Yes, Ring camera, I know there's a person at my back door because it's me...again

Do you have one of those Ring doorbell camera thingies? The ones that show you who's at your door or walking up your driveway?

Or, depending on how you have it set and the direction it's pointing, when a squirrel runs by or a bee lands on a flower 100 yards away?

We just got a Ring last month. Actually we've had it for quite a while, but it was only recently that my daughter Elissa and her boyfriend Mark came over and installed it for us.

It's not that the Ring is especially difficult to set up, but there was some mechanical work involved, and well...as we've established, it's better if you don't give me tools of any kind.

It helps, too, that Mark is very mechanically inclined. I wasn't there when he got the Ring doorbells mounted outside our front and back doors, but he probably did it in less time than it would have taken me to pull everything out of the package.

He also cooks well and is generous with his time when it comes to helping others. It's disgusting.

Anyway, the Ring has worked out fine, but at first it was more of an annoyance than anything else. It's designed to detect motion and to tell you when a person is approaching your home or a package has been dropped on your porch.

Which sounds great except for the fact that, 99% of the time, the people approaching (or leaving) our house are us.

For days after the Rings went up, this sequence repeated itself:

I would walk out the door, my Apple Watch would vibrate, and I would immediately look at it, only to find a small photo of myself with a notification reading, "There is a Person at your Back Door."

YES, I KNOW, THAT PERSON IS ME.

If I was headed to, say, our mailbox, my watch would again vibrate seconds later. And I would again check it, forgetting that it was going to be another Ring notification, this one telling me, "There is a Person at your Front Door" as I came into range of the front camera.

This has happened over and over, and I have yet to try and figure out how to change the motion sensitivity of the cameras. Eventually I might just turn off the notifications altogether.

Which largely defeats the purpose of having a Ring camera.

But at least I will maintain my sanity.

ATTENTION POTENTIAL INTRUDERS: Yes, there's a Ring camera there, but trust me: I'm not checking it. You're free to enter our home as you please. And don't hesitate to rip the Ring camera off the door frame and take it with you.

One thing I learned at the Olympics: We should let the Dutch run the world

Last week I was in Paris with my wife Terry, my daughter Elissa, and Elissa's boyfriend Mark. We were there for the Olympics, and other than coming home with a case of Covid to a house without electricity thanks to a powerful storm a few days earlier, it was incredible.

We didn't get to any of the truly high-profile events. Or at least I didn't. I was already coming a day later than Terry, Elissa and Mark, but a delayed connecting flight forced me to miss my plane to Paris and to arrive on Sunday morning, rather than Saturday afternoon as planned.

The result was that my three travel companions got to watch the U.S. women's soccer team defeat Japan 1-0 on Saturday while I was still hanging around the airport in Atlanta.

Even though I wasn't there, my favorite thing about that match was that a number of people apparently asked to take pictures with my family, especially Elissa and Mark, who were dressed like this:

Elissa is on the left and Mark on the right, The woman in the middle was one their adoring fans at the U.S.-Japan women's soccer match who asked to take photos with them.

I just loved that. Elissa says cowboy hats, in particular, are a novelty for Europeans, who quite naturally don't get to see them very often.

Anyway, I didn't make women's soccer, but I did get to attend women's field hockey and a session of track and field. For all the hassle it was to get to the some of the venues – and make no mistake, the endless subway rides and countless steps we took to reach these sites were a hassle by any definition – the atmosphere, energy and fan camaraderie at Olympic events almost can't be described.

As Ferris Bueller would say, I highly recommend it.

Among the people we encountered during our week in Paris, my favorite were the fans from the Netherlands. They come from a relatively small country, but when their nation is represented on the international athletic stage, they show up loudly and proudly in large numbers.

I quickly realized that all of us who don't happen to come from the Netherlands/Holland have quite a bit to learn from the Dutch. To the point that I think we would be better off if we formed some sort of world government and allowed the Netherlanders to oversee it.

Three reasons why:

(1) They're smart: Mark and I were standing in line between field hockey matches outside Stade Yves-du-Manoir waiting to refill our water bottles. The line was long and the sun was hot. At one point the two Dutch guys in front of us persuaded almost everyone to move the line about 10 feet to the left so we could all be in the shade. It was a simple idea, but it hadn't occurred to anyone else. They convinced several people with whom they do not share a common language the mutual benefit of shifting the line over. That takes impressive communication skills. And brains.

(2) They're very comfortably bilingual: We talked briefly with the two smart Dutch men, and their wonderful grasp of English reminded me how effortlessly people in that part of Europe switch among languages. I worked with many people at Goodyear who were fluent in at least three languages and it always impressed me. In my experience, people who can speak in multiple tongues are generally people worth listening to.

(3) They proudly wear orange in mass numbers: While the flag of the Netherlands is red, white and blue, the national color is orange. Their fans deck themselves out in orange shirts, orange pants, orange hats, orange socks, etc. When we saw them take on Great Britain in field hockey, the stands were a sea of orange and orange variants. The only people not wearing orange were the relatively reserved British fans and us. Everyone else was cheering in unison for a Netherlands team that would go on to win the gold medal in the event. Want results? Get everyone on the same page, no matter their role in the process. The Dutch have known that for years.

I have once again been bullied into better habits

I like to tell the story of why I began drinking black coffee after years of pouring cream into it.

The date was September 15, 2022. My family and I were at Pine Ridge Country Club in Wickliffe, Ohio, for the Wickliffe Schools Athletic Achievement Hall of Fame induction ceremony. (Someone had scammed the organizers into inducting me. I still can't explain it.)

After the meal, I poured myself a hot cup of coffee to cap off what had been a very enjoyable evening. As I reached for the small pitcher of half and half, my daughter Elissa looked at me and said (in a tone of undisguised condescension), "When are you going to grow up and start drinking black coffee?"

I replied to her, "Right now, I guess." And I did. I drank that cup free of additives, and I have not drunk anything but black coffee ever since that moment.

I have said many times that Elissa bullied me into what is undoubtedly a healthier habit when it comes to coffee drinking.

Fast forward to about a month ago, when Elissa and her boyfriend Mark presented me with a card for a personal trainer named Kirk Simmons. As a reward for coming to their house and taking care of their pets while they were on vacation, they had paid for four training sessions for me with Kirk.

"You'll love him," Elissa said. "He specializes in cranky dads."

Well, sign me up!

I hadn't expressed any interest in personal training, but everyone in my family knew of my longstanding intention to start doing more than just cardio-based exercise. I knew I needed to lift, and deep down I knew I probably needed some sort of kick in the butt to start doing it.

Two days after presenting me with the card, Elissa and Mark were at our house. A very persistent Elissa told me, "We can sign you up with Kirk now." I promised I would do it myself within a day or two, and I did.

Once again, my low-level fear of incurring the wrath of Elissa had pushed me into making a better lifestyle choice.

Here's the funny thing, though: I'm typing this post on May 31st. As of today, I haven't had a single workout with Kirk. I did meet him at the gym for my initial assessment yesterday morning at 5am (yes, 5am, which didn't seem to phase Kirk because the man is an ex-Marine and could probably conquer a small island by himself on three hours sleep).

All he did was conduct a body scan to assess my muscle mass and prodigious fat deposits, and some movement tests so he could get an overall idea of my flexibility, stability, problem areas, etc.

My first workout with Kirk is still four days away, but by the time you read this, he will have put me through my paces several times already.

How can I be so confident this is going to work out? Because I know myself. I'm excited to do this, and when I'm excited to do something, I do it no matter how difficult it is or what obstacles life throws at me.

I don't know that I'm ever going to be a true gym rat or anything, but by the time you read this, I will have at least transformed into a "gym guy."

Which is saying something for me, a lifelong runner/walker and formerly avowed non-lifter.

The upshot of today's post? You need to have a loving bully like Elissa in your life. Or maybe just hire out Elissa herself to threaten you into making better choices.

Trust me, she's very good.

The AI Blog Post Image Generator did a nice job creating the photo you see at the top of this post. But it also produced this image, which makes me laugh no matter how many times I look at it.

I should be more motivated to brush up on my French before we head to the Olympics

Nice job with a "stereotypical French guy" photo, AI Blog Post Image Generator!

One of my favorite things about traveling to French-speaking areas of the world is getting the chance to put my 14 years of French language education to use.

As I've chronicled here before, I grew up in a school district where everybody took French in 1st through 6th grades. I continued taking it throughout middle and high schools, and nearly pulled off a minor in the subject with three years of additional French classes at John Carroll University.

The result has been that, on my eight or nine combined trips to Montreal and Paris over the years, I've been able to hold my own when it came to ordering in a restaurant, asking directions, getting answers to simple questions on the street, etc.

Actually, I've held my own in Paris much more than in Montreal. The Quebecois accent is such that my Parisian French education, combined with my Northeast Ohio inflection, renders me as unintelligible to some Montrealers as they are to me.

The point is, I know some French. Having not used it much, I read it much better than I speak it.

My daughter Elissa had almost as much French education as me and has taken actual French classes in recent years as an adult. She and I (along with Terry and Elissa's boyfriend Mark) are scheduled to arrive in Paris 16 weeks from today to take in some Summer Olympics events and generally see the sites as we're able.

I figure that, with our collective French proficiency and past experience in Paris, we should navigate just fine in the City of Light.

But I'm not going out of my way to review French vocabulary and syntax before we jet off to the continent. I should, but I'm not.

There are any number of excuses I can give for this, but the reality is that I'm simply a lazy American.

Language-wise (and many other wises), we are among the most spoiled people on earth. There are few places we can go where people won't either willingly speak English to us, or else roll their eyes and switch to English because we're obviously not going to make the effort to learn their language.

This is even worse because I mostly know their language. It wouldn't take much for me to get back into Francophone shape, but especially with a multi-cultural event like the Olympics, it will be easy to get around using only English.

I'm hoping to get more motivated between now and early August, but don't bet on it.

C'est la vie.

I am whatever level of nerd it is that would buy and wear this shirt

About a month ago, I was seated on the lawn of Blossom Music Center alongside Terry, Elissa and Mark waiting for the start of a concert by the amazing Cleveland Orchestra.

If you don't know much about classical music, you might wonder how it is that Cleveland has (and has had for many decades) one of the world's great symphony orchestras. It's a long story, but this ensemble is in many ways as good as it gets, and we in Northeast Ohio have them right in our backyard.

I am a Cleveland Orchestra subscriber, though I've had to scale back the number of concerts I attend for the upcoming classical season, given the number of conflicts there are with my sports PA announcing duties.

This particular concert wasn't part of my subscription, but we had just seen the Orchestra perform along to a showing of the movie "Jurassic Park" at Blossom a couple of weeks earlier and wanted to return for a "proper" classical presentation. So we bought these tickets separately.

The program that evening consisted of a short work by the relatively unknown Japanese composer Yasushi Akutagawa, the Shostakovich Cello Concerto No. 1 (performed by the remarkably talented Zlatomir Fung), and the main event for me and many others in the crowd: Debussy's "La Mer."

Clause Debussy is my favorite composer, or at least I think he is. Maurice Ravel is a pretty close second, and sometimes I can't say for sure whose music I really prefer.

For Christmas, Terry bought me a 33-CD set of Debussy's complete works that took more than a month of constant listening to get through. I loved all of it.

Anyway, we were sitting in lawn/beach chairs enjoying a nice pre-concert picnic spread when it occurred to me that the only bit of classical music "merch" I owned was a pair of socks imprinted with J.S. Bach's face. "Are there classical music t-shirts?" I wondered to myself.

I took out my phone and Googled "classical music shirts," and of course there was a wide selection.

I searched specifically for a Debussy shirt, and when I came across the one pictured above, I knew instantly it was the one I wanted and ordered it on the spot.

I just love this shirt. Nothing complex about it. No photo of the great man himself, just his name in college football-style letters plastered across the front.

And yes, I chose that heather purple color. For whatever reason, I really felt it took the shirt from good to great.

"Who would wear something like that?" you might ask. And the answer is me. I am wearing it at this very moment, as I type these words.

If you're going to own a t-shirt like this, you have to embrace it. There can be zero hesitation to be branded for what you really are: a Grade A, first-class nerd.

I wear them (the shirt and the label) proudly.

We're going to the Paris Olympics next year and I'm pretty sure we'll be sleeping in the street

Some months ago, my daughter Elissa called and asked, "Hey, do you want to go to the Olympics?"

My response was a somewhat bemused, "What?"

She repeated the question.

"The answer to that is always 'yes,'" I replied, "but tell me more."

It turned out Elissa had won a lottery giving her the right to purchase tickets for up to three events at the 2024 Paris Olympics. Seeing the Summer Olympics in person has long been a bucket list item of mine, so I didn't need to be asked twice.

When the day came to buy tickets online, Elissa was equipped with a list of our preferred events and the amount we were willing to pay. As you might imagine, some sports are more popular than others, to the point that you're much more likely to score front-row seats to, say, handball than you are for women's gymnastics.

Elissa spent a frantic 15 minutes typing and scrolling, coming away with four tickets each to a women's quarterfinal field hockey match, a women's quarterfinal soccer match, and the one thing on which I had my heart set, a full day of track and field.

In the event, gaining admission to these events was the easy part. And I'm sure we'll have no problems booking a suitable flight to take Elissa, Terry, Mark and me to France next summer.

The issue lies with our accommodations. We immediately tried booking Airbnb and Vrbo houses, only to be denied each time without explanation.

No explanation was needed, though. The owners of these rental properties are (wisely) going to jack up the prices by a factor of 3x or more, and they were all waiting for the market to sort itself out before fixing their fees and accepting reservations.

We also tried several hotels, but in most cases, you couldn't book anything outside of a 365-day (and in some cases a 400-day) window preceding your arrival.

Now we're getting to the point of being one year out, and as I type this, we're still looking for places to lay our heads for the week we plan to be in Paris. The cheapest VRBOs are $3,600 for six nights, which actually isn't bad but also doesn't provide the type of bed situation we need.

We may ultimately end up staying somewhere outside of Paris and taking a train into the city each day, which would be OK.

But part of me still wonders how comfortable a sleeping bag under the Arc de Triomphe would be on a warm French summer night.

(NOTE: A few days ago, long after this post was already written, we were able to procure a nice Airbnb in Paris. That's a relief, of course, but I hope you don't mind me having strung you along there for a couple of minutes.)

Around the fire pit

 

My sister-in-law Chris managed to take this photo in the dark with a flash on an iPhone camera. I really like the look of it. That's me on the far right talking to my son Jack.

I don't have the numbers to back this up, but it seems to me the popularity of the fire pit as a suburban backyard accessory has risen exponentially in the last, say, 15 to 20 years.

People sometimes build them right into their patios or, as in our case, just dig a hole and ring it with bricks. Either way, it becomes the focal point of almost any warm-weather gathering.

Terry and my niece Shelby built our pit, and while at first I complained about it as yet another thing in the yard I have to mow around, I must admit it has been a welcome addition.

We probably have something like 10 or 12 fires each spring and summer. Maybe it's more, maybe it's less, I don't know. I don't keep an exact count.

But I know that whenever there's a fire and our kids and significant others are available to join us, it's a guaranteed good time.

We sit and talk, most of us with our beverage of choice in hand. And that's all there is to it. You just relax.

I can get a fire started, but not as well as Terry, who is a superior fire starter AND fire feeder. Elissa's boyfriend Mark was an Eagle scout, and while he claims he was terrible at fires during his scouting days, he builds what can only be deemed a top-notch fire, at least by our standards.

My brother-in-law Dave built what is probably the biggest fire ever in our pit simply by piling on more logs.

We still have a sizeable wood pile, thanks to the elimination of 14 or so trees from our backyard a few summers ago. There are still many fires to go before we have to restock it.

I'm not always a "simple pleasures" kind of guy, but the fire pit has made me one in at least one regard.

Though, seriously, I hate having my straight-line momentum interrupted by obstacles when I'm cutting the grass.

Your nightstand as a reflection of your life

From the very first, since our wedding night, I have always slept on the right side of the bed while Terry has always slept on the left side.

That's speaking from our perspective as the occupants of the bed. It would be the opposite if you stood at the foot of the bed and looked at us while we were sleeping, though this would be creepy and I don't know why you would do it.

Anyway, this arrangement has actually never made sense to me in that I am left-handed while Terry is right-handed, which means we're always using our non-dominant hands to reach for things on our respective nightstands.

This may seem inconsequential, but my nightstand is one of the most important and underrated pieces of furniture I own.

As you can see above, it is home to my lamp, my clock radio, my phone charger, and my Apple Watch charger, along with a host of books and notebooks.

Behind the phone charger is also the tube of Chapstick I use every night just before we go to bed because I have a thing about chapped lips.

This nightstand is clearly central to my existence.

The books on top of the nightstand, by the way, are the books currently "in rotation," as they used to say in the radio business. They're the ones I'm reading or at least trying to read at the moment (along with the hefty "Castles of Steel," which you can see resting on the floor next to the nightstand and about which I recently told you).

The in-rotation books at the moment include my friend Brian Sooy's "The Gift of Small Potatoes," "The War Poems of Wilfred Owen" (which my daughter Elissa and her boyfriend Mark thoughtfully bought for me), and my former co-worker and current friend Kate Tonti's debut children's book, "Lionel Lincoln Lawrence LePet: The Loudest Child Anyone's Ever Met."

The books at the bottom of the nightstand are waiting to be read and re-read. They need to be patient. I will get to them.

Inside that pullout drawer is a host of stuff that constitutes a true bedroom junk drawer, ranging from spare batteries to birthday cards I've received to a portable communion set to a large collection of free-range paperclips.

I'm not sure what my nightstand says about me beyond the fact that I really need more storage space in my life.

I actually have hobbies now and that's an accomplishment

I have long lamented my inability to relax. It's not that I feel constantly stressed out (that actually happens relatively infrequently). It's just that I always have this drive to accomplish something, to check something off the to-do list, to make the most of my time.

You could argue very convincingly that relaxing is making the most of your time, and that as humans we need our relaxation. I just hate to have chores/tasks hanging over my head, so I'm always running to get stuff done.

Or at least that's how it was for many years. I'm still like that to some degree, just not as hardcore as I used to be. Ever since I finished my master's degree last summer, I've made an effort to engage in true leisure time activities.

And I have a few now. Like playing my saxophone, for example.

I bought a gorgeous new tenor sax recently (I'll blog about it sometime soon), and I'm enjoying regular playing and practicing time. Over the holiday break I read a book that is apparently much revered in saxophone circles called "Developing a Personal Saxophone Sound." It was a revelation to me.

The book goes into very technical detail on how to create the sort of tone that professional players make. I never understood how they did it until now, and it slowly dawned on me that in 41 years of playing the instrument, I learned only how to blow into the instrument and finger notes.

Only now am I learning to make music and really control the horn. It's a long process, but I'm enjoying it.

I'm also reading other nonfiction. I made it through Hew Strachan's 350-page "The First World War" over the break and am currently enjoying "The War Poems of Wilfred Owen," which my daughter Elissa and her boyfriend Mark gave me for Christmas.

I also walk quite a bit, as I've mentioned, and am continuing my immersion into the core classical music repertoire.

None of these activities gets the dishes washed, the bathroom cleaned, or the laundry done, and that's a good thing. They feed the soul, which is what we all need.

I will not, however, collect stamps. Tried that back in the early 80s and it's not for me. But classical music CDs? I have a couple hundred of those, to the point that the CD rack in the basement is ready to tip over.

I couldn't be happier about it.

There are now more adults in my house than children

There comes a point, when you have kids, when they are no longer kids.

Actually it's not so much a "point," since that suggests a precise time at which they move from kid-hood into adulthood. And of course it doesn't work that way.

What does come about all of a sudden, though, is your realization that the transition has happened.

I came home from work one day recently to a completely empty house. Understand, this rarely happens when you live with six other people, two of whom are legally considered minors, especially in the summer time. If it's not a school day, someone always, always, always seems to be home.

But not this time. I walked in and...bam, no one. So I ran down the mental checklist of everyone's whereabouts:

• Terry was working at the library. It's only 22 hours a week, but it feels to me like Terry is always working at the library. Anyway, she was gone.
• Elissa was somewhere between her job and, I supposed, her boyfriend Mark's house.
• Chloe was working one of her two jobs, I think the library one with Terry. Or maybe she was attending one of her summer college classes. Or maybe she was with her boyfriend Michael. I don't know. The point is, she was nowhere to be found.
• Jared was at his job at the Cleveland Indians Team Shop at Progressive Field, hawking overpriced caps and way overpriced jerseys to suburbanites who had already dropped an awfully pretty penny on tickets, parking and concessions.
• I didn't know where Melanie was. If I remember correctly, I found out later she was out with her boyfriend Dylan.
• And what about little Jack? Little 11-year-old Jack who is usually at home? Off camping with the family of a friend of his. He's at the age where he's developing an entire existence that has nothing to do with us. We've been through this before as the other kids have grown up, of course, but it's still always shocking when they become, you know, actual people with social calendars and everything.

And so there I was, absolutely alone at home for one of the very few times in the past 20 years. Jobs, boyfriends, college classes. It was all a far cry from the toy-strewn floors, the Winnie the Pooh videos, and the randomly dropped sippy cups of not too long ago.

And if I'm being honest with you, I'll admit I kind of liked it.

Or at least I liked it for about 15 minutes. And then I got lonely. It turns out I like having people around the house, even if I'm not interacting with them directly. I realize that one day the constant hum of conversation and activity will become the exception rather than the rule, but borderline chaos is all I've known for many years now.

I grumble about it when it's happening, and then I get sad when it's gone. I'm apparently one of those people you just can't please.

Anyway, the point I guess is that I'm suddenly the father of at least one actual working adult, a couple of on-the-brink adults, and two more who, while technically kids, are growing up at an alarming rate.

It's kind of cool. And kind of sad.

So it goes.

I got married sort of young...would I advise my own kids to do the same?

I got married 20 days after graduating from college.

I was 22 years old at the time, and Terry and I had been engaged for nearly four years. We had been a couple for more than six years, having gotten together when we were both 16.

That's how it worked out for me. I married my high school sweetheart. Doesn't happen all that often these days, but it did for me. And 23 years later, we're still going strong, thanks be to God.

So given that experience, should one of my kids come to me today and say they want to get married, would I be OK with it?

Ugh, I don't know. Just because it worked out for me doesn't mean it's something that everyone should do. And nowadays, it's not something most people even want to do. Last year, the average age for Americans getting married was 27 for women and 29 for men, an all-time high (and I'm surprised the averages were that low).

On the other hand, just because you're young doesn't mean it's impossible for you to meet the person you're destined to be with the rest of your life. It does happen. It's not out of the question. It's not even uncommon. It's just that it's unlikely the person you're dating at 18 is the person you'll still be with at 68.

My oldest daughter, Elissa, who is 21, has been with her boyfriend Mark for a year or two now (I honestly don't know exactly how long it has been...I have trouble keeping track of my car keys, let alone the lengths of my children's relationships). I like Mark a lot. He's a good guy, and he treats my baby well. Can't ask for much more than that.

If it should come to pass in another year or so, after they're both out of college and presumably have stable jobs, that they should inform of us of their intent to marry, I would probably be fine with the concept. I would make sure they fully understand what they're getting into and how people change inevitably over time, but ultimately I would probably give my blessing or whatever.

Because that's the thing, people do change, right? No one is the same person at 40 they were at 20. Your essential characteristics may still pretty much be the same, but the way you see the world and the way you react to it will inevitably shift over time.

The question in a marriage is whether the two parties will change in roughly the same direction. You might get along great and agree on almost everything when you're fresh out of school. But will that still be the case when you're getting ready to collect Social Security? It's a hard thing to predict, but it's still something important to think about before you tie the knot.

Now if 9-year-old Jack told me he was going to get married, well...I'd tell him at least to wait until he's 22. That's what smart people like his mom and dad do.