Our K9 kids.....

"Wanna go ridin'?!?!?..."

Her answer is never "No."

"Wanna go see Rin-Tin-Tin?!?!?..."

I didn't have the heart to tell her that we were goin' to

the V-E-T.

Routine stuff.

Her was scared. Really scared. Yes her was.

Roxy was sweet though, per usual.

That was this morning.

This afternoon saw me going through it all again with

Sophie. Not routine stuff, but nothing serious, and it

needed to be taken care of.

They love the ride. They hate the arrival.

They don't understand. Our hearts break for them.

They trust us. They curl up under us and the chair in the

exam room. Their tails tucked so tightly as if superglued

to their bellies.

Two trips to the vet today tallied right at $400.

There needs to be an Affordable Healthcare Act for our pets.

Our fur kids.

Indeed, I am Roxy and Sophie's Dad, and Marianne is Mom.

That $400 hurt a bit today, but............

It's a small price to pay for an alarm system, bodyguards,

clowns, ball fetchers, bed warmers, swim buddies, tug of war

opponents, therapists and devoted companions.

That devotion. That unconditional love. That connection.

I need to be the kind of person my dogs think I am...

Well, that WOULD explain it........

Needed to run some errands this morning, so I left home wearin'

my "Errand Running" clothes. (Note: Nike needs to market this idea.)

Pretty much what I wear everyday.

Cargo shorts, T shirt and a ball cap. Marianne calls it my "uniform".

 While out, I figured I wanted to get a haircut. The guys I usually go

to were closed. Vacation time. I like their place because it's an

old school hangout, with Sports Illustrated magazines goin'

back to 1997, and while they offer a shampoo, no one has

ever requested one.

I was hesitant at first about the notion of trying out a new place,

but I'd just read an article recently about not being a "neophobe",

someone who hates/fears trying new things.

It was a place especially for guys, with an all girl staff.

They offered me peanuts and coffee. I declined.

Didn't want the peanuts and really didn't want little tiny

gray hairs floatin' in my coffee, even if they were my own.

"Well, what can you do with this?", I asked, pointing to

my dome.

"Uh, shorten it???", came the reply.

Good strategy. I took a seat in the swivel chair.

When she was finished, she spun me around so I could see

her handiwork. This always cracks me up because, what am

I gonna say?  "Put some back!!!"

She did a fine job given that she didn't have much to work with.

Then. Came. The. Encore.

She pressed an electric massager into my shoulders and neck.

Heaven.

She draped a hot, damp cloth over my face.

She reclined my chair until my head descended into a sink.

I can't really say she gave me a shampoo, but washin' my

head was pretty fan-stinkin'-tastic.

When she was finished, she returned me to my full and upright

position.

And that was when I noticed it.  And I laughed out most loudly.

A big bottle of American Crew labeled "Style Remover"...

I'm sure Marianne thinks I fell into a vat of that stuff about

30 years ago.

A patchwork of pictures......

Marianne did the coolest thing a few years ago... She got a piece of

heavy plywood cut to fit our table in the kitchen area, along with a

heavy piece of glass as well.

She then went to work with old photos and new scissors, cutting them

in jigsaw puzzle fashion until the table top was covered.

The glass seals the deal.

Photos of people and places in our lives.

Moments and memories frozen in time.

The triggering of every emotion.

If you're the least bit OCD, the table will drive you wacky because

the photos are set at all kinds of angles.

The beauty of her design is that where ever you stand or sit, you'll

see something that is perfectly aligned to your perspective.

It's time for an update now. More events to chronicle and new friends and

family members to honor.

Every picture tells a story...

The story of us...

It's supposed to be easier.......

Technology is amazing. No doubt about it. No contest.

Most of the time.

But not when you're a guy.

Grocery shoppin'.

By yourself.

I'll go out to run some errands and I'll offer to stop

by the grocery store. We'll need milk and peanut butter.

By the time I get to the store, 17 new items will have

been texted to me.

Stuff we need, but not how much we need.

Stuff we need, but not what kind we need.

Stuff we need, but not what brand we need.

I craft a reply.

12 or 18 eggs?

Regular ground beef, lean ground beef, or extra lean

ground beef?

Duke's or Hellman's?

I'll hit "Send" on my text.  Then I wait.

By the time I get a response, I've gotten impatient

and am at the farthest point from the item in question.

Every. Single. Time.

I do follow one rule with every trip to the grocery store

whether it is on the list or not.

Always buy bacon...

July 4, 1826....

56 Congressional delegates signed the Declaration of Independence.

The bulk of it's crafting fell to three of our Founding Fathers.

Ben Franklin was 70 years old at the time. He was also the oldest signer.

John Adams was 40.

It's principal author, Thomas Jefferson was only 33.

They all mutually pledged to each other their lives, their fortunes

and their sacred honor.

Adams and Jefferson later became bitter political enemies.

Time passed.

It was not lost on them what they had been a part of.

They rekindled their relationship and exchanged many letters.

According to accounts, John Adams' last words were,

"Thomas Jefferson survives..."

But he was wrong.

Jefferson had passed mere hours before him, with his final

words reportedly, "This is the Fourth..."

These two men.....Allies. Enemies. Friends.

Died 50 years to the day after the signing.

I don't believe in coincidence.

"Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous..."

Things that go BOOM!!!...

Marianne and I just got home from the Town of Fuquay Varina's Fourth

Of July Fireworks Show. On July 3rd. Before dark.

It was fun, but got me to thinkin' back to my first firecrackers.

It was July 1969, and my brother Terry had gotten married in

South Carolina. On the drive back to Virginia, my Dad decided that we'd

stop at that little ole tourist trap, South Of The Border.

Dad let me buy a string of 200 firecrackers.

They were meant to be lit and then explode all in

a row. I had other ideas.

I untangled them so that I'd have 200 separate explosives.

I would patiently build and paint a model of a tank, a plane

or ship.....and then blow it up.

Note: Every guy I grew up with did this.

I have no explanation for it. Just a "boy thing".

Guys like to blow stuff up.  Guys like watching stuff get

blown up.

But I realized tonight while watching' the fireworks, that I'd

enjoy it just as much if I were blindfolded.

The ones I enjoy the most are the big, deep ones that I

feel in my chest. The vibration. The concussion of the

sound wave. They make me giddy.

Maybe it's a guy thing, I don't know.

But I do know...

You can't spell testosterone without using T-N-T...

Tick...Tick...Tick...

I tease women about their shoes. I like to ask how many pairs they own.

That's when the rationalization starts.

"Well, not counting sandals..."

"Well, not counting workout shoes..."

"Well, not counting the ones that are comfortable..."

I have a confession to make.

As women are with shoes, I am with watches.

I own, uh.........let's say.......under 20.

I know that many people don't wear them anymore.

After all, your cell phone accurately gives you the time.

But for me, some of my watches aren't about time.

I still have my stainless steel Seiko automatic. It was my first

Christmas bonus from my first boss at the first radio station

I worked at in Petersburg, Va. The year was 1973.

Another is a Swiss Army commemorating the 25th Duke Children's

Classic, and reminds me of the kids there and the special place

they hold in my heart.

A Victorinox Swiss Army watch was a gift from Marianne just

six days before Christmas in 2008.  The significance is personal.

Trust me, it's a biggie. And the watch itself is a tank. It's the

"500M" Model, meaning it'll work at depths up to 500 meters.

I can work up to 2 meters.

I have a Fossil watch with the NCAA Championship logo on the

face of it.  Marianne and I were given "his and hers" models on

the occasion of my leaving radio. I'm not gonna drop names

here, but the guy who gave them to us noted that "Now you

two can be on the same time..."  The watch reminds me of the

very special friends I've made along the way.

And finally, a leather strapped Rolex that was presented to me

at my farewell brunch when I left Capitol Broadcasting in

March 2013.  It reminds me of that almost 40 year roller coaster

ride in radio and the immensely talented people that I had the honor

to learn from.

So for me, my watches tell me more than the time.

They tell me of my times...