There's still a kid living upstairs, and I'm in no hurry for him to leave home

You don't have to watch any of this video, let alone all 4 minutes of it. I'm not even sure why I include it here, since it's only tangentially related to the subject of today's post. These are scenes from our house on Christmas Eve 2006, Jack's first Christmas. It makes me feel nostalgic.

Terry and I find ourselves in this interesting period of life in which four of our kids have moved out and we have a grandson, yet we also have a child of our own still living with us.

This isn't a case of, say, your 35-year-old son moving back in with you, either. Our youngest, Jack, is only 20 and a sophomore in college. He lives in the big bedroom on the top floor of our house.

For as much attention as we give grandson Cal, we still haven't finished the job of raising our own children (not that you ever really do finish). While Jack lives a largely independent life – as college students do and should – he still needs us for a lot of things.

We see him every day because he's a commuter student at Cleveland State University, so it's not like he lives on campus and is gone for weeks at a time. The way his class and work schedules are structured, he's at home a lot more than he's away.

The happy result is that we get to talk with him, eat dinner with him (sometimes), and play a role in his search for a career and a direction in life. Years after having done all of that with Elissa, Chloe, Jared and Melanie, I'm glad we still get to do it with Jack.

A lot of parents are excited to enter the empty-nest phase of their lives, and I'm sure we will be too when the time comes.

I'm just not ready for the time to come quite yet.

For one thing, Jack is fun. And funny. He probably plays the same role my siblings say I did for our parents, which was living at home throughout their 50s and early 60s and "keeping them young."

I love going to hockey games with Jack, talking about his plans for school and a career, trading funny YouTube reels with him, and generally having him around.

I can't imagine not hearing his footsteps upstairs when gets out of bed in the morning and heads to his bathroom.

I don't know what it will be like not having him around to gather the upstairs trash when it's time to take out the garbage on Sunday afternoons.

I simply can't fathom the idea of Jack and his cat Cheddar living anywhere but with us.

But it's going to happen, and probably sooner than I think. Like his brother and sisters before him, Jack will reach a point when the need to be on his own outweighs the financial and practical benefits of living with Mom and Dad.

I get that. Terry and I bought our first house when I was just 22 years old. The second we got the keys, I was anxious to move in and live by myself for a few months. That very weekend I moved out of Mom and Dad's place, the only home I had known to that point in my life. 

We're all programmed to seek independence in young adulthood. Whenever Jack is ready for that, we'll be there to support him.

But it's OK if it takes at least a few more years for it to happen. I really love having him around.

Making Grammy and Grandpa's house a place of fun, happiness, love, and memories

Our grandson Cal comes to our house two and sometimes three days a week. I'm at work at least one of those days, so often the only time I get to see him is on Friday.

Fridays are work-from-home days for me. I'll be upstairs in my office when I notice out the window that Terry is pulling into the driveway after picking up Cal. That's my cue to race downstairs, grab Cal's little car (the one pictured above), and meet him and his Grammy at the back door.

Cal gets a big smile when he sees me, partly because we're buddies and partly because he knows he's going to get a ride on the car.

Being only a year old, he can't quite propel himself on it, so it falls to me to put him on the car and push him around the house. Cal loves this. His grin hardly fades the whole time he and I zoom our way through the kitchen, living room and master bedroom.

As Cal and I grow older, the memory of these fun times will stick with us. Or at least I know it will stick with me. With Cal not yet even 14 months old, his brain won't necessarily remember the specifics.

What I hope does stay with him, though, is the idea that coming to his grandparents' house has always been something to look forward to. He will be spoiled, sure, but more than that, he will be loved.

When my kids were little, we used to take them to my mom and dad's house on Wednesdays. That tradition began when Elissa was a baby and I worked nights at The News-Herald while Terry was working days at Lincoln Electric. I would drop Elissa off in the morning so I could run errands, get things done at home, catch up on work, etc.

Mom and Dad kept their Wednesdays open for many years as our family grew. No matter how young or old the kids were, they were always welcomed at Grandma and Grandpa Tennant's house with open arms.

I remember how excited my dad was when the kids arrived on Wednesday mornings. At the time I thought it was sweet but never gave it much thought beyond that. Now I understand far more deeply what he was feeling.

I've said this a lot since Cal was born, but you simply cannot fathom the love of a grandparent for their grandchild until you live it. It's a deep and profound bond that has caught me off guard with its joy and intensity. I love that little guy so much.

Chloe and Michael often say things like, "Is it too much trouble if we bring Cal over for a few hours on Saturday?" Terry and I look at each other and laugh, then one of us replies, "Bring the boy over. And leave him here as long as you want."

One day, Terry and I will have gone on to our greater good, as my friend and former co-worker Kate often says. And one day, Cal may become a father and a grandfather himself. If that happens, I hope he passes on the love he always felt at Grammy and Grandpa Tennant's house to his own little ones.

That's a legacy I hope to leave behind.

The nightmare scenario has arrived: Who to root for, who to root for...

 

Remember when Donna Kelce – the Cleveland Heights-based mom of Travis Swift-Kelce and Jason Kelce – would wear that split Kansas City-Philadelphia football jersey any time her sons played against each other? It looked like this:

My situation isn't quite like Mrs. K's, but I think I know how she felt.

Major League Baseball's American League Championship Series kicks off tonight at 8:00 at Tropicana Field in St. Petersburg, Florida. The Cleveland Guardians will face the Tampa Bay Rays in a best-of-seven series for the right to advance to the World Series.

In any other universe, my rooting interest would be clear cut. I've been a fan of the Cleveland Indians/Guardians for nearly half a century. I attended my first game at old Cleveland Municipal Stadium in 1978 and consider the '79 Indians to be the first team for which I was truly passionate.

I have rooted for the Indians/Guardians in horrible seasons (1991 comes to mind...) and near-championship seasons (1995, 1997, 2016). I've sat through games in all sorts of weather, both at Municipal Stadium and the current Progressive Field.

You would naturally assume that "Go Tribe!" will be my rallying cry in this series.

But...

Anyone who knows our family knows my son Jared works for the Tampa Bay Rays. He is in his fourth season there, and his current title is Manager, Baseball Information and Communications.

He does a lot of different things, but essentially his job is to write a whole lot of daily media game notes, help facilitate media interactions with the team, draft official team communications, etc.

Jared works closely with the players and manager Kevin Cash when they interact with reporters and broadcasters covering Rays games. He also takes several road trips a season, so of course he's on the team plane and stays in the team hotel in each city.

Jared interned with the Guardians (in addition to spending a short time with the Washington Nationals before landing the Rays job). He grew up an Indians/Guardians fan thanks to his dad, who took him to games early on and talked about the team often.

Believe me when I say, I'm not the only one in this family who is at least somewhat conflicted.

But Jared has grown close to these Rays players, coaches, and fellow front office staff. He says they're a fun, likeable, tight-knit group for whom it's easy to cheer.

Despite his Cleveland roots, he's pulling for his Rays to win this series and move on. And I get it.

We own lots of Tampa Bay merchandise in our family. Shirts, mugs, hats, etc. We're very likely the only people in Northeast Ohio displaying a Tampa Bay Rays flag in our front yard (it's pictured at the top of today's post).

You always want your kids to be happy. I love the success Jared has built for himself, and I love that the Rays have supported him and his soon-to-be-wife Lyndsey these last few years...even if it has meant them living 1,000 miles away from us.

If the Rays should win this match-up and move on to the World Series, no one in Cleveland will be cheering louder for them than I.

But...

Since the Guardians clinched their divisional series against the Chicago White Sox on Friday, I've been asked several times who I want to win between the Guards and Rays. And I've given the same response each time:

I love my son and want him to be happy, but I can't turn my back on Cleveland baseball. I've been a true fan for 48 years, and I have no plans to abandon that loyalty now.

I'm all in for the Guardians in this one.

I'll admit it's not going to be easy. Terry and I saw the Rays play twice in Kansas City earlier this summer, and we had a good time cheering for them while sitting in a sea of light blue-clad Royals fans. They're our team, no doubt.

Well, they're Terry's team. She's pulling for the Rays in this one.

For me, the Rays are Team No. 2. A solid Team No. 2, but #2 nonetheless.

I want Cleveland to win. The saving grace is that, if the series goes the other way, I'll be genuinely happy for Jared and the Rays. In some ways, I can't lose here.

But you have to pick a side when it comes to this sort of thing, and I'm picking one.

Go Guards!

(Sorry, Jared.)

"Aquarius" and the allure of tradition

 

I often talk about how much I enjoy being the public address announcer for various athletic teams and organizations at Wickliffe Upper School, which used to be "Wickliffe High School" and which I still often unconsciously refer to as "Wickliffe High School."

I'm in my 13th year as the announcer for the Wickliffe Swing Band. That's what we call our marching band, which isn't a traditional marching band but rather a "swing band" that incorporates a lot of energetic movement into its routines.

This swing style has been around for more than 50 years. Elements of it began to be incorporated in the early 1970s under the tutelage of legendary director Chuck Frank. It became the dominant style under the equally legendary Michael Elias, who was the director at Wickliffe when Terry and I were students there.

The swing style is so ingrained into the band's culture and sense of self that it would be almost unthinkable for the group to revert to being a more drill-oriented marching band.

I've heard that when the last few Wickliffe directors interviewed for the job, they were all told point blank they would be required to maintain the swing style. I don't know if that's true, but if it is, it doesn't surprise me.

If someone in Northeast Ohio happens to know anything at all about the Wickliffe Swing Band, it's usually that the band's longstanding signature routine is set to the song "Aquarius" from the 1967 musical "Hair."

POINT OF CLARIFICATION: We call the tune "Aquarius," but what the Wickliffe band plays is actually a mini-medley from "Hair" that combines two songs: "Aquarius" and "The Flesh Failures (Let the Sunshine In)." Few people these days know or even care about the distinction, but I thought I would mention it.

The Wickliffe Swing Band plays "Aquarius" every year. Year after year. For half a century. It always caps off their halftime performance at the homecoming football game, and it's their finale at every band festival.

The key moment in "Aquarius" is pictured at the top of today's post. The percussion section creates a little pyramid in which two bass drummers stand on their heads, two tenor drummers rest their instruments on the bass drums, and a cymbal player stands on top of that pyramid and bangs the cymbals together repeatedly while the rest of the band plays the soaring "Let the Sunshine In" chorus.

It's a bit risky. The cymbal player has to have a certain degree of leg strength to get to the top of the pyramid, as well as a good sense of balance to stay up there while playing.

I've watched this routine performed on muddy grass and pristine turf fields. In bright sunshine and cold drizzle. Probably 100 times or more in the last 40 years. I've never seen anyone in the pyramid hurt themselves, but it always concerns me.

The audience reaction to the "Aquarius" pyramid is predictable and enjoyable. There is loud applause and cheering, particularly from band members and parents from other schools. It's a fun and unique moment.

As I said, for many, it's what defines the Wickliffe Swing Band.

On the other hand...

I'm in the press box when "Aquarius" is played, so I'm often privy to somewhat different reactions. While there are still cheers and clapping, I also get to hear from those who aren't big fans of "Aquarius."

These are often band directors and music educators from other schools who have seen the routine many times. They occasionally say to me, in a semi-whisper with somewhat raised eyebrows and a derisive tone, "You guys are still playing that? When will you retire it?"

I never know what to say in response to these comments, but I understand them.

Some of these press box critics see "Aquarius" as a cheap novelty ploy for applause and cheers. Maybe they're jealous, or maybe they have a point.

Others wonder what students learn if they play the same song and perform the same types of routines year after year. And again, maybe they have a point.

Don't get me wrong: I still love "Aquarius." I love hearing the appreciative comments and seeing the positive reactions on social media. I'm proud to be a Wickliffe alumnus and a lifelong resident of the city. The response to "Aquarius" gives me immense satisfaction.

But I encounter these "give it a rest already" people far more often than I ever tell band staff, parents and students. Believe me, for every 10 people standing and applauding, there is at least one other person rolling their eyes.

It makes me ponder how the band should balance maintaining its cherished traditions on one hand and expanding students' musical horizons and helping them become more well-rounded musicians on the other.

I don't have the answer, nor is it my place to make any real decisions. I'm just the guy behind the mic. I work for the director, and I like it that way.

What I do know is, if a new director ever comes in and decides to retire "Aquarius," I may also be needed to step in and protect that person from the mob of Wickliffians who will inevitably storm the school in support of their favorite Swing Band routine.

(If you'd like to see "Aquarius" performed, this is what it looked like at halftime of the 2023 homecoming football game. The video, which will open in a new window, should start right at the mid-song percussion break just before the pyramid is formed.)

The 10 bucks I spent to become a licensed "minister" was the easiest part of my son's upcoming wedding

I read that more a million weddings are performed each year in the United States "by friends, family, or online-ordained non-traditional officiants."

In three months, I will become one of those "non-traditional officiants."

My son Jared and his fiancée Lyndsey are getting married this New Year's Eve. It's one of the more popular topics of conversation in our family, second perhaps only to almost anything my grandson Cal does.

(I've always assumed that at some point, relatively new grandparents like Terry and me stop obsessing over their grandchild. So far it hasn't happened for us.)

Anyway, regardless of Cal's exalted status, we're all excited for the big December 31st wedding shindig. It will be the social event of the year for the Tennants, though I admit I harbor some degree of worry over the weather.

If you live near us, you may recall that last New Year's Eve was a meteorological mess. Snow, ice, wind, etc. It felt like Terry and I were taking our lives into our hands as we drove home from my daughter Chloe and son-in-law Michael's house at 1 in the morning.

Pretty typical late-December stuff in Northeast Ohio, but we're hoping that weather situation doesn't repeat itself this year.

Regardless, I have a role to play in the wedding beyond just being the father of the groom. Jared and Lyndsey asked me to officiate their wedding, and of course I said yes.

Becoming a licensed wedding officiant in the State of Ohio is a pretty quick and painless process. I filled out a form on the website of an organization called American Marriage Ministries and was instantly ordained, free of charge.

I then took their certificate of ordination and submitted it to the Ohio Secretary of State's office, along with a $10 administrative fee. My minister's license was approved a day later, and they sent me this lovely document making the whole thing official:

The bureaucratic part was easy. Now comes the real challenge, which is figuring out exactly what I'm going to say and how this whole wedding ceremony thing is supposed to work.

I've sat through a dozen or more weddings, so I generally know how they go. And of course I'll need to talk with Lyndsey and Jared to see what they want their ceremony to look like.

Both are now in their late 20s and more mature than I was when I got married at the age of 22. In most cases when I was asked what I wanted when it came to my own wedding, I deferred to Terry. I'm guessing my son and future daughter-in-law are going to come at it in a more adult fashion than I did.

A lot of planning for this wedding (including my specific role) will be done in the last two months, as Jared's job with baseball's Tampa Bay Rays puts a ton of demands on his time until the seasons ends in October. There's simply not much he can do until the Rays' last out is recorded.

I figure my job during the wedding will be to keep my comments short and sweet, emphasize whatever it is the bride and groom want to emphasize, and make sure I stand back and allow Jared and Lyndsey to be the stars of the show.

There is likely to be a dad joke or two, and I make no promises that I won't shed a tear. Or two. Or possibly 10.

All I know is, I will feel a mixture of relief and happiness when the ceremony ends and we can all get to eating our catered dinners and doing the Chicken Dance.

I can't wait.

Melanie and the unhelpful tag of the "gifted" student

Mel and me, circa 2004

Today is our daughter Melanie's 26th birthday, a joyous occasion to celebrate one of the smartest, funniest, most beautiful people I know.

It's also a day on which I wonder how helpful it is for our education system to brand some young kids as "gifted" and others not.

To explain...

When I was a student at Mapledale Elementary School back in the late 70s and early 80s, there was a point at which they separated some of us into an honors class. I don't know how they determined this, whether it was by test scores, subjective teacher evaluations, or a combination.

Whatever the criteria, those of us branded as "smart" were suddenly segregated from our classmates to experience a somewhat advanced curriculum designed for "gifted" students.

The "gifted" label stuck with us through the rest of our public schooling, for better or worse.

The better part of it, I suppose, was that thinking of myself as a smart kid gave me a confidence that was at times helpful and at other times wholly undeserved. Either way, I tried a lot of different things growing up because I figured that, as a gifted student, I would probably be good at them.

That was not usually the case. Not by a longshot.

The sobering part of being one of the smart kids is that, at some point later in life, you come to realize you're not necessarily any smarter than anyone else. Or at least I know I'm not.

I got to be in the honors classes not because of an elevated IQ or exceptional talent, but rather because of my chronic need to please and subsequent drive to study hard and meet expectations. I worked hard and got good grades, so they figured I must be smart. The jury is still out on that one.

So what does any of this have to do with Melanie?

Also Mel and me, also circa 2004

Mel did very well in school, but she was the only one of our kids who wasn't part of Wickliffe's "Above & Beyond" program for gifted students. Again, I don't know why her siblings got in and she didn't, and ultimately it probably doesn't matter.

One time, a friend of the family found out Mel was the one Tennant kid not in A&B and jokingly said to her, "Oh, so you're the dumb one?"

It was NOT helpful, and it was obviously untrue to anyone who knew our family at all.

Terry, especially, spent years working with Mel to boost her self-confidence. Mel is as smart and as capable as any of her brothers and sisters, "gifted" or not. Talk with her for 5 minutes and you'll realize how sharp she is.

All of which makes me wonder what "smart/gifted" really means for an 11-year-old, and whether we're doing more harm than good withholding that designation from kids who, over time, show themselves to be every bit the equal (or superior) of their supposedly advanced peers.

It all worked out in Melanie's case, and for that we're grateful. Happy birthday to my 26-year-old smart kid!

Walking away from a dream gig for all the right reasons

While it never has been (and never could be) my primary source of income, I have been working as a sports public address (PA) announcer for the last 12 years.

It started in 2014 at Wickliffe High School, my alma mater, as the announcer for the wonderful Wickliffe Swing Band. From there I moved into announcing for various Blue Devil sports, including football, soccer, volleyball, and basketball, all of which I still do.

I also picked up work at other nearby high schools and colleges, and I even had a stint as the PA guy for a now-defunct minor league hockey team in Mentor, Ohio.

The pinnacle came in April 2025, when I began announcing for minor league baseball's Lake County Captains, the High A affiliate of the Cleveland Guardians. It was a dream assignment, largely because I saw it as the highest level of PA work I'm likely to achieve. It was also a job previously held by the great Ray Milavec, my 10th-grade English teacher and someone whose PA style I admire.

Over the last two seasons, I have been the announcer for 73 Captains games, all of which have been fun and a true privilege.

However, a week ago Saturday marked the last Captains game I will announce, as I've decided not to return for a third season with the team.

This was entirely my call, and it had nothing at all to do with the Captains. Everyone with whom I've dealt in the organization has been great, notably my game day bosses Jason and Jack, on-field host Liv, and PA announcing partner Thom. The Captains' front office is comprised of hard-working people who do their best to create an enjoyable fan experience despite significant obstacles.

My decision was very much a personal one. I have loved being the Captains' primary PA announcer this season, but the time commitment is simply too much at this stage (and perhaps any stage) of my life.

On game days, I'm at the ballpark for 5 to 7 hours, arriving 2 to 3 hours before first pitch to do everything I need to do to prepare.

Multiply that by four games – sometimes five – out of every six-game homestand over a period of 5+ months, and the time adds up.

It's time that's precious for me as a husband, father, relatively new grandfather, and corporate communications professional. I ended up missing several family functions this past season as a result of my Captains commitments. I also had to take PTO/vacation time from work to be able to get to the stadium for some afternoon games and early doubleheaders.

Every game was fun, but none of it was nearly as important as spending time with Terry, the kids, and our little grandson Cal. The only sensible decision was to vacate the PA chair in favor of somebody else and regain that lost time for the things that truly matter.

The Captains have treated me so well, and I'll forever be grateful for the opportunity, but it's best for me to step aside after two short seasons. The next time I'm at Classic Auto Group Park, it will be as a fan.

I'll continue announcing sports at Wickliffe until I'm so old I can't remember who I am, or until they tell me not to come back – whichever comes first.

In the meantime, I'll continue working to keep my priorities straight.

Thanks to the Captains for the opportunity, and thanks to God for giving me enough sense to figure out what I needed to do.

Onward and upward!

I'm pretty sure I saw the original "Star Wars" in the summer of 1977...I think?

Last night, Terry and I were at Blossom Music Center to hear the Cleveland Orchestra play the music of John Williams, he of movie soundtrack composing fame. We had a wonderful time, but then, how couldn't we? It was John Williams. And the Cleveland Orchestra. Conducted by the amazing Sarah Hicks. Outside on a late summer evening.

From "Jaws" and  "E.T." to "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and "Jurassic Park," I associate Mr. Williams' music with wonderful memories from many stages of my life.

I remember, for example, being awed by his "Star Wars" film score when I saw the movie in 1977 at the Great Lakes Mall cinema complex in Mentor, Ohio.

Or at least I think I remember that. At this point in my existence, nearly 57 years on, I've come to realize that certain of my memories are not memories at all, but rather things I only believe to have happened.

I know this because I will relay anecdotes from my past and find myself being corrected by a friend who was there or (in the case of my high school athletic career) a newspaper article telling a different story.

So when I say I think I saw "Star Wars" in the theater, it's either something that really happened or something I wish had happened. I can't be sure which.

Whatever the case, my memory is that I went with the Wuicik family, our neighbors from across the street. The boys Jason and Billy were constant companions in my early years, and I definitely do remember going with them and their mom to the drive-in to see "Smokey and the Bandit."

Assuming the "Star Wars" thing also really happened, it probably would have been only the second or third time in my life I had been in a movie theater. We weren't a movie-going family, though I do remember – or again, believe I remember – my mom taking me to see Disney's "Escape to Witch Mountain" in 1975 or '76, my first theater experience.

My memory of "Star Wars" (real or not) is having been blown away by the visuals, sound, and music. It was unlike any other entertainment available at the time.

I do know for a fact I saw "Empire Strikes Back" in that same theater in 1979, because I vividly recall seeing people dressed up in Darth Vader and Chewbacca costumes in the lobby.

OK, maybe saying I know that "for a fact" is a little strong. But I am more confident that one actually happened.

Or at least I think I am. Who can say?

The tenuous reality of the blessed life

I don't spend a lot of time on the Threads social media platform, but recently I found myself there. I came across a post from a fellow Gen Xer lamenting how difficult it is to be in your mid- to late 50s.

At this age, the person wrote, you're sometimes caring for elderly parents AND your older children AND even grandchildren.

You're often slogging toward retirement with insufficient savings and no desire to play the corporate politics necessary to get ahead...all while reporting to a boss 20 years younger.

And you're starting to experience the feeling that the world might be passing you by, both culturally and technologically.

Those are all valid points, and I see them up close and personal in many of my peers.

Which is why I'm somewhat embarrassed to tell you that, so far, my 50s have been the greatest decade of my life.

I feel wonderful, I have lots of energy, I've learned some things, I get to do engaging work every day, and I'm blessed to have hobbies I enjoy. I have an amazing wife of 34 years, five great kids, and the best little grandson anyone could ask for.

I also have a relatively short runway ahead of what is shaping up to be a fairly comfortable retirement.

And while the reason for it is sad, I don't have any older parents or in-laws to care for simply because they have all passed on. I miss them terribly and often wish I had that sort of "burden" in my life.

By any definition, though, mine is a blessed existence. I couldn't relate to that post on Threads.

But here's the thing: All of it can change in a second.

One grim medical diagnosis. One corporate restructuring. One stock market crash. One disastrous car accident.

Any one of those things (and any of a thousand other imagined calamities) would immediately transform my sunny situation to one of worry and despair.

I am acutely aware of this. I know how close I am to being in very different circumstances. "There but for the grace of God" is a thought that runs through my head multiple times a day.

You never know what life is going to throw at you. I'm not owed anything. I've done nothing to deserve the good things I have, any one of which could go away tomorrow.

(This is not meant to be pessimistic, by the way. Just realistic.)

Many of us in this part of the world live in an artificially comfortable bubble. We are seemingly immune to war, famine and persecution. We have access to advanced medical care. Our social safety nets are deep and wide.

This is especially true if you're of my particular demographic. Socioeconomically speaking, the system is constructed so that people like me will probably succeed.

Somewhere along the line, though, things will get harder. It's inevitable.

In the meantime, all I can think to do is live a life of cliches:

I take it one day at a time.

I help others when I can.

I frequently take stock of everything I have, and I thank God for it all.

Someday, when the rain falls a little harder (maybe sooner than I realize), I hope I continue thanking Him. I hope I will be humble, grateful, and happy. I hope I will appreciate the valleys after spending so many years on the peaks.

I don't know what lies ahead, but I do know how good I have it right now. And for the moment, I hope that's enough.

5 things I've learned having been a grandparent for one year

Me, Cal, and my daughter Chloe

Tomorrow our grandson Calvin turns a year old. I am not the first grandparent to marvel over how quickly time passes, nor will I be the last.

But I'll say it anyway: I can't believe it has been a year already.

Cal is one of the funniest human beings I know. He constantly makes me laugh. Sometimes I think this is intentional on his part, other times I think it's just his quirky personality coming through.

Either way, the kid kills me. I love him so much.

I don't promise any special insight in this post, but here are five quick things I've learned in my first year of being Grandpa Scott:

(1) Having a grandchild can make you realize things you should have done when raising your own kids: I can't speak for other grandparents, but sometimes when I'm watching Cal, I think back to when our kids were little and ways I could have been a better dad to them. Which makes me a little sad. I always wanted to be the best father I could, but I don't think you can completely avoid mistakes when you're in the thick of parenthood. You just do your best, move on, and don't beat yourself up over it. 

(2) Never undermine your own kids' approach to parenting: One time, my dad (a man who loved the role of grandpa more than anyone I've ever known) gave Elissa chips even after Terry said she couldn't have them. He just couldn't say no to his little granddaughter, but sometimes you have to. Never contradict Mom and Dad.

(3) Speaking of which, you have more leeway to be your grandchild's friend, but remember you're still a grandPARENT: I've been calling Cal my little buddy from the first time I met him in the hospital. He and I play and laugh and have a great time together. But I also see my role as supplementary to whatever learning and discipline he's getting at home. It's easier for grandparents to be "friends" with a child than it is for parents. But as with item #2 above, it can't come at the expense of what your son/daughter and their partner are trying to do as the mother and father.

(4) If you'll forgive the cliche, the greatest gift you can give grandchildren is your time: Offer to babysit as much as you can, show up at their house whenever there's a chance. Be as much a part of their lives as circumstances will allow. They'll be better for it, and so will you.

(5) Love them. That's it, just love them: This isn't groundbreaking stuff, but it's profound. You don't have to read grandparenting books or earn a degree in child psychology to have a lasting positive effect in the life of your grandchild. Just love them. Let them know they're loved. Be there for them whenever you can. Over and over, day after day, for as long as you're around. That's job #1, Grandma and Grandpa, so get to it.

My wife doesn't think my taste buds work

I have mentioned here before that I will eat anything. Or at least I'll eat anything considered to be safe and socially acceptable.

Seafood? I love it all. Kale? I'm a fan. Exotic and smelly cheeses? Bring 'em on.

I have preferences, of course, but when someone asks which foods I don't like, I tell them there are no foods I don't like.

I consider this to be a virtue, but Terry thinks it makes me somewhat of a freak.

She cannot fathom, for example, that someone can happily eat sardines straight from the tin as I do. I know they don't smell great, but they're one of those foods for which the smell and the taste seem to have little to do with each other.

At least to me.

Terry has half-convinced herself that my taste buds don't function like other people's. If they did, she reasons, there's no way I would eat some of the stuff I do.

Of course, she comes from a family of picky eaters, so I think she's just jealous.

On the other hand, I don't know any different, so maybe she's right. Maybe my chemosensory system is out of whack and has gotten more out of whack as I've aged.

I did, after all, used to dislike coffee, wine, cantaloupe and sauerkraut. Now I drink/eat all of those things without a second thought.

What changed? I don't know. But I can you tell it's wonderful, when asked to list your dietary preferences and foods to avoid, to be able to say, "No restrictions! I'll eat anything."

Pass the liver and onions, please.

My father-in-law's impenetrable fortress of security

My father-in-law Tom has been gone nearly three years. I don't think about him every day, but it's often enough that I realize how much I miss him. He was, at his core, a good and decent man. Faithful, loyal, and dryly funny.

You could always tell when he thought he had said something hilarious because he would grin and his shoulders would shake with a little laugh. I imagined him thinking to himself, "Oh Tom, that was a good one."

Tom was a product of his generation, though like my dad, he had a love for modern gadgets. Computers, in particular, were his thing.

That was partly how he became the email and newsletter guy for our church. He had the know-how and a willingness to serve, so if there was news worth sharing within our congregation, it would come electronically through Tom.

He also had his funny quirks, though who among us doesn't?

One of the things Terry and I often laugh about is Tom's garage door code.

When Tom and my mother-in-law Judy moved into their home on Green Ridge Drive 20+ years ago, the detached garage had an automatic opener with a keypad on which you could set a passcode.

Tom needed something memorable, but he didn't want it to be too obvious. He decided to use the date of his and Judy's wedding anniversary, BUT...being a guy who was always one step ahead of would-be criminals, he made a sneaky adjustment.

Tom and Judy were married on July 1, 1961, which translates to a six-digit passcode of 070161. Ever the tricky devil, Tom opted instead for 070262, increasing the day and the year by one. It was a stroke of CIA-level security genius that would make it impossible for anyone to gain entry to his beloved garage.

Absolutely no one was getting in there to steal his scraps of wood and yard tools.

Tom passed away in September 2023. Sunday mornings at church haven't been the same without him, nor have family and holiday get-togethers.

I'm now the church email and newsletter guy, having inherited the role largely because I felt I couldn't say no.

When it came to serving his church and his family, Tom never said no. It was one of the most important things I learned from him. 

We're working toward having minimal stuff in our house for the kids to clean out when we die

The basement storage room in question

Such a morbid headline today, and the second time in a month I've written something that makes it sound like I'm at death's door.

Thankfully, that is not the case. I'm only 56 years old and in pretty good health. Neither Terry nor I plan on going anywhere any time soon.

BUT...we are also of the age where we have lost all four of our parents. In each case, we were involved in the job of cleaning out their houses after they passed.

When you find yourself renting a dumpster and spending hours and hours combing through boxes in Mom and Dad's attic trying to figure out what to save and what to toss, you become conscious of the need to spare your own kids that same laborious task.

So Terry and I have committed to a program of getting rid of the extraneous stuff in our house over time.

When I say "over time," I admit that means we're not exactly in a rush. If we were both hit by a bus today, our children would have a heck of a time cleaning out the basement storage room, not to mention the rest of the house.

It's just that 34 years of marriage and five kids mean you accumulate a lot of possessions, some of which you want to keep.

Those boxes of baby clothes? We store them for grandkids, knowing full well they take up a whole lot of space in the meantime.

That wall of Christmas decorations? Hey, we're festive people!

High school memory bins? We've admittedly trimmed those down over time, but we still have yellowing newspaper articles and varsity jacket letters that will simply be thrown away when we've moved on from this life.

Speaking of newspaper articles, in that storage room are a few large bins of three-ring binders stuffed with copies of virtually every story I ever wrote for The News-Herald and the Plain Dealer when I was a sports journalist.

That's thanks to my dad, who meticulously cut out each one and taped them onto scrapbook pages for long-term preservation.

A year ago I came this close to throwing those binders away, but I just couldn't do it. It felt like I would be dishonoring years of Dad's work and turning a blind eye to how proud he was of his sports writer son.

So instead I vowed to digitize them all before I throw away the hard copies.

Which, of course, will take some time.

Time I assume I have.

Kids, my sincere apologies if I never actually get around to it.

Whatever happened to that old song, to all those little girls and boys?

 

I go through periods in which I'm very sentimental and nostalgic for the years when my kids were young.

They're still "young," of course, but I mean school-aged young. Back when every day brought one challenge or another, but the good always outweighed the bad by a wide margin.

What I miss, it seems, are the little things.

I miss the seven of us going to church together on Sunday mornings, even when I had to tell them over and over it was time to wake up and get dressed.

I miss family trips to the library when we would walk out with several pounds of books each.

I miss dinners when we all crammed around our little kitchen table.

I miss wrestling matches in the living room.

I miss vacations to Hershey Park or Sandusky or Philadelphia or wherever. The destination rarely mattered. It was the fact we were all together.

I miss "Clean the Whole House" weekend afternoons when we started in the basement and worked our way to the top floor, picking up misplaced garbage, half-finished food and dirty laundry along the way.

I miss school concerts and plays and programs of all types. I miss the excitement and pageantry of the first and last day of school.

I miss the chaos. I miss the sounds of a full house. I miss friends coming over and movie nights together.

I miss it all.

I'm not often asked for parenting advice, which is a good thing since I don't have much to offer. But when it does happen, I always say the same thing: Even in the hardest of times (especially in the hardest of times), try not to lose your perspective.

Don't forget to stop and appreciate what you have. Don't miss the opportunity to revel in the noise of young children you exhaust yourself taking care of every day.

You're going to miss it all in ways you can't imagine when you're 25 or 30 but know all too well when you're 50, 60, 70 and beyond.

That's all I have for you, but believe me...it's enough.

Once our cats are gone, we're taking a break from having pets...or at least that's what we tell ourselves.

We owned all of these guys at one point. Now only the two on the left remain.

We currently own three cats: Ginny (11 years old), Molly (9), and Cheddar (age unknown, but probably 8-ish?)

I love them all. They're affectionate – each in their own way – and they cause minimal damage to our house.

Actually, they cause zero damage as long as Ginny is on her meds. A year or so ago she started peeing in places she wasn't supposed to, so the vet prescribed some Happy Cream. Every night we rub a small dab of the cream inside her ear, which keeps her both content and continent, if somewhat zoned out.

Apart from that, all three are pretty healthy felines, at least for the moment. We've been down this path several times before, so we know in a few years they'll start declining.

It will be sad, and we will love them until the very end, but Terry and I came to the decision a while ago that these are the last three in a long line of Tennant cats.

We've owned cats together since before we were married. For the three months leading up to our wedding in 1992, I lived alone in the house we had bought with a little kitten named Alex. He was the first of our many four-legged, fuzzy friends.

Over the subsequent 34 years, we've owned as few as one or two cats at a time and as many as five. Our current three feels like a good number, especially to me as the person who daily feeds them and cleans their litter boxes.

When we lost our boys Fred, George, and Charlie in a 15-month span in 2022 and 2023, we were down to just Ginny and Molly. And that seemed fine.

Then Cheddar unexpectedly joined the team in the spring of 2024. You can read about that here, if you're interested.

Now I truly think we're playing out the string. I don't mean that to sound heartless. As I said, we love our three kitties and will continue loving them until it's their time to go.

But I've been doing the litter box/cat feeding thing almost every morning for 3+ decades. I wouldn't mind hanging up my scooper. And Terry and I would both be OK not having to worry about aging cats using our basement armchairs as scratching posts or surrogate bathrooms.

I say this as someone who has had at least one pet in the house consistently since birth. I grew up with dogs and fish, while our kids have owned cats, hamsters, guinea pigs, rats, chinchillas, mice, and fish of their own.

I've taken care of more than my share of furry and non-furry creatures. As sad as I'll be to lose Ginny, Molly, and Cheddar, I'm ready to take a break. A permanent break.

And this time, I mean it.

It says here I'm older than three-quarters of the people I meet

There is a website called oldfart.io that exists solely to let you know what percentage of the population is younger than you.

You just enter your birthdate and the specific group to which you want to compare yourself (the entire world or an individual country), and the site will instantly crush your hopes and dreams.

Actually, it only crushes your hopes and dreams if you're of a certain age. I'm not sure what that age is, but I feel like I'm coming up on it awfully quickly.

According to the oldfart.io calculator, as someone who is roughly 56.7 years of age, I am older than 82% of people in the world and 72% of people in the United States.

The difference, I suppose, is that the world's population includes many countries with relatively low life expectancies compared with the U.S.

And let me just say, for as much as we Americans act like we have the best of everything, we do not rank highly in the life expectancy department. Depending on the source you consult, we have something like the 60th-highest life expectancy out of 230-odd sovereign nations in the world.

The top-ranked country, according to worldometers.info? Monaco, with a life expectancy of 86.7 years for both sexes combined and 88.8 years for women specifically.

At the bottom of the list is Nigeria, at just shy of 55 years overall.

Worldometers.info has the U.S. coming in at 79.76 (82.2 for women, 77.3 for men).

You only have to be a person of somewhat advanced middle age like me to find yourself more chronologically gifted than three of every four people you meet. This is somewhat disconcerting.

Still, I can't deny it's true. I'm thrilled at work when I'm not the oldest person in a meeting. Most of my colleagues were born sometime after I graduated from college.

There are positive and negative ways of looking at this situation:

• POSITIVE: I am a person with many years' experience in the full-time workforce, giving me wisdom and insight I can share freely with my younger co-workers.
  
  
• NEGATIVE: I am going to die soon.
  
  

I'm kidding about the dying thing, of course...I think...at least as far as I know.

I've only become aware of my impending senior citizenhood over the last year or so. Before that, it never really occurred to me.

That's mostly because I don't feel especially old. I have no chronic pain, I still move well, and I still heal up pretty quickly (if not as quickly as I used to). I'm winning the battle against aging in my mind, at least.

But eventually, we all lose the battle against math, by which I mean not the school subject but the inevitability of time.

The numbers are what they are, and they say I am older than 75-80% (or more) of anyone I'm likely to meet on this planet.

On the other hand, I don't feel so bad showing up at a restaurant at 4:45pm for dinner. Call me an old fogey, but I'm opting to beat the crowds every day of the week.

(NOTE: Not to emphasize the age thing, but happy birthday over the next week to my older siblings Mark and Debbie. Mark's birthday is this Friday, while Debbie's is next Monday. They both make aging look easy.)

Parents, make sure you get video of your kids doing everyday things, not just the big holidays and special occasions

 

The advent of home movie cameras in the mid-20th century (and later the camcorder revolution of the 1980s) meant that families for the first time could capture video of events formerly documented only through still photos pasted into scrapbooks.

The result, for many of us, is a library of old reel-to-reel, VHS and Super 8 tapes on which our moms and dads recorded birthday and graduation parties, Christmas morning gift openings, and other such notable celebrations.

All of those are wonderful, and I'm grateful for modern conversion devices that allow us to transfer those memories into longer-lasting digital formats. But as a parent of grown children, I will say this: My favorite videos aren't necessarily the parties and school concerts, as great as those are.

My favorites are when we thought to record the kids just doing normal stuff. Whether it was playing with toys in the living room, interacting with siblings, or even something as seemingly mundane as reading a book on the couch, the clips I most value are the ones that remind me of the stuff of everyday life all those years ago.

The video above is an example of that. It was shot by Terry in late August 1999, just as our oldest child Elissa was starting kindergarten. It shows Elissa getting on and off the bus, and her almost-three-year-old sister Chloe saying how much she would miss her.

That's it. Nothing seemingly special, yet it means everything.

It brings me back to a time of the most enjoyable chaos I've ever experienced. It triggers memories of family dinners with young children, cherished bedtime stories, and everything else that made up the fabric of our existence.

So parents, keep on taking video of the big things. But every once in a while, record the smaller stuff, too. One day you'll be grateful you did.

(NOTE: Speaking of Chloe, she begins her 5-year medical school journey today with a week of orientation at the Cleveland Clinic Lerner College of Medicine. Good luck, Dr. Edmonds! By this time in 2031, you will officially be Dr. Dr. Edmonds. Or Double Doctor Edmonds. We'll have to figure out how to say it...)

The Tooth Fairy always stocked up on quarters in our house

Strangely enough (to me anyway), one of the most-read posts in the history of this blog is one from 2013 in which I wrote about the fact that our children never received as much money from the Tooth Fairy as other American kids.

For those scoring along at home – which is to say only me – that post is #2 all-time in blog page views, a distant second to one in which I offered up my top five daddy-daughter songs.

Anyway, I thought about the Tooth Fairy again recently when she was the subject of a New York Times Strands word search.

The rule in our house when our kids were growing up was that, when you lost a tooth, the Tooth Fairy would give you one quarter for every year of age. So if you were 10 years old, you ended up with $2.50 in coins under your pillow the next morning.

This system mostly worked well, though it made quietly placing the coins under the sleeping child's pillow a little trickier than using paper money. There was always the risk of the coins clinking and awakening the little guy/girl.

It never happened, but we came close a couple of times.

I recently asked Google how much kids nowadays receive from the Tooth Fairy. The average amount, according to the good folks at Delta Dental, is $5.84 per lost fang.

A child's first lost tooth commands even more cash, averaging $7.17.

Either way, and even when accounting for inflation, that's more than we ever gave our kids.

Seven bucks = 28 quarters. Good luck slipping that under a pillow without making any noise.

It may simply have been that we were young parents who didn't know any better. Or maybe it was that we had five kids and lacked the disposable income we have now.

Either way, I feel like we owe our children some sort of dental reparations. I'll be sending them each five pounds of quarters to make up for it.

I have had to relearn where everything goes in our new kitchen

This is our new (and somewhat confusing to me) kitchen.

We recently undertook a long-overdue kitchen renovation. And when I say "long overdue," I mean it. Apart from the flooring and appliances, we hadn't made any meaningful changes to the kitchen since we bought our house in 2003.

It was the same kitchen the previous owners had had since 1995, so it was time.

This is the point when people generally ask, "Did you do it yourself?" This is also the point when I laugh heartily and pat them on the head for being so adorable.

No, we did not do it ourselves. We hired a guy named Don to do it, with substantial guidance from our awesome neighbor Lisa. The result was new cabinets, new countertops, a new sink, a new over-the-range microwave, and a new paint job (the painting having been handled by our go-to painter Erin).

I have neither the skills nor the time to have done any of that myself.

It now looks like a completely different kitchen, which is how it should look when you shell out as much money as we did.

The new cabinets are not only nicer, they're also bigger. To the point that Terry spent a few agonizing weeks trying to figure out how to reorganize everything to take best advantage of our newfound storage space.

She did an excellent job, but she also moved a lot of stuff to completely different areas of the kitchen.

You will note I didn't necessarily know where 100% of our stuff was supposed to go in the old kitchen. When I would empty the dishwasher, I would constantly go to Terry with some kitchen gadget in hand asking where it should be placed.

Since the remodel, the rate at which this happens has risen somewhat.

We're now a couple of months into having this new kitchen, and while my understanding of the layout is better, it's not thorough. I still go to the wrong place when I need a fork, and I still have to stop and think for a second when I'm looking for a storage container or citrus peeler or some such culinary paraphernalia.

I'm getting better, but progress is slow. If Terry isn't home when I can't find something, I end up opening every single cabinet and drawer. Sometimes twice.

Or I just give up.

My hope is that, by the time this current edition of the kitchen is in need of renovation, I'll have a firm grasp of where 85% of our stuff goes.

Maybe 70%.

50% for sure.

In my Grandpa Era

With apologies to Ms. Taylor Swift, I'm thoroughly enjoying being nearly 10 months into my Grandpa Era. Here's a quick photo essay documenting a small part of the adventure so far...

This is my favorite shot of my grandson Cal and me. I think it was taken when he was just a couple of weeks old. Now he's almost a year, and of course he looks much different, but I go back and look at this picture a lot.

This was in the hospital right after Cal was born, as you can probably tell from the generic hospital baby blanket. He was relatively big by newborn standards, but he still seemed impossibly small to me. I couldn't get enough of him in those first few weeks. I still can't get enough of him.

When Cal comes to my house or I go to his, I'm often tasked with diaper changes and giving bottles. Of course I never say no. He will outgrow bottles at some point, so I try to savor each feeding. It's a nice time for us to be close. I talk to him while he stares back at me and eats. I think we both enjoy it.

This was us wearing our holiday sweaters on Christmas, the day Cal turned 4 months old. I don't know how often we're doing to dress alike as he gets older, but I do look forward to taking him out for Grandpa-Calvin days. Hockey games will be high on the list when he's ready, but even simple trips to the park are going to be so much fun.

When Cal's mom Chloe was little, she used to love carrying around a little plastic orange hammer. She would take it everywhere. So Terry got Cal one just like it. So far, he sees is mainly as something to teethe on, but to each his own.

From the time he could smile, one thing that has always made Cal happy is when you whistle at him. Or at least it works when I do it. This shot was taken on Easter, and I think I'm whistling to try and amuse him (otherwise I can't explain my face). My guess, though, is that someone off camera is responsible for Cal's big grin, because I'm not sure my whistling was ever that amusing.

Grammy and Grandpa with little Cal. One of the things I've enjoyed about being a new grandparent is sharing the experience with Terry. We talk about Cal all the time, and we marvel as he reaches new milestones and learns new skills. I knew we would love him, and I knew we would enjoy being grandparents. I just didn't know we would love it all so much. It's wonderful.