These are the characters I encounter on my morning walks

I walk almost every morning, and I always do it along one of six or so predetermined routes. This is my routine, and as a consequence, I often intersect with others who have their own routines.

Back when we lived on East 300th Street, the person I most frequently came across was Cologne Guy. He was an older gentlemen who took a brisk daily walk along Route 84. We would exchange friendly hellos, and as I ran past him (I was running back then), I would always get a sniff of his English Leather cologne. It was not unpleasant, but I never understood why he made himself so fragrant before going out on a walk.

In more recent years I've often seen Relentlessly Waddling Lady. She is not a fast walker, but she is a persistent one. She is also very nice. I don't see her much in winter, though.

There is also Hound Dog Guy, and here I find myself a bit confused. Hound Dog Guy walks his dog a lot, though it turns out the dog is actually a beagle mix. At one point my family and I thought it was a hound dog, but even after we got some clarity on the breed, the Hound Dog Guy moniker was too well established to discard.

Anyway, I see Hound Dog Guy quite a bit, but I also regularly see a guy walking around my neighborhood without a dog, and I honestly don't know whether it's Hound Dog Guy without his dog or another man altogether who just happens to look like Hound Dog Guy. This has gone on for years and I still can't say for sure whether this is one man or two men who look alike.

Farther down my street is Nightgown Woman, though I only see her if I get up later than normal, as she tends to walk a bit later in the morning. In the summer she wears her nightgown while she walks. Really. I think she just wakes up, gets out of bed, and heads straight out the door to walk, appearances be damned.

One of the most enigmatic figures is Walking Jewish Lady. I don't say this to be disparaging in any way. She gets her name from the fact that I'm fairly certain she is one of the Orthodox Jewish people who live on the west end of Wickliffe. She wears a head covering that almost looks like a nun's habit, and she always walks in a skirt or dress.

And she walks a lot. I see her all over the place and I know she recognizes me. At most, though, my friendly "good morning" is met with a slight smile from her and never any sort of verbal reply. This could be a cultural/religious thing (not talking to a strange man), and she certainly is not rude about it. In any case, she is an impressive walker.

Lately I've seen Small Running Girl quite a bit, though I shouldn't call her "girl" in that she is clearly not a girl, but rather a young woman. It's just that I use "Lady" and "Woman" in a lot of these character names and she immediately became Small Running Girl in my head. She is slight of stature but unflappable in her running as she traverses up and down the hills around my house. Back in my running days I was her, except I'm taller and not female.

I see and say hello to many others as I walk, depending on the time of day, but these are the regulars. I wonder if they have a name for me? I would be fine with Walking Sweatshirt Guy.

Jiggle the handle, kids, you have to jiggle the handle

If you live with another person, or several other persons, there are things they do regularly that annoy you.

That's just how it works. It could be something simple like not putting their plate in the dishwasher, or leaving the cap to the toothpaste on the bathroom sink.

We had seven people living in our house for several years, so there were many of these little botherances. I once wrote an entire post urging my children to pick up blankets off the basement floor. Another post featured photos of messes left by my family around the house for someone else to clean up.

For the record, neither of those things was ever truly resolved.

Now we're down two people, yet there are still things about which I feel the need to constantly remind the denizens of this house. One of those is jiggling the handle on the toilet in the kitchen bathroom.

That toilet hasn't been right in years. Even installing a new handle/flushing mechanism wasn't enough to make it so that it would reliably flush, fill back up with water, and be ready for the next user.

Unless the previous occupant of said bathroom is considerate enough to wait an extra few seconds to ensure everything is working well with the toilet and the water isn't going to run forever and ever, chances are the half-full tank will not be ready to sufficiently dispose of whatever the next user deposits into the bowl.

It's just a few extra seconds. And if you find the handle is very loose and the flap in the tank is clearly not seated correctly, all you have to do is jiggle the handle.

Just jiggle the handle. That's it. Then you can go on your merry way.

Recently I walked into the kitchen bright and early at 5:30 in the morning and I heard that toilet running. I'm always the first one up, so there couldn't have been anyone in that bathroom.

And there wasn't. The toilet had been running all night because the last person to use it the previous evening had not followed the instructions above, even though we've tried to convey those instructions in the most understandable of terms.

Relative to life's truly big problems, this is a minor one in the extreme. Yet it frustrates me, because the solution is so simple.

Just jiggle the handle, kids. You have to jiggle that handle.

I have taught four kids to drive through a patented method of controlled fear

Later this month our youngest son Jack turns 15, which means he'll be able to get his temporary driving permit this summer. He is eagerly looking forward to this.

Which, interestingly, isn't the case with a lot of kids these days. Federal Highway Administration data show that, in 2018, only about 25% of 16-year-olds became licensed drivers, and barely 60% of teens overall had their licenses by age 18. This is a noticeable decrease from when I was a teen (circa 2000 B.C.), and the reasons for it vary.

But Jack is one of those who is counting down the days.

As a parent of four licensed drivers who collectively have had their share of accidents, I will say the advantages of having your kids drive at least slightly outweigh the disadvantages. The convenience factor alone is enough for me.

Our four oldest have all gone through the same ritual when it comes to their early driving experiences. I take them down to the high school when the parking lot is deserted, usually on a Sunday afternoon. I then have them get into the driver's seat and get a feel for the accelerator and brake pedals, and then start them driving laps around the school.

Laps and laps and laps. First one way, then the other.

I have them pull into and out of parking spaces.

We do this a few times. At the end of the third or fourth session, I tell them to drive us home.

I will never forget the reaction Elissa, our oldest, had to this instruction. Wide-eyed, she looked at me and said, "Like, on the road?"

Yes, as this is the generally accepted method of operating a motor vehicle in Ohio, and presumably in other states.

This first time on the road, even if it only covers the three-quarters of a mile from the school to our house, is always exciting and a little nerve-wracking for them, but they always do it well.

It is admittedly also a little nerve-wracking for me, but I try to hide it.

In fact, that's my primary approach to teen driving education: Keeping calm. I don't want them to get rattled, so I never act like I'm rattled.

But I'm often rattled. Oh yes, I'm very often rattled.

Still, to date, there have been no fender benders or pedestrians maimed during Dad Driving Lessons, so on balance, it has gone as planned.

After I take them out several times, Terry often takes over as instructor and gets them truly ready to take their driving test. It's like I take the raw lump of coal and begin the rough process of shaping it into a diamond, but my wife is the one who truly gets them from "semi-competent" to "test-ready."

We're a good team that way.

One time I lied on the radio...and you can hear it here

I'm pretty sure other cities have equivalent programs, but there is a long-running local TV show in Cleveland called "Academic Challenge." Each episode, three-person teams from local high schools compete against each other by answering questions on history, math, science, general knowledge, etc.

I was on the Academic Challenge team when I was in high school, and we won our match in 1987 against Copley and Magnificat high schools.

Back then, you only appeared on the TV show every other year. In the off years, you could compete in the WERE radio "Whiz Quiz."

The Whiz Quiz was similar to Academic Challenge, except there were only two teams per episode as opposed to three, and of course it was on radio instead of TV.

My senior year was one of those off years, so we went on the Whiz Quiz to compete again Akron St. Vincent-St. Mary (Lebron James' alma mater, though it should be noted that Lebron was still a toddler at the time, so he was not in attendance).

The show was live, and that particular week it was broadcast from Baldwin Wallace College (now University).

As team captain for Wickliffe, one of my jobs was to give quick bios about my two teammates, Diane and Nate, and myself. As we were driving to BW and discussing that little "meet the team" segment, our advisor, the legendary Mr. J. Patrick Penrod, said to me, "You know, you can say anything you want and no one will know."

I could make up stuff about the three of us and just say it? Live on the air? I was in!

Diane and Nate very wisely wanted to keep their bios entirely factual, but I decided I was going to run with it. When it came time to introduce us, I ran down their impressive academic and extracurricular resumes. Then I got to myself.

Most of what I said was true, but at the very end I added, "In the fall of this year I will be attending Yale University to major in baroque symphonic composition."

This, if you haven't gathered, wasn't the least bit grounded in reality. I was going to John Carroll University and I knew it. And I don't think it's possible to major in "baroque symphonic composition."

You can hear a recording of the whole thing by clicking on the following link. Our team intros start exactly at the 10:00 mark, with my little fib coming around 10:39: https://soundcloud.com/scott-tennant-192532351/wickliffe-vs-akron-st-vincent-st-mary-were-whiz-quiz-1988

We went on to win by a pretty decent margin, as I recall.

If that had been the end of the story, it would be a good one. But there's an interesting coda to it.

That episode was recorded in March 1988. Fast forward about five months to my first day as a student at John Carroll. I walk into my very first class in the Jardine Room. As I enter, I look to my right, and who do I see sitting there? Why it was Joe Rinaldi, captain of that St. Vincent-St. Mary team we had defeated on the Whiz Quiz.

I looked at him, he looked at me. He recognized me immediately. For a second he looked confused, and then he asked me, "Did you lie?" I laughed and admitted I had. For the next four years any time I would see him on campus, he would say, "Liar!" Or, "Hey, it's the liar!"

He meant it in good fun, but he also conceded that the idea of going up against a team captained by someone attending an Ivy League school had been a little intimidating.

We psyched 'em out? All the better. Mission accomplished.

My heart appreciates my obsessive walking routine, but my gnarled feet do not

Last month, I mentioned that I'm planning to do a two-week, 250-mile walk from Dansville, New York, to Olmsted Township, Ohio, this coming June.

In order to prepare, I walk 5 miles every morning, rain or shine.

Or, given that it's January in Cleveland, "snow or shine." And if we're being honest, there ain't a lot of "shine" here on the North Coast these days.

Once the weather breaks in March, I'll start doing progressively longer Saturday morning walks, culminating in May when I plan to do back-to-back 18-milers as a sort of dress rehearsal for the real thing, which starts June 4th in Dansville.

But for now, it's 35 miles a week without fail. Most mornings I'm up at 5am, and once I get dressed to walk, feed the cats, scoop out their litter boxes, sweep around those boxes, go out and get the papers from the end of the driveway, get some water, and put on my walking shoes, I hit the road.

Given that I walk at a pace of anywhere from 14:30 to an even 15 minutes per mile, I finish almost every walk in somewhere between 1 hour, 10 minutes and 1 hour, 15 minutes.

This is obviously a healthy habit, and I pass the time listening to my beloved Battles of the First World War Podcast and various types of music.

My feet are the ones paying the price.

I was born with wide feet ("Fred Flintstone" feet, I've often called them), to the point that I definitely need a 2E width in most shoes and as much as a 4E with some brands.

Not every shoe comes in widths, though, so for years I've worn lots of shoes that were simply too narrow for my feet.

The result is permanent calluses and rock-hard heels that aren't exactly attractive to begin with.

Now, throw in all of this walking, and the devastation that is my feet is just hideous to behold.

I would show you a picture, but I value our relationship too much to subject you to that.

Terry got me one of those heel scrapers and Cracked Heel Repair ointment, and I do use them from time to time. But if you don't do it every day, it only helps so much.

My current walking shoes are 4Es that I probably shouldn't have bought, as they're really, really wide even for me. One side effect is that I have a nagging blister on the back of my right heel that is currently covered by a band-aid. I also have a deep crack in one of my big toe calluses that doesn't exactly feel great, but I've kind of learned to live with it.

I like to think I'm a cardiologist's dream and a podiatrist's nightmare.

I really should do something about this situation before Wilma and Pebbles start to notice.

I still really like getting the mail every day

Back in February 2013 when I was unemployed and had vast chunks of time to fill every day, I wrote a post mentioning how much I looked forward every day to running out to the mail box to retrieve the mail.

Now, nearly eight years later, I am gainfully employed and still enjoy getting the mail.

Mind you, it is almost always disappointing. Most of the time it's just ads and bills. Getting something truly exciting in the mail is a relatively rare occurrence.

Which is why I still like going out to get it. There's always the possibility that something great will be in there. And the relative greatness of whatever it is is enhanced by the fact that most mail falls far short of expectations.

It's the anticipation.

Of course, I've ruined even that small bit of excitement for myself by signing up for the U.S. Postal Service's Informed Delivery program. Every morning I receive an email showing me scanned images of each piece of mail that is supposed to arrive in my mailbox later that day.

In our case, "later that day" usually means "really later that day," as I believe we're at the end of Eddie the Mail Guy's route, and it's only on occasion that he swings by our house any earlier than 5pm. So I end up seeing photos of the mail I'm supposed to get a good eight hours before I actually get it.

And even when something good is on the way, I'll admit it's less exciting to see it on a computer screen than it is to open the little mailbox door and fish it out.

But I can't help myself. Those emails are among the best things to pop into my inbox all day.

This is sad, I know, but if you're going to mock me, please do so in a letter and mail it to my house. I can't wait.

The real slog of winter begins now, but it's still going to be a great year

We here in Northeast Ohio get snow in December, and sometimes it's a lot of snow. But I never feel like "real" winter has begun until New Year's Day.

This is the point when the holidays wind down and the long, cold, gray reality of a Cleveland winter sets in. Living on the shores of Lake Erie, we will see precious little sunshine for the next few months. And in the meantime we're likely to get at least a couple of blizzards, a lot of ice, and generally sub-freezing temperatures.

Which by the way is fine. I love living here, and that kind of weather is just part of the deal. I'm not complaining at all.

In fact, I'm feeling good today. It's the start of a new year, and like every year before it, I choose to see it as a time of opportunity and possibility. I am in most ways an incurable optimist.

This is not a case of me being a Pollyanna, or at least I hope it isn't. It's simply making the deliberate choice to be excited for whatever lies ahead over the next 52 weeks.

If you think this year is going to be a good one for you, you're probably right.

And if you think 2021 is going to be a bad one for you, you're also probably right.

It's not a platitude, it's a fact: You, like most folks, are going to be about as happy as you make up your mind to be.

But you know what would make me especially happy? If you made up your mind to grab a shovel and help clear out my driveway the next time Mother Nature dumps a bunch of the fluffy white stuff on it.

I choose to believe snow is beautiful. I also choose to believe it's even more beautiful when it doesn't get in the way of me backing my car out of the garage.