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.

Happy birthday, Dad

My dad and me, circa 1980. Nice bowtie, Scott.

Next month my dad will have been gone for 25 years, which is strange to me.

On one hand, it feels like 25 years since he passed away. So much has happened since that terrible night in October 1999, not the least of which were the births of his last two grandchildren (my daughter Melanie and son Jack). So many milestones missed, so many sporting events I would have loved to watch with him.

At the same time, it doesn't feel like 25 years ago at all. I can still picture him. I can still hear his voice clearly. Heck, I can still smell his post-shower Aqua Velva aftershave! (I am a frequent shower-taker just like he was.)

I think he would be pretty proud to see how his family is doing now. My mom, his wife of 48 years, is gone now, as is my sister and his oldest daughter Judi. But the rest of us are doing OK.

My sister Debbie and brother Mark are the most youthful 69- and 67-year-olds (respectively) you will ever meet. You would have no clue of their chronological ages just by looking at and talking with them. I love them a whole bunch.

Dad's oldest grandkids, Mark Jr. and Jessica, have children of their own and are among the best people I know. They've both lost their moms but soldier on with their wonderful families.

And Terry and I can certainly count ourselves blessed not only by all of our kids but also by the lives we get to lead. Speaking for myself, at least, I don't feel I especially deserve any of it, but I know our situation would have made Dad very happy.

In fact, if he had somehow made it to 95 (the age he would have turned today), I'm sure his life would still revolve around his kids and grandkids, as it did up until the day he died.

This is the point where I'm supposed to tell you to hug the people around you and tell them you love them, but you know that already.

You also know to count your many blessings, but it doesn't hurt to be reminded.

When you're the youngest by a wide margin, you get to hear about the totally separate life your family lived before you came along

I had no idea how to illustrate today's post, so I just went with this great photo of my son Jack taken many moons ago.

Today is my brother Mark's birthday, while this Saturday will be my sister Debbie's birthday. They are awesome siblings, and they deserve to have the best possible birthdays. So happy happy to my big bro and big sis!

I have mentioned here before that I am the youngest of four children. The gap between me and my next sib (Mark) is nearly 13 years. I came along relatively late in the game, as my mom was 37 and my dad 40 when I was born, which was pretty old for new parents in 1969.

You say "mistake." I say "pleasant surprise."

Anyway, this meant I would often hear stories about the days when Mom, Dad and the three kids lived in Park Forest, Illinois, then later in Euclid, Ohio (on good old Pasnow Avenue).

I never lived in either of those places. By the time I was born, we were firmly settled in Wickliffe on Harding Drive, where I lived the first 22 years of my life and where my mom lived for 57 years until she passed away.

The Park Forest and Euclid houses may as well have belonged to another family altogether. I have no connection to them, nor can I relate to the things I'm told happened in them.

It's like my parents and siblings lived a completely different existence in which I played no part at all.

Thus, I can readily relate to our youngest child, Jack. He constantly hears stories about our old house on East 300th Street, where Terry and I lived for the first 11 years of our marriage. All four of Jack's older siblings have memories of that house (though I wonder about Melanie, who wasn't even quite 3 years old when we moved out of the house).

To Jack, it's just a house on a street we often drive down. The other day he told me he has trouble even remembering exactly which house was ours.

And why should he remember? He never lived there. It's a place to which he has no attachment at all.

Yet it's also a place where we as a family – well, six of us anyway – made many lasting memories. It was the first house Terry and I owned, the place to which we brought home four newborns, and the place where we celebrated many other firsts and milestones.

It's a house full of happy memories...memories that necessarily exclude Jack, much like those old homes in Park Forest and Euclid do for me.

The silver lining in all of this? As the youngest, you often get spoiled rotten. You get everything your older sibs never got.

On balance, I still think Jack and I got the better end of the deal. 

Having (considerably) older siblings

This week my brother Mark and sister Debbie have birthdays (Deb's is actually today). They are two years apart, but they have always shared a birthday week.

I will not tell you how old they are, though I will say the age difference between us can be measured in double-digit years.

I will also add that, when I was born in November 1969, my oldest sister Judi was in her junior year of high school and was only 3 1/2 months from turning 17.

While not exactly rare, it is uncommon nowadays for a 17-year-old to have a newborn baby brother. Trust me when I say it was even more uncommon in 1969.

As the story goes, my siblings found out my mom was pregnant not from Mom herself, but from our Aunt Peg. I don't know if Mom was unsure how they would react or what, but I'm told they were all pretty thrilled by the idea of having a little brother or sister.

There was a time when all six of us lived in a 900-square-foot house with no upstairs, no basement, and only one bathroom. I don't remember that time because it all happened during the first two years of my life, but having spent 22 years in that same house myself, I can imagine how chaotic it must have been.

By the time I was in kindergarten, Judi and Mark were both married (he would later join the Air Force and spend several years overseas). And while Debbie technically lived with us, I don't remember seeing her all that much.

I always say I was essentially raised an only child, even though I'm the youngest of four.

As often happens as we age, I'm much closer to Debbie and Mark now than I ever was as a kid (and I was close to Judi before she passed away). We don't see each other as often as I might like, though Debbie cuts my hair every two weeks and, as of this writing, Mark and I were planning to take in a baseball game together this week.

All the same, I hope this is the happiest of birthday weeks for my brother and sister. My much, much older brother and sister.

Saturday in the Park: What is your earliest memory?

Asking people about the very earliest thing they remember in their lives is a tricky business, for at least two reasons:

• What they think is their earliest memory may not actually be their earliest memory. You're going back to toddler-hood here, and I'm not sure your brain's recollection of those times is to be trusted, at least so far as sequencing events goes.
  
  
• What they see as a memory may not have happened at all, but may be something they think happened or that they actually dreamed at some point.

Which is why I'm not entirely sure this really happened, but I believe my earliest memory to have occurred sometime in the latter half of 1972 when I had just turned 3, or maybe slightly earlier. And here's why:

The memory itself is walking out of my room (or my parents' room...wherever it was I was sleeping at the time) very early one morning into our living room, which back then had these hardwood floors. And I remember picking up a copy of the album pictured above, which is "Chicago V" by the band Chicago.

I remember that part distinctly because I thought the cover was so cool. Chicago V came out in July 1972, and I'm guessing my brother Mark would have bought it soon after its release. Or maybe my sister Debbie? Either way, we had a copy.

I can't go back further in time than that, and it was a relatively minor thing that I believe to have happened.

What's your earliest memory, and how confident are you it actually happened and/or that the details in your mind are accurate?

(By the way, "Chicago V" included the classic Chicago song "Saturday in the Park," and today is Saturday and all, so you were getting this post no matter what.)

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.