It's a miracle kids in the generation before mine survived to adulthood

The awesome Secret Sam Spy Case from the mid-1960s

I'm the youngest of four kids, and as I often say, I'm the youngest by far.

There's a 12-year gap between me and my next oldest sibling Mark. My sisters Debbie and Judi were born 14 and nearly 17 years before me, respectively.

As a result, I was in effect an only child growing up. My sibs had all moved out by the time I was 7 or 8, and many of their old 60s-era toys were left in the house for me to play with.

Well, I should say Mark's toys were there for me to play with, because toys back then were very gendered and I wasn't especially interested in anything Judi and Debbie had left behind.

Among the things I inherited from Mark were a wooden hockey stick, a G.I. Joe action figure, a plastic (everything was plastic) space capsule, and best of all, the Secret Sam Spy Case.

The Secret Sam Spy Case was a plastic (of course) briefcase containing a spy pistol with attachable grip, a small camera that took actual photos, and a periscope.

The cool thing was that you could shoot bullets from the gun or take pictures with the camera while they were in the case and the case was closed. There were holes on either side of the case for the gun to shoot its little plastic (again) bullets and for the camera to take a shot of a neighborhood "suspect" without his/her knowledge.

Very neat, but looking back, it's funny to think how different toys in 1965 were from those in 2025. For one thing, the gun. Can you still get toy guns? Probably, but I don't think they're as popular as they were in the 60s or even when I was growing up 10-20 years later.

And a gun that shoots actual hard-plastic bullets? That ain't happening today, but it was fair game during the Johnson Administration. Even in the best-case scenario, these little projectiles stung and would leave a mark on anyone at whom you shot them. Aim high and suddenly your friend was on his way to the hospital to have an eyeball removed.

So many of my siblings' old toys were dangerous. Lots of sharp, metal corners and plug-in gadgets that heated up and presented a serious risk of burns or electrocution.

It's not that toymakers didn't care about kids back then. They cared about them a lot, because kids were obviously their key demographic. It's just that they assumed children would be smart when it came to how they played with these toys.

"Just don't do anything stupid and you'll be fine," was the warning toy companies issued to kids of the day. And for the most part, the kids complied.

The ones who didn't listen ended up getting hurt, but in the vast majority of cases, after a band-aid or even a couple of stitches, they were fine.

Somewhere along the line, though, either kids got dumber or personal injury attorneys got a lot smarter. Maybe both.

All I know is, the Secret Sam Spy Case wouldn't fly today.

And somehow I think we're all a little worse for it.

My brother-in-law's birthday reminds me of a time when slow-pitch softball was all the rage

You can't really see it, I know, but when I was with the Cleveland Plain Dealer in 1991, I wrote this feature story about my brother-in-law Jess and some of his longtime softball buddies. Jess is the guy standing in the very middle of that group of seven players.

Today is my brother-in-law Jess' birthday. He was married to my oldest sister Judi from 1972 until she died very unexpectedly in 2009. I was only 2 at the time of their wedding, so Jess has always seemed a part of my life.

Jess was an accomplished athlete at Benedictine High School, and he kept his sports career going through the 1970s and 80s and into the 90s as a slow-pitch softball player in the Cleveland area.

You wouldn't know it nowadays, given the relatively low participation numbers, but when I was growing up, softball was a thing. Every city had a league, and many people played on multiple teams.

When I started my career as a newspaper sports writer in the early 90s, my colleague Scott Kendrick and I were put in charge of The News-Herald's weekly slow-pitch softball coverage. This section took up several pages in the Saturday paper, and I was once told it accounted for hundreds – maybe 1,000 or more – in extra copies of the newspaper sold.

People loved seeing their names and their friends' names in the statistics we would publish. We also printed league standings, a weekly ranking of the top area teams (the "Sweet 16"), and a notes column that Scott and I co-wrote.

We in the newsroom also played the game ourselves. Because we worked weird night shifts, though, we weren't available to play in the regular city leagues, which scheduled most of their games on weekday evenings.

Instead, we played in the Ohio Day Men's League, which as I recall had its games on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings. As you might imagine, the teams were made up of guys who did night work...policemen, fire fighters, third-shift factory workers, etc.

And us.

I always looked forward to those weekday morning games, which were relatively early (9:30 and 10:30am) for those of us who had stayed in the newsroom until the first papers came off the press some 8-9 hours earlier. But they were always so much fun that it was worth losing a little sleep.

Anyway, Jess played softball at a very high level for some of the best teams in Northeast Ohio. He was primarily a pitcher and first basemen.

He let me serve as bat boy for a few of those teams, and man, I felt like king of the world walking out onto the field several times a game to retrieve the team's bats and take them back to the dugout.

When you're 8 or 10 years old or whatever I was, getting to sit on the bench with a bunch of great athletes (all of whom were very nice to me) was a real treat.

Like I said, though, softball has waned in popularity over the years. And, now in his early 70s with the battle scars of decades of competition to prove it, Jess isn't playing these days anyway.

But like me, he still has his memories. And I hope they're good ones as he celebrates another trip around the sun today.

Happy birthday, Jess, and thanks for sharing some of those glory days with your little brother-in-law.

My sister would have been 71 years old today and sometimes I can't remember exactly what her voice sounded like

 

That's Judi posing with Elissa, Chloe, Jared and Melanie in what was probably 2006 or 2007.

Every once in a while I stop and try to remember exactly what my dad and my sister Judi sounded like.

We have old video recordings of them, and of course I still know their voices. But as the years go by, it takes a little more effort to recall those sounds in exact detail.

This fall, it will be 25 years since Dad passed away, and in May it will be 15 since Judi left us so unexpectedly. That's long enough (at least for me) that their voices don't spring as readily to mind as they used to.

Which seems so strange considering they were both such important parts of my life for so long. You would think the sound of them talking would be indelibly etched in my mind.

And I suppose it is. It just takes a few extra seconds to pull it out of my memory banks.

We are blessed to live in an age when we have digital records of what our loved ones looked and sounded like. I just never thought I would need them.

Whether it's age on my part or simply the erosion of memory over the distance of years, I'm glad I can still bring up recordings of them both using only a few mouse clicks. It's a crutch I don't mind relying on.

Happy birthday, Jude.

Here's why I was on the local TV news in 1977 (and never really saw it)

This is what the set of the WJW newscast looked like in 1977. That's Kathy Adams on the left, Judd Hambrick in the middle, and some guy with very 70s hair on the right.

One day in 1976, I walked into the living room of our house and announced that I was bored.

My dad, knowing the kinds of things that interested nearly-seven-year-old me, suggested I write a letter to a famous person like the President.

I was intrigued by this idea, but I did him one better (or thought I did): Rather than writing to President Ford, I would write to Gov. Jimmy Carter, who was running for the presidency against Ford.

I don't remember what I wrote, but whatever it was, I'm sure it was done in pencil on one of the yellow legal pads I kept in my room.

(You may wonder why a six-year-old had yellow legal pads. I do, too. It was a long time ago.)

Anyway, I remember getting some sort of form letter response a month later from Gov. Carter, who went on to win the election by a fairly narrow margin.

That was enough for me. I thought it was pretty cool.

But then, in early January of '77, a large envelope showed up at our house. I think it came via registered mail.

It was an invitation to President-Elect Carter's inauguration in Washington, D.C.

At the time I don't think I understood the significance of this. All I knew is that we weren't going to attend.

I don't remember why this decision was made, but I think it had something to do with the fact that we would have had to supply our own transportation and would have been small faces in a crowd of many thousands.

There may also have been something to the fact that both of my parents were Republicans, and they wouldn't necessarily have been thrilled to go and celebrate the inauguration of a Democratic president.

Whatever the reason, I don't remember being too put out.

Fast forward a couple of weeks to mid-January. I'm in gym class at Mapledale Elementary School, where I'm a first-grader. A local TV news crew shows up and talks to my gym teacher. Then they start walking in my direction.

It turns out they're there to film me. I am incredibly confused by this, though the on-air reporter, legendary Cleveland television newsman Neil Zurcher, explains it's because I received a personal invitation to the presidential inauguration.

They get me on camera doing some rudimentary tumbling, as we were in the midst of a gymnastics unit. Then we go to our classroom, where I sit at my desk and they interview me. I don't remember any of the questions or any of my answers.

They tell me it's going to air as part of the 6 o'clock news on WJW Channel 8, which is exciting.

At some point that day it started snowing. And it kept on snowing. All day. Lots of snow. A real blizzard (almost exactly one year before the epic Cleveland Blizzard of 1978).

As a result, all planned stories for that 6 o'clock newscast are shunted aside in favor of weather-related coverage.

Somehow we find out that my piece will probably air during the 11pm news later that evening. I think my sister Judi was the one who called the station to get this update (as I recall, she was also the one who called them about me in the first place).

At that time of my life, I went to bed every night at 9pm, almost without exception. I rarely stayed up until 11.

I remember laying down that evening on the couch, intending to stay awake until the news came on. But I don't think I even made it to 10:30.

The next thing I knew, my mom was shaking me awake. She pointed my attention to the TV, where I saw myself talking. I was still half-asleep and missed most of the segment.

This was, you will note, a couple of years before the VCR era began, so we had no way of capturing the moment. There is no existing record of this interview, which is too bad.

I would like to see myself doing that somersault in gym class.

We mark the passing of time through anniversaries...good and bad

Dates stick in my head, so it's never a problem, for example, when I have to recount the various jobs I've had and the precise start and end dates for each.

I can rattle those off no problem. Even though it's probably sufficient to say I started at Dix & Eaton in "December 2002," I'm always very specific. It was December 2nd, 2002. My last day at The Cleveland Foundation? Why, that was February 1st, 2011 (a Tuesday).

Today is one of those job-related anniversaries. On this day in 1997, I started as managing editor of Urology Times magazine. As I always like to point out, this is and was a real publication, and it was such an interesting and fulfilling job. I was only there for a little more than two years before I accepted my first PR position at The Cleveland Clinic, but without Urology Times, that Cleveland Clinic job likely wouldn't have happened.

So in that sense, May 12th is a good day.

Unfortunately, it's overshadowed by another May 12th date. On May 12th, 2009, as I was brushing my teeth in preparation for a trip to the dentist, we received a call from my brother telling us that my sister Judi had suddenly, shockingly, passed away.

She was only 56, just five years older than I am now. And she was Judi, the oldest sibling and driving force of our family. She organized things. She laughed and smiled. She made everyone happier.

And then...she was just gone. In many ways, we still haven't recovered.

Every May 12th for the rest of my life, I will think about that day and the days that followed. It was just stunned sadness, and it lasted for a very long time.

It never really ended, I suppose.

Still, we move on, because there's nothing else to do. Days like this come and go on the calendar, and as we get older, connected to each one is a memory, a milestone, and a set of emotions.

Some are good. Some aren't.

On balance, this one is an "aren't."

Death and taxes: You learn to live with both

That old saying about death and taxes can take on new meaning the older you get.

Well, the death part does anyway. Taxes are taxes. You may choose to complain about them (which is pretty useless), but you either pay them or go to prison. I choose to pay them.

Just recently Terry and I filed our federal, state, and local/regional tax forms, as we do most years in early to mid-February. We like to get it done early, and for a long time I've used TurboTax to make the job easier. I'm a big fan and recommend it to almost anyone.

As for death, well...it's about as preventable as taxes, and even more useless to rail against.

I don't mean to be Davey Downer here (NOTE: Davey is Debbie's younger brother), but it's coming for all of us. First it gets those you know and love. Then it comes for you.

That's just the way it is.

Have a great day, everyone!

Seriously, though, death doesn't worry me so much. Whenever it's my time, it will be my time. In the overarching scheme of things, the length of my life on this earth doesn't really matter all that much.

But that doesn't mean I don't get a little sad over the reality of it sometimes.

I know people who have experienced far greater loss than me, but I've now lost my mom, my dad, my mother-in-law, and one of my sisters.

That sister, Judi, would have turned 68 years old today.

She seemed so youthful that a 68-year-old Judi is a little hard for me to comprehend. I'm sure she would have made 68 look good, though.

She also would have continued to love and spoil my kids in that way only the best aunts manage to do. My sister Debbie has more than picked up the slack, but I do miss Judi whenever my kids experience any sort of milestone.

Graduations, marriage, first jobs, etc. As our children have experienced these life events over the last 11 1/2 years, they have done so without Aunt Judi there to celebrate with them.

That's the part that hurts the most, I think.

Same for my dad, and more recently, my mom and mom-in-law. I wish they were all still here for so much of this stuff.

Something happens and you think, "Oh, I need to call and tell Mom." And then there's the dull, painful realization that Mom isn't there to take the call anymore.

Part of me gets sad over that, and part of me simply sighs and moves on.

What else can we do? It's either accept it or allow ourselves to be paralyzed by sadness and grief.

Mom wouldn't have wanted that. Nor would Dad, Judi, or mom-in-law Judy.

I'm getting old, I guess.

But for the time being, at least I'm still here. And so are my brother Mark and my sister Debbie.

And that should count for something.

Someone you love dies once, but you miss them forever

I feel compelled to say something today about my sister Judi. She would have turned 63 years old yesterday, had she not passed away on May 12, 2009.

That's what happens when someone you love very much dies: You remember the date. It sticks with you. You will never be entirely happy on that day ever again.

Yesterday wasn't all that easy, either. I think of Judi a lot, but more so on her birthday, she and my brother-in-law Jess' wedding anniversary, every May 12th, etc.

It's interesting to me that people still post on Judi's Facebook page, usually on one of the above dates. It's not weird or creepy or anything; as a matter of fact, I think it's beautiful. It's a nice tribute to one of the nicest people you would ever in your life like to meet.

More than anything, I think it's therapeutic. When someone to whom you're very close passes away, the one thing you want more than anything else is one last chance to talk with them. Tell them things you should have told them as a matter of course when they were still around. Just 5 minutes. That's all you ask for, just a few minutes to wrap things up, I guess.

In Judi's case, we didn't get that. Her death was sudden, shocking, and life-altering. Just so tough on everyone involved, from Jess to her daughter Jessica to my mom.

Oh, my poor mom. As she herself said at the time, no parent should ever have to experience the death of a child, but she did. And she's still going strong at 83 years old. God bless her.

Anyway, I'm not sure I have much of a point to make today, other than to acknowledge for you that I used to have a sister named Judi and now she's gone. Life goes on, but it's not the same.

It's never the same.

Someone just tell me exactly how much I'm supposed to exercise and which pills I'm supposed to take

Once every month or so, I agonize over whether I'm properly taking care of my body.

This takes the form of me checking out a few library books on health and wellness, consulting several websites on those topics, and generally complaining to my wife that I don't have a lot of spare time and I'm not sure whether the physical activity I'm doing is sufficient.

There are at least four things that prompt this behavior:


(1) I think I'm neurotic. I had no idea until just recently.

(2) I'm approaching my mid-40s, which I guess is a time when you start thinking about things like this.

(3) I have very limited time in the mornings to exercise, so I want to make sure I'm doing the right thing.

(4) I have a family history of heart disease that's hard to miss.


My dad passed away at age 70 from heart failure, as did my oldest sister at age 56. As I always (morbidly) say, at least I have a good idea of how I'm going to go when my time comes. We don't get cancer in my family, but we're all pretty good genetic bets to have ticker trouble.

The two ways in which I fight this hereditary curse are to try and maintain a relatively healthy weight and to exercise regularly.

The weight thing I've told you about recently, ad nauseum. I think I've also mentioned the fact that I run regularly. Not as far as I used to, but generally 15-20 miles a week almost without exception.

And there's where the trouble starts. Depending on which author/doctor/health professional you consult, running is either the greatest exercise known to man or the worst thing you can do to your body.

You can find well-designed scientific studies that support both points of view. The pro-running crowd will tell you that man was, biologically speaking, born to run. Long-distance running is something that only humans really do, and are in fact built for.

The anti-runners point to joint problems and indicators of arterial inflammation among runners as signs that maybe lacing up the Nikes five times a week isn't the best idea.

I have no idea what to believe. I like running. I enjoy the act of getting out on the road and ambling. Because I really do "amble" nowadays, at least compared to a decade ago. I'm still faster than a lot of people I know, but various factors have combined to limit me to somewhere around 9-minutes-per-mile pace on most runs.

But I know I should probably also do some strength training, something I've never enjoyed and never gotten into. My doctor says my running is sufficient exercise and poo poos the idea of hitting the weights. And since that's what I want to hear, I believe her.

Yet a lot of authorities will tell you strength training is better for you than cardio work. And maybe they're right, I don't know.

I also take a variety of nutritional supplements every day. So many that I have one of those old-person pill cases to keep them all straight. My 17 daily pills, all of which are voluntarily ingested and not prescribed by a doctor, consist of a multi-vitamin (cut in half so I count it as two), two baby aspirin, three fish oil capsules, three calcium/magnesium/zinc pills, two Vitamin C pills, and individual Vitamin B6, B12, D, E and folic acid supplements.

I've built this regimen through my various readings and not from one authoritative source, which is probably not good. And quite likely a waste of money. But they make me feel like I'm doing something to beat the grim reaper, so I keep buying them.

The one thing I've always wanted and never found is a single book or a single website that tells me what to do: Do this much of this exact kind of exercise. Take only these particular supplements. Get this many hours of sleep. Do all of that, and you'll live a happy, healthy life to the age of 200.

This won't happen, of course, and I'm destined to drop dead someday of a heart attack, probably no matter what I do.

In the meantime, I'll drive Terry to her grave with my constant whining and self-doubt, which is the most ironic part of the whole thing.

The older I get, the earlier I wake up

My wife is philosophically opposed to the idea of, as she puts it, "getting up in the 5s." By which she means waking up before 6 a.m.

You might take from that that she would be OK with getting out of bed at, say, 4:30 a.m. And you would be wrong. Terry would no sooner get out of bed at that hour than she would eat blue cheese.

(Terry hates blue cheese, you see. I love it. Terry prepares the food in our house. Guess which ingredient you never see in our meals outside of the occasional rogue bottle of salad dressing?)

Anyway, Terry does not like to get up early, or at least what I consider early.

Most days, I'm out of bed at 5 a.m. Occasionally it's 4:50 a.m., and I don't need an alarm to do it. I just wake up, lay there for maybe a minute, and my feet hit the floor.

I realize there are many people for whom a wake-up time of 5 o'clock would be "sleeping in." These people generally fall into one of three categories:

(a) They deliver newspapers
(b) They have blue-collar jobs that require them to be at work at some unacceptable time like 5:30 a.m.
(c) They are 104 years old

That whole thing about needing less sleep as you age is true, right? I assume it is. How else do you explain the line of senior citizens at the buffet restaurants every day at 4 p.m.?

My sister Judi used to get up around 4 in the morning. She would use the early hours of the day to exercise, clean the house, and watch reruns of "Cops."

My family loves "Cops." It's a thing with us. There's something about seeing shirtless white people of Southern descent getting arrested that appeals to us.

Anyway, I get up fairly early only because I have to. If I'm not up by 5:00, there's no way I can do everything I have to do in the morning. That list, in order, includes:

- Get dressed for running
- Feed the cats
- Go downstairs and clean out the litter boxes and sweep around them
- Go outside and get the newspaper
- Get a drink of water
- Lace up my running shoes
- Go and run 2-3 miles depending on the day
- Stretch
- Come in and record the run in my running log book while getting a second drink of water
- Shower
- Dress
- Read the paper and eat breakfast
- Brush my teeth and head out the door for work

If I'm not out of bed by 5:15, something on that list is going to get sacrificed. And I don't want to sacrifice any of it.

Well, I would gladly sacrifice the cat-related items. But those have been my jobs for many years now, and I'm fairly certain no one else in the family is going to take them over. So I'll continue doing them.

During the summer I have the house all to myself in the morning because none of the kids have to get up for school, nor does Terry have to pack their lunches and see them off. My teenagers would, if given the opportunity, sleep until 3 p.m. every summer day.

We don't let them do this, of course. (Most of the time.)

As I type this, it's 9:20 in the evening, which means I'll be waking up in a little more than 7 1/2 hours. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and eat my nightly chunk of blue cheese and head off to Dreamland with the rest of the old people. Good night!