe's eyes go wide and a smile start to play across her face.

I began silently jumping up and down in celebration while still holding Cal, which made him a little nervous. He obviously didn't know what was going on.

When Chloe got off her call, I ran over and hugged her, and we both started jumping up and down.

Cal cried a little, scared by all the commotion. I cried, too. Only my tears came from the realization that all of our lives had changed in an instant.

Not only did that phone call mean Chloe, Michael and Cal would continue living relatively close to us, it also meant that Chloe was going to save herself a few hundred thousand dollars in med school tuition.

Terry was out of town at the time, and I enjoyed listening in when Chloe called her mother and told her the good news.

Terry, bless her heart, always had faith that Chloe would get into Lerner. Both of us wanted whatever was best for Chloe and family, but we also wanted them to remain local so that we could continue seeing our little grandson as often as possible.

I had already resigned myself to the idea that Chloe was going to Ohio State. We would undoubtedly make the drive of 2+ hours to Columbus regularly, I figured, which was certainly better than nothing.

But Terry never wavered. She said Chloe was going to get in, and she did.

Which in retrospect makes sense, I suppose. I mean, she is already DOCTOR Chloe Edmonds, having earned her PhD in neuroscience two years ago. I don't know how many Lerner applicants can say they hold PhD's.

Then there was the fact that Chloe is an experienced researcher who has been published in multiple medical journals. The Lerner College trains physician-researchers, which is right up Chloe's professional alley.

And ultimately, there's the fact that she's Chloe. Chloe does big things. She decides she's going to do them, and she does them.

And now Dr. Edmonds is on her way to becoming Dr. Dr. Edmonds. Well, actually, if all goes well, she'll be Chloe Edmonds, MD, PhD.

Amazing.

She starts the program July 6, with the traditional white coat ceremony scheduled for the following Sunday.

You can bet we'll all be there to see her get that well-deserved white coat.

And you can bet Cal is going to continue getting all the Grammy and Grandpa time he can handle.

All because of one two-minute phone call.

Nothing beats the hotel pool when you're traveling with kids

 

A video clip of us in a hotel pool, somewhere outside of Philadelphia, 2006.

We used to take a couple of road trips every year when the kids were growing up. One was always to our church's annual Bible school, while the other was often to one or more cities in Pennsylvania.

I don't know how or why Pennsylvania became our destination of choice, though I suspect it was because it was close, it was relatively inexpensive, and it had a lot of places to choose from.

I know we went to Hershey multiple times, but over the years we ended up covering other parts of the state as well. Wherever we went, we looked for two things in a hotel:

1. A sufficient number of beds to accommodate the seven of us
2. A pool

And that was about all we needed.

The pool, in particular, was a big attraction. No matter what we had spent our day doing, the kids were often more excited to jump into the pool that evening when we got back to the hotel.

Which was fine. It gave Terry and me time to rest, and it allowed them to work out whatever energy they had left before it was time for bed.

Actually, Terry and I didn't always get to rest, as evidenced in the video above.

This was shot 20 years ago during a family trip to Philadelphia. As you'll see, I'm in the pool with the kids holding little Jack, who I don't believe was even 5 months old yet. My job was to carry him around so he could watch his siblings play while not getting splashed in the face.

I miss those days, but I don't miss the level of tired I know Terry and I were feeling at that moment. Family vacations were equal parts fun and fatigue for us.

Which again was fine. We were making memories, and we had enough sense to realize it.

You know, I can't remember the last time I was in a pool with all of my kids, but I do know one thing...The next time it happens, I probably won't be carrying Jack, who is now 20 years old and half a foot taller then me.

I think he can handle getting splashed in the face now.

When people say nice things about your kids

This is going to sound strange, but when Terry and I used to go to our children's parent-teacher conferences, it was always somewhat uncomfortable for me to hear a teacher talk at length about how much they enjoyed having one of our kids in class.

Don't get me wrong, I really did love hearing the compliments. We were blessed with good kids who worked hard to do well in school.

My son Jared worked particularly hard at figuring out the bare minimum effort he needed to do well. Like, if 90% got you an 'A,' he would inevitably clock in at 90.2%.

But hey, it was still an 'A,' and we'll get back to Jared in a moment.

I don't know the exact reason why effusive praise of my kids made me feel somewhat awkward, but I have two theories:

(1) I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop: "Chloe is a great student, BUT..." Rarely did this happen, but I always assumed it would happen.

(2) Being born and raised in Ohio – which I don't consider a Midwestern state but which does have certain Midwestern sensibilities – there is a part of my brain that assumes you should always do your best and not expect anyone to say too much about it. And the same holds true for your kids.

Returning to Jared, following are two videos I posted on Facebook last fall that illustrate the point. Both are taken from Cleveland Guardians baseball broadcasts, and both feature Hall of Fame play-by-play man Tom Hamilton saying very, very nice things about my eldest son.

As mentioned here before, Jared works in communications with Major League Baseball's Tampa Bay Rays. He's good at what he does and puts a lot of time and effort into keeping it that way.

He has matured greatly since his teenage years and is a good example for any young person looking to get into the sports business.

Jared did a one-year internship with the Guardians early in his career, and during that time he got to know Tom. Now, whenever the Guardians travel to Tampa to take on the Rays, the two of them always catch up.

That resulted in this clip from September 4, 2025, in which Hammy (as he's known) gives Jared a shout out and calls him "one of the bright young stars in media relations."

That was so nice of Tom and very much unexpected. And it could have ended there with a nice memory.

But a few days later on the broadcast, Hammy was at it again. This time he not only mentioned the birth of our grandson Cal, he also heaped more praise on Jared (listen to the very end of the clip).

When Jared received this second mention, I started to wonder if people thought we had compromising photos of Tom or that he owed us money or something.

Again, I loved it, but...I also squirmed a little. And knowing Jared, I think he probably did, too.

All of which is to show that either I need to loosen up or maybe you really can have too much of a good thing.

Now, you could argue this whole post was just an excuse to share these two videos and brag about my son. And you would be right.

But in my defense, my joy over Tom Hamilton's comments is mixed with just enough discomfort to make the whole thing feel OK.

You live for the smile

At some point every day, our daughter Chloe and our grandson Cal will FaceTime Terry to say hi and talk. Sometimes it's multiple times a day.

If I happen to be home when these calls come in, I peek over Terry's shoulder and give them a big hello.

Actually, as much as I love Chloe, my big hello is almost always directed toward Cal. And no matter what mood he seems to be in, he will usually return my greeting with a big cheesy smile.

I don't have to tell you veteran grandparents my heart then melts. It makes my day.

When your grandchildren are still babies, that's what you're constantly going for: the smile. They can't yet talk, but the message that happy grin conveys is clear: "You're one of my favorite people!"

Recently I had the privilege of watching Cal all day on a Saturday while his parents took a day trip and Terry was out of town. We did all the usual stuff you do when caring for a 6 1/2-month-old, but a lot of our time was spent just having fun.

We did The Flying Calvin until Grandpa's arms gave out. We played with his toys. We made up "The Naked Baby Song" while changing his clothes (which, if I may say so, was a pretty good impromptu composition).

The whole time I was just looking for the smile. And I got it. Many times over.

Chloe, Michael and Cal ended up spending that night at our house because the power at their place was knocked out by a windstorm. I was sad they had to throw out all the food from their refrigerator, but I have to be honest...

I was even more sad the next day when their power kicked back on and they went home. I was kind of hoping for another day of Cal smiles. 

Hang in there, Bus Stop Dad, you're doing great

My morning drive to the office takes me through 6+ miles of mostly residential streets. I see people walking their dogs, little kids playing in front yards, and bathrobe-wearing senior citizens fetching the newspaper.

The cast of characters varies, but there are three people I see consistently. As I head down Lander Road, I always notice a particular dad standing with his two little boys while they wait to catch the school bus.

The boys wear Minecraft-themed coats in the fall and winter. I would guess them to be maybe 7 and 9 years old. They are always moving, chasing each other around or running up and down the driveway to blow off morning steam before having to sit still for several hours at school.

Their dad is a tall fellow with a beard. Usually he's holding a mug that I assume contains the coffee he needs to jumpstart his day. That day, I imagine, consists of getting the boys onto the bus, hustling to get himself ready, then heading off to work to put in 8-10 hours in support of his family.

I have seen the mother only a few times, because (I'm guessing) she needs to be at work earlier than her husband, so it's his job to make sure his rambunctious little sons get to school.

"Rambunctious" is a word my mom would have used for them. "Spirited" is another euphemism meant as a polite alternative to "occasional pains in their teachers' asses."

Maybe I'm wrong about the boys, though. They could be angels in the classroom and hellions at home. I can only go by what very little I observe of them as I drive past at 35mph.

The dad, however, I do know. I don't know his name, of course, and I don't know what he does for a living or where he grew up.

But I know the life he leads. I know the things that keep him awake at night when he thinks about his wife, his boys, and what he needs to do to make sure the lights stay on and food appears on the table.

I know the uncertainties he has even after nearly a decade as a father. I know his often-troubled internal monologue and the confident front he puts on for others.

I don't know him personally, but I know him as a member of the Brotherhood of Dads.

He's out there day after day with his kids, his coffee, and his anxieties.

And there's no place in the world he would rather be.

Part of him looks forward to the day they can drive themselves to school while part of him dreads it. He knows these exhausting mornings are the stuff of memories and that someday he'll miss all of it.

I don't think I'm reading too much into this situation, even though I see him for only 2-3 seconds at a time, three mornings a week.

Because I've been him.

And I'm here to tell him, whatever his name is, that he's doing a great job. Much better than he thinks he's doing. And that those boys have a million reasons to know they are loved, including the fact that their father uncomplainingly stands outside with them while they wait for the bus in heat, cold, rain and snow.

Keep going, my friend. In case no one has mentioned it today, you're an amazing dad.

There's a lot to figure out when you move into a new office

 

My (relatively) new digs at Materion.

A month or so ago, I moved out of the office I had occupied for nearly four years. It was a literal upward move, as I went from the first floor of our building to the third.

I wasn't particularly looking to move, but my boss Uli wanted me to be closer to many of the people I support and/or work with directly. My first-floor office, you will note, was in the middle of a ghost town with only two co-workers located anywhere near me.

I liked the peace and quiet there, but as is almost always the case, Uli's instincts were correct and my move to the top floor has been a really good thing.

Still, like any office move, there was some work involved.

For one thing, I had to get all of my stuff up to the new place. That included a wide range of knickknacks and sports bobbleheads. I packed everything away, threw it on a rolling cart, and managed to transport it all in an hour or so.

My new office is larger than the old one, with plenty of space to display all of my stuff (as you can see in the photo above). It also includes a little conference table, which I didn't have before.

More important, though, is the area around my new office and what it has to offer.

For one thing, the neighbors are excellent. Next door to me on one side is Galina from our tax group, and on the other is Rich from the finance team. Both are great, and I can say with confidence that none of us makes any noise that would disturb the others.

Then of course I had to scope out the coffee situation. Down on the first floor, I was usually the first or second person to arrive in the morning, so I would always make the coffee.

It was Starbucks drip coffee stored in a pump-dispensing carafe. It was good, but it was also the only option. You either drank what I made or went elsewhere if you preferred another type of java.

On the third floor there is a Keurig machine with lots of k-cup choices, almost of all of which are caffeinated. There are usually a couple of Dunkin decaf cups laying around, and those are what I drink after being told by my doc to limit my caffeine intake.

You take the good with the bad.

Near my office is also a table on which there are always snacks and a jigsaw puzzle for anyone who wants to spend a few minutes there putting a few pieces into place.

The last thing I need is the snacks, and I am not a puzzle person, so I steer clear of that table when I can.

Other things you have to account for when moving into a new office include proximity to the restroom, access to a reliable printer, the amount of space in the fridge for your lunch, and the location of stairwells for quick building entrance and exit.

I will say my new pad scores well on all of these factors,

As long as I keep my own personal stash of decaf k-cups, I'm in business.

A Q&A interview with my 7-month-old grandson Cal

NOTE: It's not often we here at 5 Kids, 1 Wife, 1 Grandchild score anything you might call an "exclusive," but we've definitely hit a home run today. We're proud to present the first published interview with Calvin Edmonds, world-renowned formula expert, diaper connoisseur, and – in what I do not consider to be any sort of journalistic conflict – our grandchild. Calvin recently sat down with us to share his views on life as an infant and how easy it is to manipulate your parents and grandparents.

5 Kids, 1 Wife, 1 Grandchild (5K1W1G): Calvin, this is so exciting! Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule of rolling, crying, pooping and attending the occasional library story time to talk with us.

Calvin: It's all good, Grandpa, my pleasure.

5K1W1G: So...you've been around for 7 months now. How is it going for you? Has life been everything you expected?

Calvin: Honestly, I didn't have any expectations at all. One minute I'm in a warm, dark, cramped place, the next I'm in a hospital NICU hooked up to all sorts of machines. I had no idea there was anything outside the womb. Let's just say I'm still adjusting.

5K1W1G: Your parents, Chloe and Michael. They meet your every need and respond to your every whim. You have to be happy with their performance so far.

Calvin: Oh absolutely, they're amazing. I didn't realize I would be given my own personal servants, but now I can't imagine life without them.

5K1W1G: Any constructive feedback for them?

Calvin: I don't want to sound ungrateful, since those two are rookies at this just like I am. But I will say that sometimes when I cry, they take upwards of 15 seconds to figure out what I want and give it to me. Seven months into this gig, I don't think we need those sorts of delays.

5K1W1G: What about your Grammy Terry and me? How are we doing?

Calvin: All due respect? You guys are suckers. I thought I could make Mom and Dad do whatever I wanted, but you guys...it's like mind control. You're hilariously easy. Whatever I want, whenever I want it, you give it to me.

5K1W1G: We view it as our mission in life. Any areas of improvement for us?

Calvin: I enjoy coming to see you, but you can't drive down to my house more often? Akron too far for you to spend time with your one and only grandchild?

5K1W1G: Well, I mean, Grammy comes to your place quite often. It's just that I have to work five days a week to keep her in the lifestyle to which she has become accustomed.

Calvin: Sounds like an excuse. Let's work on that.

5K1W1G: We will, I promise. I see your mom already has you in swimming lessons and music classes. How engaged are you with these activities?

Calvin: More than you think, though my job is usually just to look around and occasionally smile to let her know I'm enjoying myself.

5K1W1G: Speaking of your mom, she plans to become a doctor. How do you feel about that?

Calvin: My experience with doctors is that they talk to you like they're your best friend then turn around and give you shots. I don't trust 'em. At some point during med school, I predict Mom is going to see through this charade and rethink her life choices.

5K1W1G: And your dad, Michael. What does he do for work?

Calvin: It has something to do with trucks. And buildings, I think. I'm not entirely sure. I mean, I'm 7 months old.

5K1W1G: With a surprisingly advanced vocabulary. Hey, I can't help but notice you have a couple of teeth now. Are you putting those to use?

Calvin: If by "putting those to use" you mean biting my mom from time to time, then yes. Food-wise, they've been giving me cereal and other mushy stuff, but nothing that really requires you to have a good set of incisors, you know? I assume the steak and hard candy will come later.

5K1W1G: What about hobbies? Any personal interests you've picked up?

Calvin: My dad and I are gamers. Well, I mean, he does the actual "gaming," but I'm usually strapped to him in the carrier while he does it. I've seen enough to know that if you put a PlayStation controller in my hands, I could dominate at FIFA.

5K1W1G: At this point in the interview, we should probably address the elephant in the room – your looks. You're a strikingly handsome fellow. Gerber Baby cute. How has that affected you?

Calvin: <sighs> Look, I appreciate the compliments, but do you know how hard it is to look this good? People treat you differently. They stare at you. They don't care about your thoughts or ideas. Like the other day, I had just finished reading "The Communist Manifesto" for the third time, and I wanted to share with Mom my criticisms of the book and where Marx went wrong. But she wasn't having any of it. Over and over, all she did was get in my face and ask, "Who's a cute boy? WHO'S A CUTE BOY?!?" Me, the answer is me. I know that, she knows that. Can we move on? I'm telling you, it's exhausting being one of the Beautiful People. You uglies have it so much easier...

5K1W1G: Wait, what?

Calvin: Nothing.

5K1W1G: Well, I think it's just about nap time for you, so one last question. If you could be a tree, what kind of tree would you be?

Calvin: Oh, Grandpa, that's so cliche. You're better than that. Why don't you just launch into your "I was on two game shows" story for the thousandth time?

5K1W1G: That hurts.

Calvin: Sorry. I love you, Grandpa.

5K1W1G: I love you, too, buddy.

I haven't been a tall person in more than 40 years, but I still occasionally do tall person things

My son Jack making me look like a dwarf.

I was just down in our basement laundry room taking clothes out of the dryer when I stood up and nearly hit my head on the metal gas pipe running across the ceiling.

Actually, my head didn't come anywhere near the pipe, but I flinched as if it had. This is funny for a few reasons:

1. That pipe is probably 6 1/2 feet above the floor. I am not, have never been, nor ever will be 6 feet, 6 inches tall.
   
   
2. For that matter, I am not, have never been, nor ever will be even 6 feet tall.
   
   
3. The last time I was considered anything approaching "tall" was during Ronald Reagan's first term.

As I've chronicled here before, I spent a few early years of my life being tall. From about 5th grade through 8th grade, I was taller than most of my peers.

This was only because I hit puberty way before the majority of my classmates. I spent 6th grade literally looking down on them with my suddenly deep voice and hilariously wispy mustache.

I played two years of middle school basketball as a center, not because I was especially skilled but because I was still relatively tall and could grab rebounds.

I could also commit fouls, which I did with frequency. I fouled out of almost every game in which I played.

Genetics being what they are, I stopped growing and everyone eventually caught up to me. I have spent my adult life at a shade under 5-10, which mathematically makes me of slightly above-average height compared with the typical 5-9 American male, but in reality has meant I'm just another guy who isn't short but isn't tall.

Still, even three years of tall person-hood back in the early 80s ingrained in me certain tall person habits that surface from time to time. Like ducking under metal pipes that are nowhere close to my head and thinking I can reach things on the top shelf of the grocery store when in fact I can't.

My sons are fairly tall at 6-1 (Jared) and 6-2 (Jack), but that either comes from Terry's side of the family or a recessive gene linked to my Uncle Jim, the tallest of my dad's brothers.

I don't remember how short I really am until I stand next to one or both of my boys, at which point I feel like the mayor of Munchkinland.

But I will always remember the time when I was the Shaquille O'Neal of Mapledale Elementary School. It was glorious.

Hearkening back to when I was tall. Bob Holmes to my immediate right was the only boy who could challenge me for vertical endowment.

Happy birthday this week to my wife! And apparently me!

My daughter Chloe made this birthday cake for Terry a few years ago.

This post first appeared here on September 22, 2023. I bring it back because my wife's birthday is this Wednesday, and because she still considers us to be the same age even if officially she is a year older than me from March through November. Also, I'm now 56. And for the moment, so is she.

Do you have a hard time remembering how old you are?

I ask because I don't. I never have to stop and think, "Wait, am I 52? 53? 54?"

I just know I'm 53.

I notice a lot of people have to give it real thought when asked their age. It may take them a good 5 or 10 seconds before they can confidently offer an answer.

In their defense, if you're in the lower-middle and upper-middle parts of a particular decade, those years and birthdays do tend to run together. By that I mean, for example, when you're in the 52-54 or 56-58 age ranges.

Those particular years are, for practical purposes, all essentially the same.

But you know right away when you're a "milestone" age like 20, 30, 40, 50, etc. And you can usually remember if you've turned the "1" number (21, 31, 41, 51, etc.) in the last 12 months OR if you're in the final year before a milestone (19, 29, 39, 49, etc.)

Other ages, though? Yeah, they go by so quickly they can be difficult to keep track of.

As I said, this is never a problem for me. I can rattle off my current age at a moment's notice even despite my wife's attempts to throw me off.

Terry is about 7 1/2 months older than me. We were born the same year, she in March and me in November. It is her policy, when she turns a certain age, that I am immediately that same age. In her mind, there is no time lag between us.

So for instance, if the calendar suggests that on March 18th (her birthday) she turns 40 years old and I remain 39, Terry sees things differently. To her, we are both instantly 40, birth certificates be damned.

I am so used to hearing this from her that I will admit an occasional fraction-of-a-second hesitation in declaring my age to anyone who asks. But it's so slight you wouldn't notice, and thus I claim no real trouble in remembering how old I am.

For now, that is. Try me again in 30 or 40 years. By that time, it will be sufficient if I know my first name and can come within a decade, plus or minus, of my age.

There comes a time in life when it's all about the little victories.

I listen to 80s music every day, but I like the music of your time, too

I am someone who enjoys music from all eras. That includes the 1990s, most of which I spent lugging babies around, changing their diapers, and playing Barbies with my girls, rather than paying much attention to popular music.

I've come to appreciate that decade's musical offerings retrospectively.

The point is, I like a lot of music today, I like classical music of 200 years ago, I like Big Band and bebop jazz of the 1940s and 50s, I like a whole bunch of 60s and 70s tunes, and I like music from the 80s.

Actually, I love the music of the 80s. New Wave, "college music" (that's what they used to call bands like REM, Husker Du, The Smiths and U2), heavy metal, whatever. I'm pretty sure not a day goes by when I don't listen to at least one 80s tune in my car, while I'm washing the dishes, or while I'm out walking.

A lot of people make fun of 80s music, and I get why. The associated fashion of the time was, shall we say, often garish. And there are plenty of songs from that era that are indefensible in any way other than to say they're fun.

Which is just fine. Not every song has to be deep and philosophical to be enjoyable.

You might argue that the only reason I'm so attached to 80s music is because that was the decade when I came of age, as they say. I was in high school from 1984 to 1988, and even before that as a middle schooler I bought more than my share of 45s and cassettes from the popular bands of the day.

But I think it goes beyond that. If there wasn't some intrinsic value to the music, it wouldn't be in such heavy rotation on my phone, nor would it populate my playlists like it does.

My favorites are Sting and The Police. My first concert was Sting at Cleveland's Public Hall in February 1988. I attach a lot of sentimental value and core memories to his songs. I think they still hold up very well.

Then there are Men at Work (the first band I really, really got into), Duran Duran, The Fixx, Howard Jones, Billy Joel, Iron Maiden (my favorite metal group), Huey Lewis, and a host of others I'm forgetting. They made music that was full of melody, musicianship and meaning, if you'll pardon the unintentional alliteration.

As I type this post, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Buffalo waiting to attend a work-related meeting. "Talking In Your Sleep" by the Romantics is playing over the PA system, taking me back in time to 1984. I'm the only one nodding my head and singing along.

And I guarantee I'll still be doing that when I'm 90 years old and an MTV-era song comes on.

Viva los 1980s.

The Legend of Johnny Flipperhands lives on

This is what my right hand looks like in 2026. In addition to being small, it's also beginning to look decidedly old man-ish. I'm not sure I like this.

NOTE: This was the very first post published on this blog back on December 12, 2011. I've updated the photo above, but the rest is just as it appeared then. And be assured...my hands are still small.

"Johnny hands." That's what I've always called my hands, because they look like they should be attached to a little 5-foot-tall guy named Johnny.

Seriously, I have the smallest hands. They don't look like they should belong to someone my age and body size. It's even weirder because the rest of me is fairly proportional. Well, except for my head. My head is freakishly large. I don't know why, but I've always had a large noggin.

And my feet, while reasonable in length (size 10 1/2), are quadruple-E in width. In some models of shoes, 4E isn't even wide enough.

So that's me in a nutshell: Large head, small hands, fat feet. Picture Fred Flintstone. That's me.

I have always had small hands. But now that my kids are growing up, my tiny appendages have become almost embarrassing. My daughter Melanie is 11 years old. If we hold our hands up against each other, palm to palm, my fingers are MAYBE an eighth of an inch longer than hers. And Elissa, my petite little 17-year-old who has trouble making the minimum weight to give blood, has fingers that are clearly longer than mine.

Don't even get me started on Jared, our 13-year-old man-child. He is not only taller than me, his fingers are longer than mine by a full knuckle. It's amazing. Where did I get these little digits? My dad had short fingers, but they were at least bulky. They had some width to them. Mine? They're the fingers of a third-grader, and I'm guessing they're not growing any time soon.

Actually, I think they're shrinking. I don't remember them ever being this tiny before. I just measured the nail on my pinky finger and it's 3/8" across. Three-eighths of an inch! There's going to come a point when my fingernails will disappear altogether – a process I have admittedly helped along because I chew them all the time.

Sometime in the next 5-10 years, I would say, my fingers themselves will just vanish. Then I'll be left with tiny flippers and no opposable thumbs, making even the most rudimentary tasks impossible. I'll need to hire a full-time assistant just to pick things up for me.

Yes, this is the fate that awaits me. Just call me Johnny Flipperhands – Master of the Large Head, Fat Feet and Tiny Mitts.

OK, let's get back to Calvin...

When my grandson Calvin was born last August, I changed the name of this blog to "5 Kids, 1 Wife, 1 Grandchild." As you might expect, the young man has gotten more than his share of exposure here over the ensuing half a year, and rightly so.

But I never wanted the blog to become "all Cal all the time," so you will note that it has been six weeks since I last posted about him.

Time for the little guy to return.

This Wednesday, Cal turns 6 months old. He rolls over like a champ, has a couple of teeth that have broken through, and delights Terry and me by Facetiming us on days when neither of us is able to see him in person.

He also sometimes wakes up a little too early for his mom Chloe's liking, and he is a master grump when tired or simply not getting his way.

Right now, Cal, his mom, and his dad Michael live about 45 minutes away from us in Akron. Where they'll be living this time next year is entirely dependent on where Chloe attends medical school.

She has already been accepted to one institution that would require her to move 2+ hours south of us. That's not ideal, but it's also not a dealbreaker. We could manage it and still see Cal and his parents regularly.

Meanwhile, Chloe is waiting to hear final decisions from two other med schools nearer to home. Acceptance to either could mean they would stay in Akron or move even closer to us.

Let the record show we would certainly not object to that.

I want what's best for Chloe and her family, honestly, but I also want the little guy with whom Terry and I are obsessed to be more accessible.

Either way, fingers crossed.

You can understand our dilemma.

How good is AI at creating a quick, one-page biography of you? (ANSWER: Pretty good)

I asked Google Gemini to produce "an image showing someone using artificial intelligence to create a bio about themselves." For some reason it gave this woman three hands, but I did like the inclusion of the two cats.

When Yahoo and Google launched back in the 1990s, one of the first things many people did was search their own names to see what information about them was available online.

Googling yourself was de rigeur.

Now we're in the age of artificial intelligence and it's still interesting to find out what our digital overlords know about us.

Here's an interesting exercise you can try. Go to an AI platform like perplexity.ai (it's free, but you'll have to register) and prompt it with something like "Create a bio for <YOUR NAME> of <CITY WHERE YOU LIVE>."

In seconds, it will take what it can find about you and create a pretty professional-sounding bio. And from what I've seen, a fairly accurate one, too.

I'll give you two examples. First, here's what Perplexity wrote about my wife:

Terry Tennant of Wickliffe, Ohio is a longtime community-focused resident known for her dedication to local schools, the arts, and public service.​

Community roots

• Terry lives in Wickliffe, Ohio and is originally from the community, reflecting deep roots in the city and surrounding area.​

• Over the years she has been involved with local organizations and families in Wickliffe, often connected to school and youth activities.​

Professional background

• Terry previously worked as a Circulation Clerk at the Wickliffe Public Library, where she helped patrons access materials and supported day-to-day library operations.​

• She has also worked at Lincoln Electric, gaining experience in a large, industry-leading manufacturing environment.​

School and music support

• Terry has played a key role in the Wickliffe High School Band Boosters, serving in leadership positions such as treasurer and helping organize and oversee booster activities.​

• As president of the Wickliffe Band Boosters, she helped coordinate donations and support for the music program, working with local partners to secure resources for students.​

Family and personal life

• Public records and community references connect Terry to a broader Tennant family network in northeast Ohio, including relatives in nearby cities such as Willowick and Euclid.​

• Friends and family describe her as someone who values time with loved ones and enjoys being actively involved in school, band, and community events

And here's what it had to say when I asked it to write something about me:

Scott Tennant of Wickliffe, Ohio is a lifelong Northeast Ohio communicator, public address announcer, and author who is closely identified with Wickliffe schools and local sports.​

Background

• Scott Tennant is a lifelong resident of Wickliffe, Ohio, a suburb of Cleveland, and continues to make his home there with his family.​

• He graduated from Wickliffe High School (Class of 1988) and has remained closely connected to the Wickliffe community ever since.​

Family and Personal Life

• Tennant is described as a husband, father, and grandfather, highlighting a strong family focus in his public profile.​

• He and his wife Terry have five children and share their home with two cats, a detail he uses as part of his personal author branding.​

Education and Early Career

• As a student-athlete at Wickliffe High School, Tennant was a four-year letter winner and team captain in track, competing as a sprinter and long jumper.​

• He also lettered in football as a running back and has spoken fondly of Wickliffe’s tightly knit community and the toughness of its athletic programs.​

Professional Career

• Professionally, Tennant has built a career as a strategic communicator, executive counsel, and development/external affairs leader for organizations in the Cleveland–Akron area.​

• His experience includes roles such as Vice President of Development and External Affairs at OneCommunity and work in writing, communications, and plan documentation for regional organizations.​

Public Address and Community Involvement

• Tennant is widely known as a public address announcer for high school, college, and minor league sports around Northeast Ohio, including serving as the stadium voice for events at Wickliffe Upper School.​

• He also works games for the Lake County Captains, a Class A affiliate of the Cleveland Guardians in Eastlake, Ohio, extending his announcing presence into professional baseball.​

Honors and Writing

• In recognition of his athletic achievements and ongoing contributions as an announcer and community sports supporter, Tennant was inducted into the Wickliffe Schools Alumni Association Athletic Hall of Fame in 2022.​

• As an author, he wrote “5 Kids, 1 Wife,” a humorous and personal look at family life that reinforces his identity as a Wickliffe-based writer and storyteller.

*   *   *

OK, we have three cats, not two. And the reference to Terry having family connections in Willowick and Euclid doesn't ring a bell. Other than that, everything else seems pretty solid.

You often hear that the AI you use now is the worst version you will ever use, meaning the technology advances and improves continuously. I'll believe that when it can tell me the correct number of felines in my house AND their names.