Kate Calls Grandad's Bluff on Claw Machines

The old journalist grandad offers a word lesson today for all the grandkids: You can’t tell a word by its cover, and words sometimes don’t provide adequate cover.

I’m not addressing the old homonym conundrum that afflicts most people, who often write rein when they mean reign, or threw when they mean through (if you think that doesn’t happen, you’re wrong; I’ve seen it dozens of times) .

Rather, I’m passing on the heritage of knowledge that words sometimes are spelled the same but have different meanings. Take the word train, for instance.

Vincent once was obsessed with trains, although I believe now he’s more into planes. That brings up an editing diversion. Fix this sentence: The rein in Spain falls mainly on the plane, where the raining king looked out the window pain and saw caballeros below trying to reign in the horses.

Back to the serious lesson: Lest you think Vincent ever considered changing his name to Vincenzo and preparing his own clothing line for fashion week, I must clarify that he didn’t sit around as a toddler sketching wedding dresses and their trains. Nope, he was into the manly pursuit of railroad trains, and I’ve chronicled before how he would awaken me in the middle of the night when he heard a train whistle and we would scoot out the door in our jammies to run to the tracks. His accumulation of toy trains and his body of knowledge about railroading are legion.

Take another word: bluff. One meaning carries an air of deception, especially in cards, where one can bluff about one’s hand to throw opponents off of their own games. Although bluffing, in that sense, can lead to a precipitous decline in winnings, it is not related to another precipitous meaning of bluff. In that sense, bluff can mean peak, or mountain, or cliff, or even promontory.

Now, if a person, such as a grandad, has a certified illness, such as an addiction to claw machines, his family often intervenes and gets him into rehab to cure the malady.

Skip and Melissa tried to discourage me because the claw machine booty I rained on the Four Horsemen (especially after I found a claw machine that coughed up toys like a baby does broccoli, and I won something like 17 stuffed St. Patrick's Day toys in 20 tries, most of which I dumped on that Italian family). But I kept getting sucked back in, not unlike Michael Corleone. The Grandfather Clause was a victim of the Godfather Claws.

  

The real intervention began when Kate opted for tough love to wean me from my magnetic attraction to claw machines, often cuffing me about the head and warning: “Step away from the claw machine” when I would veer toward one.

I’m largely cured, and I try to be adult about it, although I have to acknowledge that sometimes I’m bluffing when I return from the store and tell her I walked right on by the claw machine with nary a glance. And I fall to the temptation, which is why she got a red bear for Valentine’s Day.

So, I should be forgiven for the fact that I just couldn’t bluff when an octopus beckoned from a claw machine the other day. You see, Avery was visiting with his parents, and I learned that he likes octopi.

I glanced around to make sure that nobody was looking — especially to check whether Kate had tailed me to the store — and set about to get the octopus. First, I had to invest a dollar to grab the toy that was atop the octopus so I would have a clear shot. (Those of us addicted to the machines know when it’s worth the effort, and the odds of success, for such an advanced move, and mine worked.)

Then I went home, clinging to the octopus, preparing my bluff to avoid Kate’s taking me to the woodshed. Avery and his parents were just returning from a grocery store, so I thrust the octopus into his hands and said to Kate, with amazement: “Lookit what Avery found at the store!”

                      Avery delights in his new octopus.

No dummy is Kate, whose anti-claw campaign to put me on the straight and narrow can outstretch any octopus, who scolded: “Michael Joseph Tighe! You were at the claw machine. AGAIN.”

So, since my bluff failed to provide ground cover for me, I skedaddled to another sense of the word bluff, a scenic overlook in La Crosse called Grandad Bluff. The promontory towers 590 feet over the city, and 1,183 feet above sea level.

And wouldn’t ya know it: There aren’t any claw machines up there, 1,183 above sea level. So maybe Kate will call this grandad’s bluff and banish him to the bluff.

On the other hand, Grandad's Bluff was ONE place where I could have used a claw, after Avery tossed his binky over the fence. No way was I going to climb over to retrieve it. I'm more skeert of heights than I am of being punished when a claw machine grabs me and I have to claw my way out.

                    Avery and grandad take refuge on Granddad's Bluff, high above La Crosse, WI.

It Was Here Yesterday, but Not Hair Today, or Tomorrow

I can’t fathom why bad haircuts happen to good people, especially when this good people has a daughter who is one of the best hairstylists in the nation, if not the WORLD.

The answer, of course, is that Allison lives and works in St. Paul, MN, while I live in La Crosse, WI. It’s a more convenient arrangement than when I lived in Florida, and I could benefit from her digital dexterity in unlocking the charms of my thinning locks only occasionally, when she went South or I visited North.

Now, we’re just a few hours apart. But once in awhile, our schedules still don’t mesh of her coming here, or me, there, so I have to go elsewhere when my mane looks like a pain.

Well, it really turned out to be a pain this time, as I had eschewed Kate’s usual (and repeated) advice to go to a real stylist. My excuse is lame: I don’t like to keep track of appointments, so I opt for places with friendly window signs proclaiming: “Walk-ins welcome.”

I try to choose where I walk in carefully, though, because I had discovered during previous follicular forays that you can’t always predict quality. Thus, when a shop’s name starts with “Great,” you can’t guarantee the clip. (Quite the contrary.) I wanted “Fantastic,” so I tried a place with that in the name, as I had had some success there before.

I suppose I should take part of the rap and acknowledge that it could have been missed communication. When I told her I wanted it short on the sides, around a half-inch, I didn’t imagine that she’d keep right on buzzing across the top of my dome. When she did, my gaping maw filled with so much hair that I couldn’t mouth a protest.

By then, the sheep was shorn, to this ridiculous extent:

I panicked for a couple of reasons:

*        I knew Kate would be tempted to skin me alive, especially since the process already had started.

*        I just landed a new job, and I have to report in just a few days, and I’m afraid the fella who interviewed me won’t remember me. I can just imagine him saying to HR: “I have NO idea who this guy is; show him the door."

So I chose the obvious solution: I dawdled and fiddle-farted around before going home, hoping my hair would grow a bit. Actually, I was hoping that all of the hairs would grow, but I would have been satisfied with a tiny bit.

My solution failed, so I went home, with my tail between my legs. (The slasher had spared my tail.)

And here I sit, with a haircut that hasn’t been this short since I was in first grade.

Kate was too stunned to kill me, but suffice to say that she’s having great fun at my expense, asking repeatedly who the stranger is. And she has pointed out several times that my mustache is longer than the hair on my noggin.

I can’t quite figure out her reaction, because she’s a Wisconsin native and green-and-yellow-blooded Packers fan who has a huge crush on World Champion wide receiver Donald Driver. And he’s got a shaved head, too.

           

So what’s he got that I don’t? Well, there IS his smile, but I’ve got a nice smile, too, I’ve been told. (Well, OK, I don’t have the teeth, but that’s only part of a smile, right.)

         

So I checked him out on “Dancing With the Stars” to see what I was up against.

          Oh, NOW I see. It’s the abs. And the guns. And the tats. And the moves. I guess my hairdo gone bad wouldn’t matter if I had other attributes to distract folks.

         

I’ve got the last laugh, though, because Kate did buy me a share in the Packers so, in a way, I own a piece of The Donald. And I mean The Athletic Donald, of course.

I’m also toying with another solution when I head to my first day on the new job. How’s this look for a fixer-upper?

How Do I Get the Boat Out of the Basement, Jethro?

I feel a bit like Mark Harmon’s persona as Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Oh, not because I actually look like Harmon, although I did try to force my hair into his bowl-cut, center-part iteration for awhile.

          I looked nothing like him, in more ways than one. And my hair just wouldn’t behave like his (much like it wouldn’t behave like Colin Farrell’s during that phase of my spiky-haired-wannabe-ness).

On the other hand, I echoed Gibbs with the boat-in-the-basement dilemma that was a pivotal point in “NCIS.” My boat was like his hair, in that my inflatable model looks NOTHING like his finely wood-crafted model, just like my hair wouldn’t hew to his style.

          On the upside, I didn’t have all of the sawdust to contend with that Gibbs did during his meticulous fashioning of the wonderful wooden hulls for boats in his basement. I think he built four. The prevailing question on the show was why did he build the boats; the running joke was how did he get them out of the basement.

That’s my dilemma now: How do I get my boat out of my basement? Kate got it for me for Valentine’s Day, and I recently inflated it. It appears seaworthy or, in my case, river-worthy, IF I can just get it out the door.

The look on Jazzy's face indicates that she appreciates my dilemma. (If I could read her mind, methinks it would be saying, "What was he THINKING?")

When They Drive — Don't Look Back

Well, it’s obvious that Kate and I should start saving up for Amelia’s first car. Back in 2010, when Avery wasn’t even standing yet and Amelia hadn’t been walking all that long, I fell into the usual grandfather trap of deciding to buy them kid-sized, battery-powered cars.

I can’t explain why I felt compelled to get them wheels at such young ages. Heck, I didn’t get Vincent and Jack their first car until Vincent was 5, maybe 6, and Jack was a year younger — lo, those many years ago. I got a heckuva deal on the bright yellow, two-seat Corvette, and their beaming faces during their first spin around the block would have been worth the price of a full-sized, full-fledged, full-priced ’Vette. When Luke was 3, maybe 4, I snagged him a single-seat, battery-powered golf cart. Too bad I ran out of juice before Patrick started knocking around, because I think the only power thing I’ve ever given him was a power nap. (Not that there aren’t enough such vehicles in the Four Horsemen’s garage, with batteries in various stages of charge, and discharge.)

I didn’t even ask Brendan and Erica whether it was OK to get for their son, because, well, I didn’t want them to say no. So we got Avery the “Cars” car. But I did check with Annie and Kevin about the California terrain their daughter might encounter, as well as whether Amelia might want the “Cars” model or the pink option with girlie designs and flowers.

Amelia may look pretty in pink, but I didn’t want to force a stereotype on her. Speaking of pretty in pink, I’m reminded of a great movie from her mom’s teen years. And, since “Pretty in Pink” featured my FAVORITE song from the ’80s, OMD’s “If You Leave,” I share:




OK, now where was I, before I left my mind? Oh, yeah, well, Annie responded that their neighborhood really wasn’t conducive to Amelia Andrettis careening around and suggested a pedal-power mode of transportation. So she opted for a pedal-powered trike.

As it turned out, the “gas” pedal in Avery’s battery-powered car presented a challenge, as he couldn’t even reach the dadgum thing at the beginning. Eventually, after lengthy tutoring and stretching his leg, he was able to reach it. And he eventually mastered the idea that pushing it makes the car go.

That was then, this is now, when I get this picture from Annie: “Amelia enjoying the tricycles . . . on her day off . . . ”



Now, that sure looks like a driving course, complete with cones, to me. Next thing you know, she’ll be angling for a car, just to keep up with the grandsons. So maybe, around Christmas, or maybe, even at that July birthday ...

Well, at least the training might keep her from crashing into trees, like Avery occasionally is wont to do:



.
Like I mentioned above, I don’t know why I feel the need for all of them to have cars. Heck, I was 19 or 20 before I got my first one, and I had to pay for that ’63 Volkswagen Beetle myself.

Maybe I’m caught in a ’50s time warp, back to when granddad was a lad, and there was a car for every garage. On the other hand, most garages those days were for just one car — unlike these days, when even simple folk in the suburbs have two-, three-, and four-car garages.

Oddly enough, despite the proliferation of garages, many folks STILL park their cars in their driveways because their garages are too full of toys such as boats and totes and mowers, etc., etc.

And, I can attest, some are a little crowded with battery-powered cars that over-indulgent grandparents have thrust upon their kids’ households.

We Teach Flat Stanley to Man Up to Wisconsin Winter

Flat Stanley was perplexed, petulant and, well, positively pouty when Kate and I unfolded him in a letter from Jack.

Stanley squinted his eyes at the blast of sunlight after being cooped up in the envelope during his three-day mail journey from Florida. Dazed, he gazed around and shivered as he spit out this greeting: “D-d-d-dadG-G-G-GUMMIT it’s c-c-c-c-cold here. W-w-w-w-why would J-j-j-jack send me all the way from t-t-t-the S-s-s-s-s-sunshine S-t-t-t-state to this t-t-t-t-t-tundra?”

If you’ve never seen a Flat Stanley, or heard the drill, here’s a thumbnail explanation: Stan the man is a school project in which students send paper outlines — paper dolls of Stanley, after a fashion — across the land, and sometimes around the world, to experience the contrasting aspects of varying cultures. (Eg: Jack’s Stanley learned that we make cheese in Wisconsin, compared with one of the favorite pastimes the Four Horsemen and I have about cutting cheese.)

Stanley wasn’t ALWAYS flat, as is recounted in children’s book titled, appropriately, “Flat Stanley.” Rather, the story goes, a bulletin board fell on a youngster named Stanley, who was smashed “as flat as a pancake.” Stanley survived, albeit flat. Jeff Brown’s book chronicles Stanley’s discoveries of times when being flat has its advantages.

In this case, I suppose, the advantage was being able to be stuffed into an envelope without further smashing in a postage machine. And that’s how Stanley came to us: flatter than a pancake, and shivering like an Eggo waffle right out of the freezer. After I sat Stanley by the fire, he thawed enough to speak fluent flatulence (must be the official language of Flat Stanleyland), so I told him to switch to English as his second language because it’s the only one I understand.

He did so (embarrassing to me that a piece of paper is multi-lingual, while I’m not) and laboriously lamented his plight, whining about the weather.

Well, I can see where a Florida-born Stanley’s blood might be too thin for the Badger State, but Kate and I kind of like the seasonal changes, and the bluffs around La Crosse are beautiful year-round, whether busting with blossoms in the spring, or tighe-dyed in green during the summer, or ablaze with a multicolored palette in the fall, or dusted with snow come winter.

Another reason I don’t blame the lad is that he arrived here without a stitch of clothing on, on a frosty day with snow in the forecast. Maybe there oughtta be a law against shipping nekkid Flat Stanleys in the mail.

So I needed to get the little feller some appropriate clothing. Packers. Partly to tweak Jack’s dad, Skip, a Buffalo Bills fan.

OK, OK, truth be told maybe I did make Stanley shovel first thing, but I loaned the little feller a boot.



OK, OK, maybe the shovel was a tad big for the lad.



So, it’s not like I made him weather a storm in some desolate place right out of the movie "Fargo." He was dawdling in his shoveling toward the end, making snow angels (I KNEW he’d like it once he got out there), so I hollered out the door: “Hey, Stan, done yet? Want some hot chocolate?”

And then, he embraced The North with his Fargo moment, saying, “Yah!”



As he wiped the froth from his lip and played with the swimming marshmallows, I said, “Do ya like dat hot choklit, son?”

“Oh,” he said with a grin, “YAH!”

He also warmed to the Badger State, and took a road trip south with us into the warmer climes of Illinois for the Christmas weekend. While here, he snowballed, toured Christmas displays, saw real reindeer, rode Santa’s sleigh and also rode around the house on the dogs’ backs. I tried to teach him how to do armpit farts, but alas, he can’t bend his arms.

He got quite a kick out of my ice fishin’ joke, though, when we tiptoed down the steps — lookout for the ICE on the ramp — to our dock to watch ice fishermen.

“Hey Stanley,” I said. “Do ya know how to ice fish?”

“Nope,” he said, with a look of puzzlement.

“Well, you take a can of peas (frozen peas will work, too), and saw a hole in the ice. Then you open the peas and place them around the hole.”

Leaning forward with excitement and to rebuff a gust of wind that nearly knocked him over, Flat Stanley said, “Not worms? You don’t use worms? Or minnows? And THEN what?”

“Nope, not worms, or minnows,” I replied. “Just peas. You see, when the fish comes up to take a pea, you kick him in the icehole.”

He continued to look puzzled for a moment, then caught the word play and doubled up in laughter.

And thus Flat Stanley evolved from a fainthearted Floridian into a weatherized Wisconsinite in just a few short days.

We finally sent Flat Stanley packing back to the humidity of Florida, so he could take his place on a bulletin board not unlike the one that smashed him in the first place.

But we’re betting that that the little guy will be cheering the Packers in the Super Bowl. Speaking of Packers, Santa Kate gave me a SWELL Christmas gift: my own share in Packers stock. And thus, I’ve joined the sparse ranks of NFL team owners.

Although I’m sure Aaron Rodgers and his teammates will make me a proud shareholder all the way to the Super Bowl, consider this fair warning, from a shareholder: If you falter, Flat Stanley is on the sidelines, waiting to waive you goodbye.

P.S.: The whole experience gave me an idea. We'd like Jack to visit, too, instead of just his Flat Stanley, but airline tickets are sooooooooooo expensive that that's prohibitive. Maybe Melissa and Skip would just fold up their second born and stick him in an envelope. Then we could host Flat Jack. If it worked out, we could entertain his brothers as well: Flat Vincent, Flat Luke, and Flat Patrick.

What do you think, Flat Jack? Are you game, if your folks make sure nobody folds, staples or mutilates the envelope? Gimme a YAH, and a YAY!

I Saw Avery Kissing Santa Claus ...

Soooooooooo, Avery pitched a bit of a fit when he had a chance to meet the real Santa Claus a couple of weeks back, but my youngest grandchild recovered enough to get cozy during a visit to our place this weekend for an early Christmas.

OK, so maybe Snoopy isn't the same as the real McCoy, but little steps for little fellers who are a few months shy of their second birthdays, eh? This time next year, his cousins Amelia and the Four Horsemen will have him trained to seal his letter to Santa with a kiss just like they do.

I know you're all used to columns that go on, and on, and on, but you're in luck today: I'm just wrapping up a 9.5-hour shift at work in my home office, with barely a potty break, and I'm too tired to wax eloquently. Plus, I'm out of words.

And, anyway, like they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Patrick Sticks a Lego Where the Sun Don't Shine, and Nurses Stick It To Vincent

Patrick certainly put a different spin on the old ad adage, “Leggo my Eggo,” when he rushed to Melissa and implored: “Mommy, get it OUT!”

He pointed frantically to his nose, and she couldn’t imagine why he raised such a clatter — until she rushed to the window of his nostrils to see what was the matter. To her surprise, and chagrin, she discovered that a Lego had become lodged deep in the darkness of one of his wind tunnels.

And it wasn’t just resting in there, like a booger about to be freed from its entrapment in his teensy-tiny nose hairs and waft into the atmosphere. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a square peg in a round hole, which might have been easier to dislodge with a tweezers in a practiced hand. Rather, it was a round piece that had worked its way farther up the lad’s nostril as he had tried to retrieve it.

I couldn’t help but regret, as Melissa told me the story over the phone, that I had neglected to tell Patrick never to put anything in his nose except a finger on a mining expedition, or, perhaps, his elbow. (I know that echoes the advice never to put anything in your ear bigger than your elbow, so call me orifice retentive; you just shouldn’t put stuff where it doesn’t belong.)

No, this isn't Patrick with the Lego up his nose, because nobody had a teeny-tiny camera to send on a journey to the center of his nostril. As you may recall, this was his Target Secret moment when he went bra hopping. He just has this HABIT of putting things where they don't belong. (SMILE)


God only knows how or why Patrick stuck the Lego where the sun don’t shine, and Melissa probably figured that only God would know how to get it out.


As Patrick Michael flailed and railed, Mommy tried to remain calm. She urged him to blow air out of his nostril, as if he were blowing his nose. Of course, we all know that a 3-year-old hasn’t mastered such basic bodily functions, among others — especially when he’s got a Lego lodged in his snotlocker.

So the lad was inhaling instead of propelling the Lego from his hangar into orbit. It really sucked.

Melissa sent Skip to the computer so he could Google a magic solution to avoid having to traipse to the E.R., sitting there for hours, and having to fork over hundreds for an insurance co-pay. One website that proffers fixes for children’s mishaps suggested pepper, cinnamon, or something else to induce a sneeze.

As Mom lined up those options, she called a nurse friend for a second opinion. Laura cautioned against being too creative because, if the tricks didn’t work and they had to go to the E.R., staffers would have to report it as an “incident,” which could lead to reports and, well, you know the drill. It’s better not to try it at home.

Another option was using air to force out the plastic intruder. Being a gentle mom, Melissa wouldn’t have considered using a shop vac, no matter how gently, as a wag would suggest to her later.

Instead, she told her youngest that she was going to kiss him and blow into his mouth at the same time. This she did, becoming a human jaws of life of sorts, blowing gently while she closed off the free nostril.

Ka-BLAM, the Lego shot across the room like an RPG, she reported to me with relief.

Patrick was shocked and awed, startled, and stunned. Shocked and awed that he could breathe, and startled and stunned that the Lego piece was orange.

“MOMMY!” he exclaimed. “I thought it was a red piece!”

And that’s the way it is with kids, recovering with a practical observation after courting disaster.

I suppose it’s important to note that no Legos were harmed in this incident.

The tale segues to another medical emergency, and one that ended up being more perilous. It involved Vincent, just a day or two after Patrick’s Lego moment, that showed the 10-year-old’s indomitably optimistic approach to life.

He had been feeling poorly for a day or so. You know the scenario: sick enough to suggest staying home from school, but not sick enough to miss flag football. (Well, to be perfectly honest, Vincent normally wouldn’t lobby to stay home from school. He’s the type whose hair would have to be on fire before he would even consider skipping school — and even then he’d try to put on a hat to snuff the flames and then head to school. So the fact that he even suggested it this time indicates he was really sick, although he did want to go to flag football, and he did.)

So Skip and Melissa did the usual doctoring that parents can do, but Vincent took a turn for the worse around 11 p.m. His lips ballooned so big that they would have made a Snoopy balloon in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade look like a stocking stuffer.

She called a doctor’s service, who told her to high-tail it to E.R. Once there, the nurses hopped to it, sticking in an IV and fitting him with an oxygen mask.

Even though it took three sticks to connect the IV to a vein (driving Melissa NUTS — as every mom [and many dads] knows, it’s hard to watch your own child be a pin cushion even when the needle hits the target the first time), Vincent took everything not only in stride but also with an optimism that would make Pollyanna look like a pessimistic, prickly porcupine.

Looking around the room as Melissa stood watch, he observed, “This isn’t too bad. The bed is comfortable, and we’re getting to spend time together.”

Ah, good times. Well, those good times stretched to nearly five hours as docs and nurses tried to figure out what might have sparked the apparent allergic reaction and to treat it.

Even at this point, serving as a pin cushion and surrounded by hospital paraphernalia, Vincent tries to put on a happy face. But he said to Melissa after she took the photo: "Sorry if my smile is not so good. It's kind of hard to smile now." I bet Melissa teared up at that show of courage under needles. Recalling the exchange, she says: "He is amazing!"

On way home, at 4:30 a.m., Melissa noted that they probably should grab some breakfast before trying to get some shuteye.

So Mom and her firstborn pulled into Dunkin’ Donuts for a little more quality time.

Ahhh, good times. But I can’t help but wonder: If Patrick puts 2 and 2 together and realizes Vincent snagged some doughnut holes for his emergency, while all he got was an orange snot rocket out of his deal, he just might give another Lego a wedgie into his nostril.

NOW I Know Why Avery's Skeert of Me

Avery has been in a phase of late, one that might faze lesser men than I. Although the lad is still more than three months from being in his own terrible 2s, he has settled into a streak in which he’s terrified of me. (Many contend that my own terrible 2s have continued for 60-plus years.)

Even though he runs away from me with Olympic speed, I have talked myself into being unflappable rather than flummoxed.

I’ve got evidence that he wasn’t always so skeert of me. And I know it isn’t all about me, because I have further evidence that his parents have duped the normally happy lad into acting terrified around me.

You see, they have made his blood run purple. And that, my friends, is why he lets out blood-curdling screams when I approach. Indeed, his terror smacks him sight unseen. A couple of weeks back, when Kate and I trekked from our new digs in La Crosse, Wis., to his new digs in a Twin Cities suburb to visit, he started screaming when he saw her, because he’s bright enough to realize that, when she’s around, I can’t be far away.

Sure ’nuf, when I rounded the corner, his screams intensified, and he clung to Mommy all the tighter. Oh, he’d give me fist-bumps and high-fives, but he screamed bloody murder when I tried to pick him up.

Oddly enough, these incidents came only a few months after we’d had great fun playing together, and he even tried to look down my gullet to see what I’m made of or, perhaps, what I had for dinner.

Here is photographic evidence that we can get along famously, in happier times:







Shortly thereafter, though, his terrors of me happened day or night, although they remind me of the night terrors his dad experienced as a young boy when he sleepwalked, often morphing into episodes of fear.

But back then, in the days of Refrigerator Perry, Brendan was a Bears fan, as many folks in Dubuque, Iowa, were, so I doubt that there was a football connection to his bad dreams.

After we moved to Minnesota, though, he got the purple gangrene, a malady that his milady, Erica, shares.

So I suspect a Vikings connection with Avery aversion to me. Time was, I even fancied myself as a Vikings fan, even when I lived in Florida, because I couldn’t stand the Miami Dolphins, let alone the dadgummed Gator Nation.

Now that I’m ensconced in the Badger State, home of the Packers green and gold, I suspect that they’re green with envy, especially because the Packers are golden these days. And the Vikings are, well, hardly deserving of the Nordic name.

Brendan and Erica — well, probably Brendan moreso than Erica — have forced the Vikings upon Avery almost from the moment he popped into the world.

Indeed, during the tot’s first football seasons on Earth, Mom and Dad decked him out in Vikings apparel.


Obviously, Avery has no idea that his parents use him as a pawn on Game Daze, in these duds they forced him into when he didn't have enough hair to stand on end at the terrifying thought of what they had done.

Kate and I avoided the temptation to turn them over to child protective services for abusing the lad. Actually, we did so because child protection could have looked at us askance for giving him a battery-operated car for his first Christmas. OK, so he was too young, but I got a great deal on the “Cars” car, and I’d become addicted to giving the Four Horsemen cars when they were too young, too.

Fortunately, he didn’t learn how to drive it until a few months ago, but even then, he drove it like the Vikings have played football this season: straight into a tree. And he just kept his pedal to the metal, as the spinning wheels tossed mulch into the air.



I just got back from a visit to the next generation of Tighes, once removed from me, and I made some headway. Early on, he went to great pains to avoid me, clinging to the wall as he walked around the house so he could stay as far away from me as possible.

But after he feasted on pizza, when he was still trapped in the high chair so he couldn’t flee, he actually laughed and giggled when I tickled him. We parted on super terms.

Only later, though, did I discover that the plot had thickened, with an expanded list of players. Of course, I had worn my Packers jacket, to taunt the Vikings Purple People Eaters.

After I left Avery’s place, I went to my daughter Allison’s salon. She smiled at my jacket and said Brendan had texted her about it. That seemed odd, but I assumed he had texted a message saying something like, “I can't BELIEVE that Dad is wearing Packers green and gold.”

Allison told me to turn around, so she could see “the letters,” so I did, thinking she meant the Packers. She laughed, and her customer laughed.

Only later, when I took my jacket off, did I see that somebody had vandalized it, covering “Packers” with a piece of tape saying, “SUCK.” AHA! Proof that they’re brainwashing the boy, and THAT's why he's been afraid of me. Very, VERY afraid, because I represent something that's crushed the Viqueens.

Frustrated Vikings fans resort to vandalism because they can't win. Fortunately, it's only a misdemeanor, unlike the Vikes' felonious season.

I blamed Brendan at first, until I noticed that the handwriting looked more like Erica’s block letters than his. And NOW, I’ve discovered, through sleuthing and a spy who will remain nameless, that her dad was in on the scheme, too.

I’m stunned, STUNNED, I tell ya, that a man of the cloth would stoop to vandalism. Obviously, Larry is man of the purple cloth.

Well, I suspect that I’ll be getting the last laugh when the Pack gives the Vikings a football lesson in their second meeting of the season Monday night. I predict a reprise of the Packers’ 33-27 win over the Vikings in October.

That will give the Purple Gang reason to cry in their purple beer. And I’ll be able to convert Avery to being a fan of a quarterback whose name also starts with an A, Aaron Rodgers.

And we'll see who sucks.

Allison Morphs From a Scaredy-Kid Into a Soft-Hearted Aunt

Time was, I didn’t think I’d ever see Allison warm up to kids. Well, let me refine that: Time was, I didn’t think I’d ever see Allison warm up to children.

If you buy the old admonition that you shouldn’t call children kids because kids are goats, then Al always has liked kids because she always has favored animals. At one time, she even aspired to becoming a veterinarian.

I swear, there have been times when she would have thrown me under the bus to save an animal. (That’s why I lied to her during a family trip when she was about 5 or 6. Driving in the dark on a two-lane, rural highway, I couldn’t swerve to avoid the raccoon. I SWEAR, I didn’t have time to swerve, and the coon froze like a deer in headlights. When Allison heard the “thump-thump-thump” under the car, she awoke from a slumber in the back seat and said, “What was that?” “It was just a rock in the road,” I said as Annie and Brendan exchanged knowing glances [as older siblings are wont to do]. “Go back to sleep.” Had I told the truth, she’d have tossed me under the van.)

Actually, I even recall the time she did throw somebody under the bus, after a fashion, although it wasn’t me. It occurred shortly after I moved to Florida, after she graduated from high school, lo those many years ago.

A hurricane — I can’t remember which one, there were so many that year — had just raked South Florida, and I called Al back home to regale her with tales of my first experience with that side of Mother Nature.

I told her the tragic story of a group of five adults out walking a dog to survey the damage resulting from the hurricane: They were electrocuted as they walked through water that was electrified by a downed power line.

Without missing a beat, Allison’s only question was: “What happened to the dog?”

That obviously underscores her priorities, and her leanings toward four-footed creatures. More evidence: She lived on a ranch for four years or so, taking care of about 50 horses including her full-time job as a hairstylist. And the horse she leases, Gammon, is one of the great loves of her life.

Al and Gammon.

She was devastated when her first dog, Yippers (aptly named because the little feller yapped at everything and everybody), passed into the great beyond of Kibbles and Bits, and her love for her present dog, Rodeo, knows no bounds.

Al's Yippers lives on in doggie heaven, and her heart.

As for Rodeo, he's a loyal friend and dedicated sentinel for Allison, often taking up his post on her front porch to watch the world go by as he waits for her to return from work.

Rodeo maintains his vigil at one of his favorite spots, on Allison's front porch.

So, in the course of her life, Al’s always preferred to stay an arm’s length from kids. Indeed, she even used to stiffen up when a child came into a room, and got a deer-in-headlights look if it looked like a youngster might touch her.

Until NOW. Aunt Allison is a whole different animal, so to speak, and it’s kind of a triple-A situation: Allison, Amelia, and Avery. When Amelia and Avery are around, she has dears in her headlights.

In fact, she even blows bubbles with Amelia during trips to California.

How cute is THAT, with Al reprising her childhood with niece Amelia?

And during her most recent trip, after she’d been gone for a couple of hours, Amelia approached her seriously and grabbed her leg, almost sobbing, as she said, “I missed you sooooooooooo MUCH.”

As for Avery, even though he’s in a phase in which he cries when some people try to hold him, namely Allison and moi, among a few others, Aunt Allison still cuddles the little bugger, as evidenced by this photo of them when we were out for lunch a couple of months back.

Once averse to children, Aunt Al now hugs Avery with a passion.

So the daughter who once froze around kids now melts, although she doesn’t always like to admit that.

When I told her I was working on this column about her softening heart as an aunt, she mulled the idea quietly for a few seconds before saying: “Well, OK, but Rodeo’s still my favorite.”

And THAT's OK. (But pictures tell a different story: The kids are at least equal, no?)

Tip du Jour: Trim Your Nose Hairs the 28th of Every Month

I realize now that I was remiss in not teaching my kids a lot of basic life skills, such as how to check the oil in their cars, but I never even thought of passing on my theory of nose-hair hygiene.

Actually, in my defense, I didn’t develop my nose-hair regimen until, oh, a decade or so ago. I didn’t even realize I needed one until one day when I tripped. On one of my nose hairs.



And now, I’ve also had to develop an ear-hair regimen because, well, a blue pill is the least of worries for men of a certain age, in my opinion. Finding hair in all the wrong places is the main problem.

Back to basic life skills. Obviously, I should have showed the kids what’s under the hood of a car instead of just assuming they learned it in driver’s ed, like I did. I still remember laughing at a joke one day that pivoted on a dumb blonde trying to put oil down that tiny hole — the dipstick hole instead of the oil entry point. (Mind you, I scolded the joke teller, insisting that I found dumb blonde jokes distasteful.)

Imagine my surprise, then, about a week later, when Brendan called me and asked how to get oil down the little hole. DOH! The joke was on me — and I really felt like a dipstick.

Similarly, I should have clued the kids in to my nose-hair-clipping schedule. Perhaps that would have spared my oldest, Annie, from the angst she endured when Amelia looked up at her the other day and said, “Spider webs, mommy?”

From the mouths of babes, and 2-year-olds . . .

Of course, I wouldn’t narc Annie out if she hadn’t narc’ed herself, via Facebook. People say the darndest things about themselves on Facebook. Indeed, Art Linkletter could have had a bazillion more things to run if Facebook and YouTube had been around when he used to regale TV audiences with his kid kwotes.

With no further ado, before I bid this life adieu, I figure it’s my obligation to tell not only my kids but also the 10 or 12 people who read this blog the best approach to keeping spider webs out of the old schnoz.

Timing is the key. You must trim once a month — at least that works for me. And my schedule is simple: The 28th of every month, I haul out my little battery-powered nose-hair clipper and whack away.

Why the 28th, you ask? It’s simple, really. If I waited until the 29th, then I would end up missing a month every leap year. Why not the first day of the month? DOH! That answer is simple, too: To avoid confusing it with other notable holidays, such as New Year's Day and May Day.

So the 28th is best, to avoid confusion.

Speaking of confusion, I’ve found that missing a month can be nearly fatal. I’m anal, you see, so, if I happen to miss the appointed day, my OCD tendencies force me to wait until the next opportunity. And a month’s overgrowth can snarl a guy’s arms and feet like the trees trying to grab Dorothy in the forest.

In short, guy can trip on a birds nest of nose hairs, fall down the steps and break his hip. And it’s all downhill from there.

So, chilluns, when your car needs oil, take it to the dealership, which I do because I never knew how to change the oil even back when cars were easy to work on. And clip your nose hairs on the 28th of the month.

The only alternative I can think of is just giving up and braiding the snotlocker locks.




Amelia’s words of wisdom to Annie came during a visit to the Midwest. I hadn’t seen her since she was a baby, and MY how she’s grown. She nestled right in with a bunch of stuffed toys at our house, when she wasn’t eating watermelon, that is.





And now, I’m going to go clip. My toenails. I don’t have a set date for them.





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Call Me PikeMike, Just Like Jack Christened Me

A picture is worth a thousand words, so I’ll forgo my usual opus and let the picture stand for itself.

This Northern Pike, caught off our dock out back and down the hill in the Mississippi bayou, would have weighed in at 18.5 pounds if I would have had a scale and been brave enough to hoist the scaly, saber-toothed dinosaur.


Kate also asked whether I wanted her to take a picture of me holding it before I released it to join its relatives in the muddy waters. I passed on that opportunity — its teeth were HUGE — and just made it a tale of the tape on the ground before returning the scaly monster to the deep. Fortunately, Google sent me to a website that computes the weight based on the length, 40 inches in this case. (Google can tell you the DAMNDEST things, eh?)

Well, here I am already violating my vow to be brief, because the light just dawned, and I need to share an anecdote:

I always thought that Jack just had trouble pronouncing my name back when he was 1½ or 2. He didn’t seem to be able to spit out the three syllables of Papa Mike, like Vincent did, and he wouldn’t say just Mike, for some reason — probably as a show of respect, even at that young age.

So he settled on PikeMike, which remains my fave nickname to this day. And I still find it amazing the solutions that kids come up with to solve their problems.

And now I realize that Jack wasn’t tongue-tied but a genius — a psychic, even — who could see into the future, predicting that folks someday might acknowledge my Northern Pike prowess. I can just imagine that, after I’ve passed on to the fishing grounds in the sky, earthbound folks still will be talking about old PikeMike in the same breath as they recall legends such as Davy Crockett and another famous Mike: Mike Fink.

I think I’ll let the lad pick some lottery numbers for me, and I might even ask him when HE thinks the rapture will be. Why wait for all the others, after so many predictions have proved wrong over the years, when there's a psychic in the house?

I Feel Like a Tyke, With a Bike

I always step back a bit and relish the sight when a parent and a child trek from the bicycle section nestled in the back of a big-box store, with the youngster grinning broadly and the parent smiling proudly as they queue up to pay for the offspring’s first bike. The excitement in the child’s sparkling eyes is a sight to behold, as much as the lad’s or lassie’s mouth will behold new teeth when the next generation of choppers pushes through to replace the newly fallen baby teeth.

Imagine the irony, then, when daughter Allison took me to a big-box store to buy a combo birthday/Father’s Day present of a new fishing tackle satchel and some lures — and we walked past the bicycle section tucked in the rear of the store. Each of us tarried, thinking the same thing, until we voiced the thought, almost simultaneously, that maybe I should get a bike.

Oh, I don’t mean the clunky three-wheelers that some men of a certain age wrangle, all decked out with a slow-moving vehicle sign and a tall orange flag fluttering in the breeze so nobody hits ’em. Rather, two 2-wheelers in particular beckoned. Two beckoned, both retro looking: a blue Schwinn and a tan and blue Huffy.

Even though I leaned toward the Schwinn’s big-name status, the Huffy’s color scheme was soooooooo much cooler. Plus, what’s more retro than the Huffy name? The seat even had “Huffy” emblazoned on it, right above those old-fashioned springs on its big, comfy-looking seat, a common design before the onslaught of bikes with butt-busting seats that make you feel like you’ve been hoisted on your own petard.

The deciding factor came after a store employee invited me to take a ride, right there in the aisle. So I did, and found the Huffy more to my liking. (Later, Allison acknowledged that I had looked a bit wobbly on the Schwinn, and more relaxed on the Huffy.)

Next thing I knew, we were walking my new bike past the fishing equipment, with me grinning ear to ear and Allison (we share birthdays, by the way) chuckling and shaking her head and admonishing me that, if I get hurt on the bike, she’ll feel so guilty that she’ll KILL me.

“And you’d better wear a helmet,” she warned, as if she were a parent lecturing a petulant little kid.

I daresay that this retro Huffy is a lot more comfy and rider-friendly than the adult chopper bike — it was a Schwinn, as a matter of fact — that I just HAD to have a couple of years back. I bought it for myself, for my birthday, without even trying it out, because I just liked it and thought I’d look cool.

As it turned out, I did look cool on it, and I’m not bragging. A coupla twentysomething guys stopped me one day to admire the chopper and inquire about it. Awestruck, one of them said, “I bet you could pick up a lot of chicks with this.”

Well, I guess I could have fitted a chick on the banana seat, but I never tried. In fact, I learned soon after buying my cool-looking bike that it had three drawbacks:
1. It made my bum and, uh, other “nether regions,” shall I say, go to sleep.
2. I couldn’t stand up, which probably is why I ended up with a numb bum and, uh, another extremity.
3. The fact that the front wheel was pitched far forward made turning in a circle a daunting task. Indeed, the turning circumference was so wide that I started turning left in West Palm Beach one day on Florida’s east coast, and ended up in Naples, on the Sunshine State’s west coast, before I came full circle.

So I sold it to a guy who was going to put a motor on it so his wife could have a chopper matching his.

I had no reason to get huffy about it, as the bike and I just didn’t fit together. And now, I’m pleased as punch to be riding my Huffy, although Kate informed me that it’s blue and yellow rather than blue and tan, as I had thought. Well, the fenders look tan to me, anyway.

When I called to report in to Al how great it worked after my first lengthy excursion, her only question was: “Were you wearing your helmet?”

OK, enough is enough on this parent-child role reversal.

P.S.: Kate likes my ride so much that I bought her a matching chick bike for her birthday. After all, I figured it was worth it to mark a milestone like a 30th birthday. Hers is the Huffy female companion to mine, lime green with tan fenders. Or, as she refers to tan: yellow.

Allison happened to call as we were at the store picking it up. Her question: “Are you getting her a helmet, too?” Good GAWD, who died and appointed her to the helmet police corps?

Mike and his bike, wearing his helmet, and without:

Now that I look at this photo, I can't help recalling something about little Ms. Wear-Your-Helmet, or ELSE Allison: See that stone wall behind me? Well, during her first visit to our new digs in the Badger State, she backed up her car and ran right into the dadgum thing. Oh, the only damages were a few scratches and a bruised ego. Ironically, her car even has one of those back-up cameras with which she should have seen the wall, if she'd have been paying attention. Seems to me maybe SHE's the one who should be wearing a helmet.

Don't Be Tardy for My Party: Two License Plates Are Too Damn Many

At first blush, my announcement of a new political party might be as far removed from the Grandfather Clause’s purpose of spotlighting my grandchildren as the sun is from Pluto (and that poor thing isn’t even a planet anymore). Although my cheeks are flushed with anger, I’m not blushing as I proclaim the formation of my “Two License Plates Are Too Damn Many Party.”

First, I must apologize to Jimmy McMillan for swiping part of the mantra of his “Rent Is Too Damn High Party” in his campaign to be governor of New York last fall.



Now, like Jimmy’s being concerned about children, I’m founding my party because it’s also about the kids, and their futures.

I raise the issue because I just moved from Florida, one of only 19 states that requires a plate only on the back, to Wisconsin, which demands plates on the front AND back, like most other states. I submit that the requirement is a total waste of the raw materials of metal and paint to make the plates.

Think how much metal could be saved if the states dumped the laws requiring two plates. The front plate seems superfluous to me, even if some might argue that the double duty provides gainful employment to prisoners tasked with making them.

My party will focus on the money-saving and resource-saving aspect of switching to just one plate, instead of the shallow arguments of those with classic cars who say the front plates distract from the beauty and lines of the grille.

I don’t buy the bogus argument I ran across in researching the bylaws for my party that the front plate is to help the increasingly common cameras to catch red-light runners. First of all, the double-plating requirement was there long before those controversial cameras came to pass. Secondly, all they have to do is readjust the cameras to shoot the car’s rear plates. Thirdly, why do police think they need to check you coming and going, anyway?

I didn’t pay much attention to the two-plate law in my home state of Nebraska because the long arm of the law never reached out and touched me. But my resentment of front plates actually started more than a decade ago, when I lived in Minnesota. Gopher State winters take their toll on front plates, as they easily come off as the cars plow through snowy streets. And state troopers and police take advantage of that, ticketing folks who don’t have the front plate to generate revenue for city coffers.

I got nabbed once, but that wasn’t my main gripe. My ire was directed at the St. Paul cops who routinely drove through high school parking lots and ticketing students’ cars that had only one plate. Brendan got snagged more than once. Even though it was simple enough to go to the traffic judge and explain the problem, it was inconvenient to have to take time off of work to head to the courthouse.

I always thought the police should be out catching real criminals instead of picking on kids who were in school studying their butts off.

I understand there are petition drives in California and other states to get rid of front license plates, despite law enforcement’s plea that the front plates make their jobs easier. (Other than picking on high school kids, what are they saying, that they start a lot of arrests by looking in their rear-view mirrors or they catch people in high-speed chases in reverse? I think not.)

I can understand how it's a big issue in California. Just check out this shot of how the front plates are so heavy that they weigh down the landscape in the Golden State.



OK, that may not be the reason for the tilt here, which obviously is the result of a camera angle a San Francisco hill, but I'm using poetic license to advance my political spin that the superfluous plates even screw up nature. Why worry about global warming when the REAL issue is that the heaviness of the extra plates is slowing down global spinning to the extent that the world will stop someday, and whoever is on the half facing the sun will fry! Now THAT's a political issue that ought to concern people.

I’m still working on the bylaws for my party, but you can bet one of the main wherefores will be, “Wherefore we could save a potload of money (perhaps to repair winter potholes in Wisconsin and Minnesota), we hold this truth to be self evident: Two license plates are too damn many.

My grandkids will thank me when there’s still enough money to provide Social Security and Medicare for them with all the cash and steel saved, and enough steel to reinforce homes against tornadoes and such.

In the meantime, all I ask of you is for you to send me your signature saying you back the party. Ideally, it’d be nice if you’d put it on a check.

Thankyouverymuch.
Mike Tighe
President, Two License Plates Are Too Damn Many Party

Jack: A Character WITH Character

I always knew that Jack is a real character, but now another barometer ramps that assessment to a whole other level: His peers cherry-picked him for the honor of being THE first-grader of character at their school.

That’s right, the Jack of All Trades — he who is incredibly sensitive at the same time he revels in snakes and dinosaurs and his pet land crabs; mature beyond his age (heck, he was 10 seconds old, going on 50 years, before the cord was even clipped); a bon vivant since preschool; a stand-up comic, the list can go on — can add the additional distinction of being a character WITH character to his résumé.

His classmates voted him the honor based on character traits they learned throughout the year: responsibility, respectfulness, citizenship, trustworthiness and honesty. He snagged a trophy and a certificate, not to mention the steak dinner his family treated him to the night after the award at a school assembly gobsmacked him.


Proud parents Melissa and Skip with their honored son Jack and his trophy and certificate. He doesn't put on airs, despite his accolades.

I know Melissa and Skip should get the lion’s share of the credit for building this little man of character, but I’d like to think I had some influence, too. Nonetheless, I won’t toot my own horn, but rather salute Jack on this momentous occasion.

A great indicator of the depth of his character is that he recently narc’d himself out for a little mischief at school in which he wasn’t really the main culprit. I won’t go into details, other than to say he went home, agonizingly explained the situation to Melissa, and then suggested that she accompany him to school so he could confess to the teacher.

Imagine THAT. He wasn’t even indicted for the incident, but he felt the need to plead guilty. He also had apologized to the offended party, who is one of his friends, on the day the “crime” occurred. How’s that for character, and loyalty?

Frankly, it leaves me feeling a bit ashamed about a stunt I pulled when I was in fourth grade. We boys decided it would be fun to tackle the girls on the playground during noon recess. Fun, yes, but not such a good idea, we discovered in that era of paranoia over patent-leather shoes, when the nuns called us on the carpet and sentenced the guilty parties to a suitable punishment.

I now plead guilty to not pleading guilty then. I think my alibi to myself when S’Ter DeSales asked for a show of hands of boys involved in using the girls for tackling dummies was that, although I helped hatch the plan, I was too chicken to participate. Or maybe it was just that Jeannie Bartek, my girlfriend throughout grade school (in my mind; she never really seemed to acknowledge it, and she was even downright rebellious when she spat on the ground after I stole a smooch from her in first grade) eluded my grasp.

Whatever propelled my character lapse, I didn’t have to kneel at the front of the classroom, arms extended, as a penance. A couple of girls whined to S’Ter that I was in on the caper, but she dismissed their caterwauling by saying I wouldn’t do such a thing.

When the culprits’ arms sagged, S’ter berated them and told them to hold up their arms, scolding: “Now you’re feeling how Christ felt on the cross!”

If I had it to do over again, I’d ’fess up, and I’d try to swipe another kiss from Jeannie, who ended up carving her REAL boyfriend’s initials in her arm when she reached high school. And they weren’t “M.T.”

Years later, when I was a senior in high school, my image as an angel continued to bless me, and curse me. We senior boys decided it would be great fun to depants a freshman during recess. Great fun, except we picked a big, burly farm kid who cleaned our clock.

Of course, the brawl attracted the attention of the nuns, who told the priest, who not only raised hell with us, but called all of our parents to school to revile us in front of them.

In that case, I confessed to S’Ter Reparata that I was one of the ringleaders, but she pooh-poohed the idea, saying, “Michael, you’d never DO such a thing.” Instead, she singled out Mike Rooney because, as everybody knew, he smoked.

But enough about me. Back to Jack, and I don’t mean Black, although it was rather black of him, the way he reveled in looking at my hernia scar and pleaded to get to take out the stitches. Two of my fave recollections of the lad’s youth:

When he was about 2, I served him his traditional bowl of ice cream in the living room when he was over for a visit. I then went into the kitchen for a bit and, when I returned, I beheld the horrible sight of him with chocolate ice cream not only all over his face but also down his belly and dripped over quite a bit of the couch. Fortunately, he was shirtless, so he needed just a minor hosing down, and the couch was leather, so the goo wiped off fairly easily.
When he was a tot, he liked to run around the house nekkid after his bath. Lots of kids do that, I’m told, but I suspect that few have tried this pose: He stood on his head on a chair, leaving his, uh, privates (I guess some people call it junk these days) exposed to the world.

I wonder how many of his peers would have voted for him THAT day? Well, I guess he still would have gotten the nod for being a “character.”

Anyway, I salute Jack and his parents, and his siblings, for his honor. After all, it takes a family to raise a child. Of CHARACTER.