I try so hard to find stuff in my own house before I finally resort to calling Terry

 

No stereotype is universal, but some are pretty close.

One, in my experience, is that men are curiously unable to find things. Things that are right there in plain sight. Things that seem impossible to miss.

Yet I manage to do it.

Please understand, this is not for lack of trying. When Terry sends me to the basement to fetch something, I go down there with every intention of not looking like an idiot.

"Get me the big blue bowl," she will say. "It's behind the folding door, second shelf from the bottom, right next to the Christmas cookie cutters."

"That sounds easy enough," I think to myself. "Folding door, second shelf from the bottom, next to the Christmas cookie cutters. Got it!"

I make my way to the basement, slide open the folding door and kneel down to get a good look at the second shelf from the bottom.

No big blue bowl.

I look again. Still not there.

I move some things around on the shelf. Nada.

I look on other shelves, thinking maybe she just had the wrong one in mind. Again, nothing you could remotely describe as a big blue bowl.

I go back to the second shelf from the bottom. The situation there is unchanged. There are many things on that shelf, but as far as I can tell, nothing big, nor blue, nor bowl-like.

I head back upstairs to report that she is perhaps mistaken and ask her to think where else the big blue bowl might be.

"It's there," she tells me. "Look harder."

Annoyed, I go back to the basement, knowing the big blue bowl isn't suddenly going to appear out of thin air. And of course I am right. There is no big blue bowl on the second shelf from the bottom.

I yell up to her that she's welcome to come down and see for herself that the bowl is not where she believes it to be. As she comes down the stairs, I imagine the heartfelt apology she will offer when she discovers I am right.

She strides over, bends down, looks at the second shelf from the bottom and...pulls out a very big, decidedly blue bowl and stares at me for a moment.

I am dumbfounded. Gobsmacked, even. I don't understand it. I was looking right at it the whole time. But it never registered. I never saw it. It just...well, I blame my brain, which clearly doesn't understand what a "big blue bowl" is and has failed me yet again.

Terry shakes her head slightly and takes the bowl upstairs.

I pull out my phone to Google "treatments for cognitive impairment."

Somehow, after 31 years, we're still married.

Apparently we age in fits and starts

Six months ago, I thought I was doing pretty well in the aging department. I had just lost some weight, I only needed reading glasses very occasionally, I was free from any sort of chronic pain, and I was even starting to add strength training to my normal walking/running regimen.

Then some things happened, some of which were beyond my control:

• Suddenly, a lot of books and documents became awfully hard to see. Things I could read unaided at Christmastime are now, shall we say, a little out of focus. I have reading glasses stashed everywhere.
• That weight I lost? Gained it all back. And then some.
• A couple of weeks ago I fell. More on that below.
• I haven't lifted a weight in a few months.
• My hair, which has been a mix of gray and white for some time now, suddenly seems a lot whiter.

Thankfully – blessedly – I am still free from chronic pain. But the way things are going, I'm not counting on that lasting much longer.

As for my fall, that was admittedly my own fault. I was watching the Cleveland Guardians baseball game on my phone and not paying attention as I attempted to walk down the three steps that lead from the kitchen to our mud room.

I missed the first step, which meant I was going to miss every step. Down I went, landing hard on my backside and right elbow.

My butt is fine, if I do say so. But I STILL can't put much weight on the elbow (i.e., like when you rest your chin in your hand).

Even worse, as Terry points out, when the doctor asks if I've fallen in the last six months, I'm going to have to respond "yes."

That hurts.

I'm only 53, so it's not like I'm a senior citizen. But what I've noticed so far about the aging process is that you can be going along just fine for months and years at a stretch, confident in the thought that you're doing a good job holding back the tides of time.

Then a whole bunch of things happen in succession, reminding you what they mean when they say Father Time is undefeated.

Of course, 15 years from now I will long to feel 53 again, since this aging thing only tends to go in one direction (and it's not the direction you're hoping for).

The good news is this: So much of how we're going to feel as older adults is under our control now. Proper diet, exercise (including flexibility and balance work), stress management and maintaining social connections can overcome a whole lot of genetic baggage.

Even better is that you can still indulge in the "bad for you" things you love, but it has to be occasional and it has to be controlled.

Those are my only two problems when it comes to, say, eating sweets: "occasional" and "controlled."

Other than that, along with maybe the occasional tumble and an alarming reliance on cheap CVS reading glasses, I think I've got this aging thing under control...mostly.

I'm writing a book and cannot stand to read my own words anymore

I don't know what prompted it, but a couple of months ago I decided I was going to publish a compilation of my best blog posts. If all goes well, it will be released sometime this fall.

Actually, the 50 posts in the book may not necessarily be my "best." They're more like my "favorites." As I combed through the 840 posts I've written over the past 12 years, I picked out the ones that either made me laugh the hardest or the ones of which I was most proud, for whatever reason.

The book won't be intended for mass-market distribution. It's more of a pet project for friends and family, though I will gladly accept sales to random people who happen to stumble across it on Amazon.

Creatively enough, it will be titled "5 Kids, 1 Wife." At first I wasn't sure what to call it, but my longtime professional acquaintance Brian Sooy (a published author and marketing guru) suggested appropriating the name of this blog as the title. It's concise and compelling, he told me, and it gives readers a quick taste of what they'll find should they choose to buy the book.

He was right, as usual.

There will be a section on parenting, a section on family and relationships, a catch-all section labeled "Other Things on My Mind," and yes, a small section on my short-lived game show career.

The good folks at Kindle Direct Publishing make it relatively simple to create your own book. As Amazon's publishing platform, they allow you to distribute your work widely and easily in both electronic and hard-copy format. Thus, my book will be available as a paperback or as an e-book, depending on your preference.

Still, self-publishing is not something you accomplish in an afternoon.

First there's the writing. In my case you would think this part was easy, since I was choosing from among hundreds of pre-written, already-published blog posts.

I thought that, too. Then I started working through them and found my initial list had something like 120 posts I might potentially include in the book. It took a good while to whittle the list down to the 50 posts I liked best, and that I thought told some semblance of a collective story.

Then I started re-reading them and realized I needed to do some heavy-duty editing. It's not that they were poorly written. It's just that my writing style has become more economical over time, and the early posts especially needed some trimming in terms of word selection and sentence construction.

I have done five complete edits of these posts, pruning them from a bloated 41,000 words to the sleeker current total of just over 38,000.

At first it was fun to read my old stuff. By the third edit, however, it was torture. None of it seemed remotely entertaining anymore. By the fourth time through, I was thoroughly sick of reading my own material.

Let's not even talk about the fifth and final edit, which I can only characterize as a slog.

Once I got through that, there was the matter of finding photos to go with some of the posts. These had to be photos of sufficient resolution for inclusion in a printed book and to which I owned the rights or had permission to use.

Given those narrow parameters, there may be 20 images in the book once it gets to final form. Maybe.

Then I remembered I'm not a graphic designer and that even the most text-heavy books need some design to make them attractive. Enter another professional from my past, the talented Jamie Feldman, who is going to create the front and back covers.

I've also engaged an interior book designer from the UK named Catherine to work with me on typeface selection, page layout, and creating an engaging look and feel on each page.

I really should have hired someone to copy edit the book for me, as well, but I've already spent enough money on what is supposed to be an informal personal project, so I did that part myself.

I know people like Stephen King have staffers who handle most of this process for them, but now I wonder how many times he read through, say, "The Shining" before vowing never to open one of his own books again.

Believe me, brother, I can empathize.

I guess I thought I would be more emotional about my youngest graduating from high school

For many years I've tried to imagine this point in time.

Even when our son Jack was just a little guy, I often looked ahead to his high school graduation. What would it feel like, knowing an era in our family was coming to an end? How would I react to the conclusion of a very long journey involving the Tennant family and Wickliffe schools?

After all, Tennants have been students in this district for 50 of the last 61 years. It began when my family moved here from Euclid in the spring of 1963 and continued with only the slightest of interruptions when my brother Mark graduated in June 1975 and I started kindergarten that September.

There was an 11-year hiatus from the time I graduated in 1988 until Elissa started at Wickliffe Elementary in 1999. But since then, there has always been some combination of our kids in the schools.

Now, come May 15th when Jack dons the cap and gown, it all comes to an end. As a family, we're exiting stage left.

What I expected, when I thought about it those many years ago, was that I would be filling up Facebook right about now with a series of sentimental and highly emotional posts. I figured I would be lamenting daily about time going by so fast and little Jack getting his diploma the same way his four siblings did before him.

But I haven't done that. I haven't felt especially moved to do it.

And I wonder why.

It's not that I don't care. That's not the case at all. It's just that I'm...tired, I guess. 

Many families have reached this point before us, and I think most would agree it's a long road. Even when it's an especially enjoyable road, as it thankfully has been with our children, it's still a long one. It takes its toll mentally, emotionally and even physically (I'm fine never again having to move another chair or heavy table around the middle and high schools as an event set-up volunteer, thank you very much.)

Terry is the one who keeps Jack organized and focused on a daily basis – as one must often do with 17-year-old boys – but I still find myself running on fumes as we approach the finish line.

Speaking of finish lines, it doesn't help that Jack's senior track season has been all but derailed by a recurring calf injury. This was supposed to be the year he peaked and ran his personal-best times over 800 and 1600 meters. But as I type this, he hasn't even participated in half the meets.

If you've ever had a calf injury, you know how long they take to heal and how easy it is to make them worse when you push yourself too hard trying to come back.

I suppose there's also the fact that, while Jack and Terry are at home doing school-related stuff, I'm at work earning the money we all need to live on. There are events and activities I miss.

That has always been the case, though. Nothing new there.

In the end, it may simply be one of two things:

(1) Maybe the rush of emotion and sentimentality is yet to come. Maybe, once that jam-packed mid-May weekend of prom, senior awards and commencement arrives, I'll start feeling all the feels I anticipated in the first place.

(2) Then again, maybe I'm mistaking quiet contentment for apathy. Maybe this is the way years of worrying about the kids, helping them through the tough times, and taking pride in their achievements was always going to culminate.

Maybe this all ends not with a bang, but a whimper.

A low-key, joyous whimper. Accompanied by a half-smile and a look ahead to all the exciting things yet to come in our lives.

We're not even in our mid-50s yet, Terry and I. Lord willing and the creek don't rise, we still have a lot to do and a lot to look forward to.

It just won't necessarily involve the Wickliffe City School District anymore.

I think it's what the word "bittersweet" is supposed to describe.

More than half a century later, we still live in our hometown

My opinion of Wickliffe, Ohio, is not to be trusted.

No matter what aspect of the city you're talking about, I'm going to paint the rosiest picture possible. I will ignore the issues and tout the traditions. I will gloss over population loss and economic blight and instead draw your attention to our wonderful high school Swing Band and the fact that we have seven beautiful parks in just four square miles.

Five minutes with me and you'll be convinced Wickliffe is paradise on earth.

I know this about myself. I know I am incapable of looking at this city – the place I've lived for all of my 53 years – with anything resembling objectivity.

It's one reason why, when friends have suggested I run for school board or city government, I have declined. I would be incapable of addressing the problems our community and our schools face simply because I often refuse to admit there are any problems.

Well, there's that and the fact I really don't want to get 10:30pm phone calls from residents complaining their trash hasn't been picked up or the guy next door is playing his Metallica records too loud.

It should be noted that while I've lived in just three houses my entire life (each within two miles or so of the others), I am not sheltered or insulated. I have traveled somewhat extensively, both within the U.S. and internationally, for business and pleasure.

I've visited many places. I've met many people. I've experienced dozens of cultures.

And yet my wife and I are Wickliffe lifers. More importantly, we're intentional lifers. We are blessed to be in a financial position that allows us to live in a wide range of places. We have options.

What we have chosen, however, is to remain in the 44092.

Why? Why stay in a city that has lost 40% of its people since 1970? Why remain in a town that has seen so many of its anchor businesses pack up and leave, has no grocery store, and according to some, is slipping into the abyss in a hundred other ways?

Those are legitimate questions, not all of which I can answer convincingly. But I'll give you five reasons why we've stayed, and why we're likely to be here at least a while longer, if not forever. Take these for what they're worth.

#1: I believe in the current administration
Mayor Joe Sakacs, who took office 15 months ago, is a bundle of energy and enthusiasm. He has grabbed the easy wins while still taking on the bigger economic development challenges that have stymied past city leaders. He communicates well, seems to work closely with his council and staff, and has a vision for what the city can be. Never underestimate the power of a well-crafted vision.

#2: I believe that what once was can be again
One of the criticisms leveled at this community (and rightfully so) is that the city and the schools are bound by tradition. We stick to ways of doing things because that's the way we've always done them. I'm always one to seek new and better approaches, but understand this: Much of what is labeled "tradition" is simply a recognition that, in many respects, we were a better Wickliffe at some point in the not-too-distant past. We were closer to our neighbors. We were optimistic. We had a solid tax base and a school system that produced alumni who went on to do great things. We still have elements of that, but at some point we drifted into mediocrity. It doesn't have to be that way.

#3: I believe in my neighbors
People from surrounding communities will often comment on the closeness of Wickliffe-ites. "You all know each other," they say, or "You all talk the same." In some cases, we have been – nicely, I think – labeled "a cult." However you characterize it, there is a bond from having grown up and/or lived here. As my football coach always said, "Wickliffe kids are never the biggest, and maybe they're not the fastest, but they always turn out to be the toughest." Calling it a "can-do" attitude is probably cliché, but people in this city band together and get stuff done.

#4 I believe in the power of a good school system
In a few months, the schools I attended will all be gone. My elementary school was demolished years ago, but now the middle and high schools will be razed as our students move into a beautiful new K-12 campus. In terms of how the state measures school performance – standardized testing, graduation rates, etc. – Wickliffe schools have never really been "bad," but they have been the very definition of "so so" for many years. The rapid advance of technology is changing the way we need to educate our children in the 21st century, and my hope is that the new building will facilitate this change. If we play our cards right, this can be a "destination district" where families want their kids to attend school. I believe that can happen, and that it will have an overwhelmingly positive effect on the community in the next decade and beyond.

#5 - I believe in the value of identity
I had the wholly undeserved honor of being inducted into the Wickliffe Schools Alumni Association Athletic Achievement Hall of Fame last September. In my acceptance speech I said this: "Each of us identifies ourselves in a variety of ways. We are husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. We define ourselves by the jobs we work, by the hobbies we pursue, by the sports teams for which we root, and by the political views we hold. I'm certainly no different. First and foremost, I am husband and father. But not far behind on my personal list has always been 'Wickliffe Blue Devil.'" People who know me know I'm a "Wickliffe guy." And in that, I believe, is power. Positive change often comes about simply because a group of people with a shared identity and shared goals make it so. I think that can and will happen.

And so we stay. So far, it feels like the right choice.

My failure of the month (and why everyone telling you how great you are at something may not be the best thing)

This isn’t a post about my side hustle of sports public address (PA) announcing, but I’m going to use announcing as an example of something I’ve found to be true both personally and professionally.

By way of context, I do a lot of sports PA work in the Cleveland area. And by “sports PA work,” I mean the voice you hear in high school, college or professional gyms, arenas and stadiums that tells you the starting lineups, who scored, who committed fouls, etc.

In other words, it’s the man/woman speaking over the public address system and not, for example, the person doing play-by-play online or over the radio, though I have done some of that.

I have full-time announcing gigs at three different high schools and regularly sub in at two colleges and a handful of other institutions. I’ve announced almost every sport you can, from football, soccer, hockey and volleyball to baseball, softball, basketball and lacrosse. It’s a lot of fun, and a chunk of the money I earn funds an annual scholarship given to a graduating senior from Wickliffe High School.

Altogether, I probably do about 100 events each year.

Until a decade ago, I had no idea I possessed any talent at all for this. But – and I say this with genuine humility, because I am far from the very best person you’ll ever hear on the mic – it turns out I’m pretty good at it. Through the accidents of physiology and general brain chemistry, I have a decent PA voice, and my natural rhythm and phrasing are such that I sound somewhat professional.

Again, I’m far from being a true pro, but at the local high school level, I’m likely one of the better PA guys you’re going to run across. This is not bragging, it’s just a general observation.

So here’s where the problem lies.

My philosophy has always been that the announcer should be much like an offensive lineman in football: If he/she does their job well, you hardly know they’re there. It can be thrilling, but obviously the athletes on the field or court are why everyone comes. Absolutely no one buys a ticket to hear you talk.

Still, people in general tend to be very nice, so I get a lot of compliments on my PA work. (NOTE: I suspect you don’t necessarily have to be a great announcer to get people to say good things about you, by the way. Often, it’s more about the fact that they hear you over and over at every game or match, and in their mind your voice becomes associated with happy memories of watching their child, grandchild, niece/nephew, friend, etc. play a sport, no matter how good you actually are.)

Anyway, having done this for a number of years, I’ve received a pretty long list of compliments, all of which are very gratefully received. I personally think I’m probably average to a bit above average at the PA thing and no more, but as I said, the people I come across in the course of this work can be effusive in their praise.

The result is that, no matter how humble you try to be, hearing how great you are at something can leave you less motivated to get better at it. There’s a part of your brain that says you can put it in cruise control because, hey, you’re a star, baby!

Sometimes I find myself doing less pregame preparation than I used to because, really, who needs prep when you’re already a pro?

This is both silly and dangerous. If I give myself credit for anything when it comes to PA work, it’s commitment to detail and preparation. I get confirmation on the pronunciation of every name on the roster, including the seemingly obvious ones like “John Smith.” I try and memorize names and uniform numbers so I can quickly deliver the right information. I write down all player substitutions before announcing them because I want them to be 100% accurate. The athletes deserve at least that much from the PA guy.

Once you start believing your own hype – even if it’s just a string of nice words from well-meaning friends and acquaintances – you stop getting better. And in most cases, you regress.

The parallels to almost anything else in your life, at work or at home, are probably obvious. We should be our own worst critics, though I don’t mean that in an unhealthy way. I’m not talking about putting yourself down, but rather continually asking how you can be a better spouse, parent, friend, professional, hobbyist, etc.

It's what business professionals often refer to as "continuous improvement."

No matter what compliments you're paid or which honors or awards you receive, don’t ever fall into the trap of reading your own press clippings (so to speak).

Want to know the best thing that has happened to me recently? Something that, at first, I didn’t think was all that great? It was auditioning for and not getting the PA role for a local lower-level professional sports team. I gave it my best shot, but it wasn’t good enough.

I won’t lie, at first it stung. But it made me go back and reevaluate not just how I did in the actual audition, but in general where I am in terms of my delivery, prep and general approach to PA work. I found some areas where I’ve been slacking off, so I’m working to correct them such that my overall performance continues to improve, even if slowly and incrementally.

We all love getting a “great job” every once in a while, but in the long run, we probably benefit a little more from “thanks but no thanks” and “hey, let’s work on this.”

The attraction of violence and war to some non-violent men (like me)

I have two interests that surprise a lot of people who know me, or who at least think they know me:

(1) War

(2) Combat sports

The second of those is somewhat sentimental in origin in that it was my dad who taught me about boxing and how to appreciate it. He watched the Friday Night Fights religiously, and when I watched with him, I was always amazed at how accurately he could predict the outcome based solely on the first few seconds of a bout.

I still catch a boxing match on TV every once in a while, and when I do, I think of the things he taught me about what separates good fighters from also-rans.

My interest in military history is more self-generated, though my dad did serve in the post-World War II U.S. Army and later the Army Air Corps. While my main interest is World War I, it's really the psychology of all war that draws me in.

For what it's worth  – and admittedly it's likely not worth that much, given my lack of personal experience on both fronts  – my theory is that most men overestimate how well they would do in a hand-to-hand street fight and underestimate how brave they would be in combat.

Because that's what I believe attracts many guys to study war and to follow violent sports: the question of how you yourself would do if thrown into those situations.

If a guy came up to me on the street and started swinging, could I defend myself? If I was called to run into machine gun fire and try to take a trench 400 yards away, as the soldiers of World War I were often commanded to do, would I have the guts to do it? If I was challenged to a scrap by a bigger guy in the middle of a hockey game, would I be willing to stand in there and trade punches?

That, I find, is what many men want to know when it comes to these subjects. How did others react, and would I be able to do the same (or to avoid their mistakes)?

By the way, I'm referencing only men here because (a) I am one, and I can really only relate to my own gender when it comes to these questions, and (b) The wars I study most closely all happened decades or even centuries ago, when 99.9% of the combatants were male. I fully realize there are highly skilled female boxers and women in all branches of the military who take part in combat now. But what little understanding I have of these questions derives fully from a man's perspective.

I think it's important here to acknowledge some hard truths:

• War and violence in general are stupid. They are ugly and vulgar and should be avoided in all but extreme cases.
• Boxing and ultimate fighting are problematic. They have the potential to cause devastating long-term neurological and other damage, and in some cases even death. I don't disagree with those who see combat sports as barbaric.
• Street fights are incredibly dumb, driven as they usually are by fragile male egos, unrestrained machismo, and quite often, alcohol.

Yet at the same time, I find the following also to be true:

• There is a certain degree of nobility in the soldier who picks up a rifle and defends not only his foxhole buddies but also the nation standing behind him.
• To a far lesser extent, there is something to be admired in the hockey fighter who comes to the aid of a teammate, standing up for someone on the ice who cannot stand up for himself.
• No matter how "enlightened" I think I am about violence, the world is full of lunkheads who don't have the brain cells required to think through these questions, and who will start throwing punches at the slightest provocation. As a Christian, I am called to turn the other cheek in these situations, but as a male, the unfortunate reality is that I am probably not going to back down. I am going to fight back.

There is dichotomy in all of this. I will continue to study war despite its ugliness, and I still condone fighting in hockey and the sport of boxing despite the issues associated with both.

I'm not a fan of spontaneous street fights, but I know they will continue to happen for reasons that are as old as time.

The eternal question of "why," and the primal inclination of many men toward violent behavior, are puzzles that neither I nor anyone else is ever likely to solve. All the same, I can't stop myself looking for the answers within myself and from others.