The Crab Chronicles

Really Stupid Stuff I've Done

A friend of mine on Facebook just posted a little essay about his high school years and I read that and wracked my brain trying to recall him in high school. I don't. Of course, he was a year or two ahead of me and I don't even recall everyone in my own class. There were more than 500 of us just in my year. It was a zoo.

He was a Cool Kid, however.

I was NOT a Cool Kid. I was not even in the same zip code as those kids. The fact that a former Cool Kid is willing to be Facebook friends with a Hopeless Nerd like myself is a testament to the power of Facebook, I suppose. Facebook is a social media haven for the over-50 crowd. (Apparently the youngsters prefer Instagram and Snapchat, or so I'm told.)

Anyway, as I told my son recently, the greatest source of frustration for many parents is that we remember all the stupid stuff we did when we were young and we desperately want to pass along the painful lessons we learned so our own kids won't do the SAME stupid stuff.

But life doesn't work that way, I'm sorry to say.

So here, in no particular order, are some of the really stupid things I did when I was young. You see, even though I was a Hopeless Nerd, I didn't hang out with any kids who had much more sense than I did. No, I mostly hung out with anyone who was nice to me. I was an honorary member of many cliques but a leader in none.

FAST AND CURIOUS -- When I was a Freshman in high school at Farragut, I was on the staff of The Crow's Nest, the school newspaper. I went with a girl named Connie and another student whose name escapes me to deliver the newspaper to the printer in Lenoir City, just down the road. Connie thought it would be fun on the way back to do 100 mph on a 4 lane road. It's a miracle we weren't killed.

THE THRILL HILL GANG -- There was a road that ran somewhere behind West Town Mall that was very hilly and we liked to drive down it going as fast as possible. By "we" I mean myself tagging along with my older brother and his crazy friends. We also liked to blow up mailboxes, and drink Boone's Farm wine. One time there was a farting contest that involved aerosol cans, and.... I'll just let you figure out the rest. I was a tomboy and I liked being "one of the guys." I always threatened to tell Mom and Dad if Bruce didn't let me go along. One thing he wouldn't do is let me tag along when he and his buddy Jim would go over to the Dixie Lee Drive In and watch movies hiding in the bushes, so they didn't have to pay.

THE MILK CRATE BANDITS -- Skip ahead to my college years. I was a Freshman at a small college near Knoxville and it was a Baptist school, filled with very proper and religious Baptist Youth. I did not hang out with those kids. I hung out with the Wild Girls whose parents sent them to that strict little religious school in hopes of reforming them. It didn't work. I was not in any way a Wild Girl, but they were a lot more fun to hang out with than the prim and proper girls. One night, out of boredom, it was decided we would steal milk crates from a local dairy. Plastic milk crates were very popular in dorm rooms. I never moved so fast as I did stealing those plastic boxes from behind that dairy. I got in the car, it sped off, and my heart started racing. I pictured the look on my father's face if he had to come bail me out of jail, and I nearly threw up. That was the first and last time I ever stole anything.

SMOKING - I started smoking when I was a Freshman in college, because it was one of the few things I could do to rebel. We weren't supposed to drink, smoke, or dance. Every Friday night those of us Freshmen girls who didn't have dates would gather in someone's room, smoke, pass around a bottle of some sort of booze, put on records, and dance. I didn't start seriously smoking until a few years later, after I had graduated, but it was a bad habit for 15 years, alas. Now I don't smoke, drink, or dance...

THE CONDOM CAR -- I was out of college and working my first job when a friend and I decided to prank a guy friend who was on a date. We found his car parked outside a restaurant where he was on a date with a very snobby rich girl we couldn't stand. We had taken an entire box of condoms and pulled them out of the packets and stretched them to look "used" and draped them all over his nice car. It looked horrible. Then we hid and watched his reaction when he came out after dinner. I should have had more sense by then, but I obviously didn't.

HILLBILLY GOLF -- I was in my early 20's and some friends and I got stoned and drove to Gatlinburg and played miniature golf at a course on a mountainside, called Hillbilly Golf. We thought we were hilarious. We laughed so hard that other golfers looked at us askance. I don't think any of us ever managed to hit the ball in the hole on the first try - we whacked the balls, giggled, whacked them some more, giggled some more. Amazing we weren't carted off to the loony bin.

HOT TUB VOMIT MACHINE -- I went to a party at my parents' next door neighbor's house when I was house-sitting for Mom and Dad. I was drinking beer that afternoon. Mom and Dad lived on Melton Hill Lake. The hostess served us a big shrimp salad for dinner. She was not a good cook, so I decided to drink some more to wash it down. Then she pulled out a bottle of decent champagne so I switched to that. At some point we were all in the pool, after dinner. I decided to get up and wander around the very large deck, and I came across the hot tub. I leaned over to feel of the water and see how hot it was and fell in. Let me tell you this: if you are drunk and you fall into a vat of boiling water, you are very miserable. I was screaming and screaming but nobody came to help me get out because the stereo was playing very loud music. I finally managed to haul myself out, then I went back to my parents' house and spent a while in the bathroom, vomiting up everything I had eaten for several days. That was the last time I got drunk. I was cured. I still shudder at even the mention of a "hot tub." That was about 30 years ago.

Amazing I survived those years without being incarcerated, maimed, or permanently disfigured...

below, a rare photo of me from 1978, age 16, cutting the cake at my cousin's wedding...

 

We Were Tough

Hey Millennials! Yes, you, Sweetheart. Stop texting for a second and READ. Here are a some facts to blow your minds!

1) We didn't have "play dates" - we knocked on our friend's door and asked their mama if they could play. If they couldn't, we went to the next house.

2) If broccoli was on the table at dinner time, you ate it. Mama didn't make you a special organic gluten-free nut-free souffle of helicopter parenting nutritional wholesomeness. You ate your vegetables, period. [If you didn't eat it, you risked a butt whooping.]

3) If you played sports, you didn't have to be an Olympic trainee. Mediocrity was not punished. You could semi-suck at hitting or kicking the ball, without seeing a daddy lose his mind on the sidelines.

4) School supplies? Paper and pencils. Maybe a new binder and a big pink eraser to chew on. $10 at most.

5) We came home from school and took off our good school clothes and put on play clothes. Wearing school clothes and getting them dirty playing kickball? Watch out. Possible butt whooping on the horizon, when Daddy got home.

6) Hand-me-downs from siblings and cousins were just fine. No kids demanded name brand designer anything. Your mama went to K-mart, you got 2 new outfits, and you were set for the year.

7) We took our gym clothes to school in a plastic bag Mama got from a store for free, not a $150 gym bag. ["Gym clothes" were tee shirts and shorts, and tennis shoes that usually came from K-Mart. I wore only Keds until 7th grade.]

8) We didn't play games on phones. Oh, unless you mean making prank calls, in the good old days before caller ID. It was delightful to call drugstores and ask "Do you have Prince Albert in a can?!?" When they said yes, we screamed "You BETTER LET HIM OUT!" Slamming down that indestructible phone receiver was sooooo satisfying.

9) If you made a bad grade at school it was YOUR fault, not the teacher's fault.You might get a butt whooping but your teacher wasn't to blame.

10) We got bored sometimes and Mom and Dad didn't give a rat's ass. They were not there to entertain us. "Go find something to do or I'll give you something to do!" was guaranteed to make you get your behind out of their sight right quick.

11) We had chores. Before age 10, I could clean the house and prepare a simple meal. At age 8 many of us we were making up beds, running the vacuum, maybe even washing dishes, or drying them. Nobody called social services.

12) Birthday parties were a big deal if you got to go to a child's house and play pin the tail on the donkey. There were no elaborate outings to Chuckie Cheese or McDonald's, with swag for each attendee. If you got a cake at the roller skating rink it was a Big Deal.

13) We drank out of garden hoses. I had never seen bottled water until I was in my mid 20's.

14) If the dog got run over we buried him in the backyard and possibly had a funeral. Nobody contacted a Pet Crematorium or had bereavement counseling.

15) We were taught to address grownups with respect. In the South, we had to say M'am or Sir, and failing to do so was a punishable offense.

16) Good manners were drilled into us. We were not allowed to "talk back" or be disrespectful to grownups. We weren't allowed to interrupt grownup conversations.In fact, I heard "Children will not speak unless they are spoken to," many times. [In contrast, I had dinner with an acquaintance a few years ago who let his 9 year old dominate the conversation during dinner, and his father said, beaming with pride, "Doesn't he have a marvelous vocabulary?! I don't want to stifle his expression." I never ate dinner with them again.]

17) When I was a kid we weren't allowed to bother folks. If we pitched a fit in a store or restaurant we were taken outside, and we were lucky if we got a lecture instead of a paddling.

18) Going to movies was a big deal - you went to the theater, and had to behave yourself. It cost $1.50 - $3. That was a big treat. Even decades later I can tell you what everyone got: Mom got Junior Mints, Brother got Milk Duds, Dad got a huge tub of buttered popcorn, and I ate some popcorn and 1 or 2 Milk Duds for dessert.

19) We said the Pledge of Allegiance every morning at school. Nobody complained. Nobody took a knee or sat it out. By the time I was 8 I also could sing America the Beautiful, My Country Tis of Thee, and It's a Grand Old Flag.

20) Most of us were taken to church (or temple) on a regular basis, and we wore church clothes, clothes we couldn't get dirty.There were no live bands or people wearing blue jeans. Afterwards, you had Sunday Dinner -- fried chicken, biscuits, green beans, jello salad, chocolate cake. Then you sat around and spent the afternoon digesting, and made sure the front room was tidy in case somebody dropped by.

21) We had a black and white TV until I was 8, and we only got 2 channels clearly. Then we got a ginormous color TV when we moved to Tennessee, and we had 3 channels. I was in hog heaven. The phrase "Shut off that TV and GO OUTSIDE AND PLAY!" was often heard, however.

 

I didn't realize until I was a grownup that my parents were stricter than most about some things. We always had to drink a glass of milk at dinner. Always. We were taught to shake hands and look people in the eye when we met them. When we went out to dinner my brother and I had to wear "school clothes" or "church clothes" and behave ourselves, even if we just went to the S&S Cafeteria. We had to use a knife and fork properly, and keep our elbows off the table when we ate.

I was taught basic sewing by Mom and basic car maintenance by Dad.

And so on.

You know what? I am glad I grew up when I did. I doubt little girls today could make a decent mud pie, sew on a button, or use a dipstick properly...

 

Above, me at my brother's 6th birthday party. As a toddler, I often chose nudity on hot days. Nobody cared. Mom would slap some Sea & Ski [sunscreen] on me if it was a sunny day, but she was considered weirdly overprotective...

Try It Before You Buy Ghosts in the Garden City

I have always hated reading about a book and thinking "Sounds good. I'm buying this" -- and then getting it home and settling down to read, and shortly afterwards realizing I've made a mistake. I HATE the book. Loathe it. 

Amazon has a great way for you to see if you like my new novel, Ghosts in the Garden City. Click on the link, and when the page opens up look to the left, just above the photo of the front cover of the book, to where it says Look Inside. Click that and you can "test drive" my book and see if it's a good fit. Go for it!

All books are journeys of discovery, and Ghosts in the Garden City is no exception. 

There are three main characters: Leigh Harrington, her mother Peggy, and Leigh's aunt Liz.

Leigh has to figure out why she has repressed memories of a terrible childhood incident, and try to find clues as to why her grandmother's life hid a dangerous secret. 

Peggy has to figure out if she is a society matron, serious and respectable, or a passionate woman that will have a dangerous liaison with a younger man. 

Liz has to help Leigh overcome a terrible childhood trauma and learn more about her newly-discovered family.

There are mysteries to be solved. Ghosts appear. Friends come and go. Family members with secrets get angry at the prospect of having them revealed. A love story from 1942 comes to light, and changes Leigh forever.

Leigh becomes a different person. Peggy does, too.

If you're looking for a terrific read, check out Ghosts in the Garden City!

If you are a producer, director, or actor or actress looking for a terrific book to make into a miniseries, check out Ghosts in the Garden City. There are many strong, challenging roles for both white and African American actresses. There are excellent roles for women over 50. There are strong male roles too, particularly the roles of Edmund and his brother Travis, and Leigh's boyfriend Jack. #greatrolesforwomen, #strongstories, #miniseriesmaterial, #storyofidentity

You Only Fail If You Don't Try

I used to be a terribly ignorant person. Ignorant and not even aware of my ignorance. I can admit that now.

When I was in my 20's and 30's I wanted to get-married-and-have-kids. That's how I always thought of it. "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby..."

I watched programs or movies occasionally in which couples were struggling with infertility. (Here's where the ignorant part comes in.) In those programs, adoption was always seen as a really poor substitute for having "a baby of our own."

I remember organizing a family reunion about 16 years ago and wondering if I should invite a distant cousin who was adopted. Would he want to come? Would he want to meet a bunch of people he wasn't biologically related to? I did invite him. He appeared. He was delightful. It didn't matter that he didn't look like any of us. We claimed him.

Years ago, I worked for a brilliant man who was an idiot. He had a master's degree from Columbia. He had a law degree. Very book-smart guy. I told him my son was adopted when he was ten years old. He looked startled and slightly horrified. "What does he call you?" he blurted out.

I was taken aback. "He calls me MOM."

I flashed back to a classmate of my son's who looked at me and said "Where's Michael's REAL MOM?"

See, here's the awkward part. I used to be that insensitive, ignorant person. [I wouldn't have actually voiced those hurtful questions but I would have thought them.] The crux of it was that I literally just couldn't fathom loving an adopted child the same as a child I made in my own body. How could you love a child that much? How would that be possible?

It's possible. In fact, unless you are a complete asshole or perhaps mentally ill you will fall in love with your adopted child just like you would love a biological child. It's no different.

You don't wake up every day and think "I need to get dressed and make breakfast for my adopted child. I need to drive my adopted child to school. Is my other adopted child running a fever? Should I take their temperature?"

And so on.

Do I miss looking at my children and seeing my face and body there? No.

Would I have liked to have had a "child of my own"? Sure. I won't lie. I kinda wish that had been possible. It wasn't. For a lot of reasons. I don't see my adopted children as a consolation prize, though.

I used to run a very informal support group for adoptive parents. In it were several couples who struggled with infertility for years. They then adopted children from Russia and Eastern Europe. All of them said "I wish I had just skipped all the infertility stuff and just adopted right away." They had learned that beautiful truth, that having a child from your body is far less sacred than having a child in your arms that loves you and calls you "Mama" or "Daddy" with complete love and trust.

I adopted a 13 year old and a 10 year old. They were mine as soon as I saw them. It didn't matter about the language issue and the culture issues and all the rest of it. They were meant to be my children.

I belonged to a Yahoo group for single moms years ago. Remember Yahoo groups?! Some of the moms on there were married to guys who didn't want to adopt. Their wives desperately wanted to be mothers. Those guys found themselves divorced, as a result. I spoke to some of those moms and they all said although they didn't like getting divorced it was worth it to be a mother.

I've had people say to me, "It costs too much to adopt." Well, no it doesn't, actually. Private adoptions from an agency ARE pricey, yes, if you want an infant right after birth. However, the government still gives families adoption tax credits. It's up to $13,610 and it doesn't matter how you adopted -- internationally, domestically, from foster care, etc. I got a grant for my son's adoption when I worked at Home Depot - lots of big companies offer adoption grants. The state of Georgia gave me a $2,000 grant because I adopted a "special needs" child - any child over age 2 qualifies for that.

I've known lots of families who creatively held adoption fund raisers to raise the money -- selling items online, holding events at their church, etc.

My brother gave me $5,000 to help me with my daughter's adoption. Families often help out.

I knew couples and singletons who spent years trying to adopt and a few who pondered giving up, but they finally really the truth of this: the only failure is giving up. They persisted, and they became parents.

You CAN love an adopted child just as much as a child from your body -- more, in fact. After you've gone through a homestudy and raised the money and jumped through all the hoops to adopt, you develop a determination that few biological parents can fathom, because it wasn't that difficult for them to have a few drinks and put on the Marvin Gaye record and get it on and whoops -- 9 months later, there's a baby!

See the two photos below? Children who are loved, pure and simple. That's all you need to make a family.

 

Mourning Dads

I have two guy friends who have lost their fathers very recently and I have been anxiously pondering what to say to them. "Thoughts and prayers" seem inadequate, however heartfelt. What can be said in a note that means anything, really?

The best note we received after my father died in 1996 was from a neighbor whose cabin was next to ours on Douglas Lake for years. She wrote "We always remember Tony at the lake, walking around with a beer, singing "Jose Cuervo he was a friend of mine." That made us all smile, and remember happier days. Dad liked to drink a cold PBR and sing, and he sang with great enthusiasm, in the house, in the yard, in the car - wherever and whenever the mood struck him.

I have no wisdom to share about losing a father, just a few random thoughts that might or might not be helpful, at some point.

I am actually jealous of my friends because they had their dads around for more than 50 years. I was barely 34 when I lost my dad.

Right after Dad died, I cried and sleepwalked through my life, barely functional, for about 8 months. Every time I went to see my mother in Augusta I would miss Dad much more painfully, because he wasn't in his chair in the den. He wasn't walking around singing. He wasn't grilling anything in the back yard. He wasn't in the driveway washing my car and fussing at me for not keeping it cleaner. Nobody called me "DeeDee." The house seemed hollow.

I would see my uncle -- who looked a lot like Dad -- and just want to grab him and scream DON'T LEAVE US! PLEASE!

Here's the hard part.

You never stop missing a parent who dies.

You never stop thinking "Oh wow, Dad would like that book. I need to call him." You just think it less as years go by, hopefully.

You never stop wishing you could pick up the phone, or run by the house, or run by his old haunts and hope to find him there. You just turn off the wish impulse as best you can.

You try to function. You try not to cry like a ninny when you see a John Wayne movie on TV that was his favorite movie. You try not to lose it when you walk into a crowded place and smell his aftershave. You try to not let your face show stabbing grief when you look at your brother and see your dad's face.

I've always envied people who could spend days in bed, wallowing in grief. I am incapable of wallowing. I have too many things to do, too many responsibilities. I got that from Dad, his energy -- a blessing or a curse? I don't know.

One of my friends said to me on the phone last night "I don't know if I'm mourning correctly."

I immediately retorted "There is no correct way. Everyone grieves their own way, in their own time. Don't fight that process." My friend lost his mom a few months ago and his dad a few weeks ago. They were both in a nursing home and had dementia, but the loss still hurt him deeply.

Here's what I cannot say to him: they are at peace. They are not in pain. They are FINE. You owe it to them to work towards your own fine.[It would feel mean to say it.]

I have never had to mourn both my parents at once. I also have the gift of faith.

I think we owe a debt to our parents. I truly do. You may disagree and that's fine. I just know this -- my dad worked hard to give me and my brother a better life, an easier life, than he had. He grew up poor. He had to struggle to get through college. He spent years paying off his loans. I owe him a life well-lived. I owe it to him to do my best, every day. I owe him.

I owe my mother, too. She worked hard, and struggled and sacrificed.

Wallowing accomplishes nothing, but then again, everyone has the right to do it.

So to my friends who are mourning, here's my best advice. Don't be macho and just suck it up. Cry. Scream if you like. Sit and remember everything -- the way it felt to hug your dad. How he talked. Expressions he used. Funny things he said or did, over the years. Gather up your photos of him, and videos, if you have them. Don't be afraid to look at them.

Mourning is a process. Grief has no rules.

One day, hopefully, you will wake up and realize that although seeing photos or videos of him is a bit sad, you're also happy to see him, happy to have the memories, happy that he was here, and he loved you.

Take action. Pass that love along to his other descendants, and your family and friends. Whether or not you believe in an afterlife, try to believe this: love never dies. It's the strongest energy in the world. Go out and love some more, and honor your father and mother that way.

Ghosts in the Garden City

Two days ago something truly momentous happened. My first novel, Ghosts in the Garden City, was published on Amazon. I have been a writer for many years but a novel was a new challenge.

It's available right now on Kindle, if that's how you like to read. The paper version is available here for ordering. [Note: if you don't see the paper version available yet it's an Amazon delay -- check back in a couple of days and it should be available in your market.]

If someone had told me when I was a kid that one day I would be able to publish and sell my own books, in partnership with a giant bookselling website, I would have said "What's a website?" I couldn't even imagine owning my own computer. A handheld calculator was pretty high-tech, to me.

I think my generation is perhaps the last one [tail-end baby boomers] to be awed by computers. Folks in my son's generation [millennials] just take computers in their stride.

I was on the phone last night with a friend who is my age and he was a writer in his youth. He wanted to know all about how this Amazon publishing deal works, and asked very specific questions. "Well hopefully an agent will contact you about selling the book, Dee," he said. "Maybe, but if that doesn't happen I am okay with that," I replied. I can make more money selling my own books, not having to pay an agent or publisher.

My book really has two stories. The first story is about a young woman named Leigh, who has repressed a childhood memory of an event that was very traumatic to her. Her quest to understand why she repressed that memory is the main plot of the book. She is aided by inheriting an old suitcase of her grandmother's and wondering about the items she finds inside it.

Just FYI, small children who are thrust into very traumatic situations have a mental defense mechanism that often kicks in, repression. The brain simply blocks out the memory of the trauma, blocks it completely. This can be a very good thing.

The second plot involves Leigh's mother Peggy.

When I started writing the book, Peggy was just a mean character, sort of the villain. As I was writing, though, I came to like her and I really enjoyed writing about her. I realized that I was drawn to exactly why Peggy was the way she was. "Bad" people are made that way because of circumstances beyond their control, typically. [I am not talking about a true sociopath who cannot feel remorse].

Peggy is a woman with a very traditional southern upbringing and background. She belongs to all the right groups in Augusta, Georgia, [Augusta is the Garden City] and values appearances a great deal. [She is NOT like my mother, just FYI, except my mother is beautiful.]

My novel cannot be characterized as just one thing. It's a mystery, romance, adventure, ghost story. The literary category is called Magical Realism. I also wrote a number of humorous scenes -- at least I hope they are funny, or at least amusing.

Writing a novel posed a lot of challenges.

One, I take care of my mother. She is 85 now. She is a bit frail but not bedridden. However, I fix all her meals and take them to her in her room, and help her dress, and take her to doctor's appointments. It takes up more time than you might think.

Second, I take care of Lola. Yes, she is a dog. However, she was a rescue, and she was never fully potty-trained, so taking her out is important. I also try to walk her a couple of times a day, which is good for us both.

I also work part-time, when possible. That has to take priority, obviously -- bills and all that. Currently I work from home as a paralegal for a litigation attorney.

All this is to say there are almost never stretches of time as long as two hours when I can just write. So I have to write when I can.

Time management is crucial to being a part-time writer. There must be time built into a busy life to simply write. I am still working on that. 

If you are looking for a good story, check out Ghosts in the Garden City.

If you like it, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.

 

Angry Old Men

Years ago there was a movie called 12 Angry Men. I only vaguely remember it but I am betting the men were all over 50. I have observed in my life that most men over fifty, or perhaps sixty, get angry a lot.

Think of Clint Eastwood, who once was a real hottie, and now personifies the GET OFF MY LAWN brand of angry old guys.

My father died at 65. For the last few years of his life he was angry all.the.time. Not angry at the usual culprits -- politics, religion, sports. No, he was angry about random stuff. For instance, after he retired he got angry because Mom and I refused to be barked at like his secretaries.

He got angry if he couldn't find something at the grocery store.

He was very angry at feminism, particularly Sally Field. I never figured that one out, except I guessed maybe he saw a photo from the movie Norma Rae, the one where she's holding a sign that says "UNION." Dad hated unions and feminists.

If you mentioned the words "Jane Fonda" to him he would have a conniption fit right in front of you. I tried to tease him about it once and he had a DEFCON 4 Mega Conniption that I think caused a small earthquake on the opposite side of the world. 

Full disclosure: I was [and still am] a feminist. I'm not an angry "I hate all men" type of feminist, just a garden variety one, advocating for things like women getting paid the same as men for doing the same job.

My brother, who is turning sixty this year, is already deep into Angry Old Man territory.

He often decides that something I have told him is nonsense. He recently said to me, "We're not Cherokee at all." This despite my actual knowledge that one of our maternal great-great-grandmothers was, in fact, half Cherokee.

On a recent visit I heard: "There's nothing wrong with your shoulder, Dee."

Years ago I was told by a doctor that I was born missing a bone in my shoulder, a birth defect which makes it impossible for me to do big things like swing a tennis racquet or throw a bowling ball with any accuracy. I can type really well but that involves my fingers a lot more than my shoulders. I can also play the piano, cook, etc. Just don't ask me to throw or hit a baseball -- ironic, since my grandfather Bob Hasty was a major league baseball player.

One day about a year ago my brother opined that all the companies with the DNA tests were ripoffs, just making stuff up. "They get all that spit and they throw it away and just make up stuff and tell you a few weeks later. It's just a ripoff," he scoffed.

"Then how did they know Michael is part Mongolian?" I pointed out. "His name is Michael Thompson. How did they pick Mongolia, a country right next door to Northern Kazakhstan, where he was born?" Brother had no answer to that. He allowed maybe, just maybe, he was mistaken.

For Christmas last year, Mom gave him a 23andMe DNA test kit.

He has a lot of German in him. I'll just let that sink in.

I have a theory about Angry Old Men.

I think they are angry because they are getting old. Men usually have big egos about their ability to make a fire, mow a lawn in 90 degree heat, grill a perfect steak, choose a good stock to buy, etc. Those types of things are part of the Man Code.

[Ever notice men have to deal with a Man Card but women don't have a Woman Card? We are blessed to be cardless.]

Just to be clear, the Man Code doesn't involve stuff like making a perfect souffle or accessorizing. It involves macho accomplishments. It's also about being physically strong.

Getting up 3 times a night to pee is not part of the Man Code but it's part of being an old man.

Trimming the hair growing out of your nose and ears is also part of being an old man.

I truly think some men get angry because they know they are sliding closer to something they cannot control: death.

Now, I know some guys who totally aren't angry. They are, in fact, delightful. My friend David Moore who is head of the Historic Oakland Foundation is never angry and obnoxious. He works at a cemetery, though. He's made his peace with death.

I also have a cousin who is a pastor at a Presbyterian church, and he's a few years older than me. He's the most mellow, non-angry guy I know.

I think men who don't fear death aren't angry.

Look, everyone gets old. As Bette Davis once said "Old age ain't for sissies."

I don't like a lot of things about getting older, like having to shave chin hairs, never sleeping through the night any more, and wondering why my hair always looks weird. Getting old is not fun.

However, it's better than the alternative. Any time I wake up on this side of the dirt is a good day.

I try to be patient with Angry Old Men, even my brother. I also love to prove to him he's wrong. [It's the best part of my job as a Little Sister.]

Excuse me while I go get an x-ray of my shoulder, just for fun...

Stop the Revolution

Some of my ancestors came over before the American Revolution and then had to fight to be free of England's tyranny. Because of that, I am not a British subject today, but an American citizen. I was thinking about that yesterday. I am very grateful to be an American.

Would I risk my life and fight for an idea?

At that point [late 18th century] the world was ruled by kings and queens and folks who took power through violence and then ignored the people's wants and needs.

Imagine for a moment if the revolution had been lost. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin -- every member of the Continental Congress would have been hung for treason. Their names would merely be footnotes in history.

I have to be honest about something. I see this country heading down a dangerous path. The country is divided. Seriously divided. It's very scary. Some people love the president to the point of the ridiculous. Some people hate the president to the same point. Extremism on both sides. Entertainers are calling for violence towards the president. I have lived long enough and studied history and politics enough to know that we must not go down the path of armed rebellion.

Everyone is choosing sides in the most recent flag debate. The flag was used by Barack Obama a few years back at his second inauguration. Nobody said a word. Now, because a white supremacist used it once, Colin Kaepernick has decided it's offensive and so Nike took it off its new shoe.

I am disgusted.

My ancestors fought to proudly fly the flag. Was our newly-born country perfect? No. There were evil people in it -- just like everywhere on earth.

I admire the veteran-owned company, Nine Line Apparel, that has made a shirt displaying that flag and is now selling it. See this story. You can order the shirt here. These wise words are from the company website:

"We are only able to enjoy our liberties, rights and lives as Americans today, because of what this flag has always symbolized and stood for. For Colin Kaepernick and Nike to say no to the release of what would have probably been a popular shoe for their summer footwear line is like saying no to our 4th of July holiday. The one day of the year where we all unite as one patriotic American family to rejoice and celebrate our freedom, hard fought and won by our country's forefathers. The Betsy Ross flag has a direct correlation with this national patriotic holiday but Kaepernick and Nike don't care. They are a disgrace to all freedom-loving Americans, choosing ignorance over patriotism."

Well said, Nine Line. Thanks for responding patriotically. With so much dividing us today, let's not let a flag make it worse.