Bad news sells

Boy, you knew it was going to be a bad week when Andy Rooney died. Between he and Joe Frazier, the world lost a couple of pretty good ones this week.
I’ve stolen more column ideas from Rooney than anyone else I can think of. The first half of his life story reads like a great movie- fancy high school, upscale college, the war, etc. Then he had a whole wonderful second half of life also, working for CBS. He complained about everything from crammed kitchen drawers to airplane industries, but somehow did it in a way that you still loved him when he was done. In fact, most of the time you loved him more.
I wish I could figure out how he did that. I fuss about a lot of stuff, too. Just yesterday I came home and unloaded on all three kids at three different times, and even butted heads with my wife before the night was over. I didn’t get the feeling that anyone loved me more by the end of the night. Somehow he did that for 40 years.
Frazier was one of the few guys that put Muhammed Ali on his back. I wish there had been more. In fact, I wish that Frazier could have beaten Ali in all three matches that they fought. Frazier stuck up for Ali when Ali got in trouble for draft-dodging, and even loaned him money when he needed it.
Ali paid him back by mocking and making fun of him to the media before they fought, at one time even calling him an Uncle Tom. Ali made his one-time friend look silly and small time in front of the media time after time after time, and he did it all just for publicity. Not one time has Ali apologized for treating Frazier that way, and it’s too late now.
Pop singer Michael Jackson’s doctor was found guilty this week for giving the icon drugs that he overdosed on. Here’s my take on that situation- if it hadn’t of been this doctor, it would have been someone else. When you have a habit like Michael Jackson did, and the money to pay for it, you will find a way to feed the habit. I’m guessing that seventy five percent of the people reading this column would have done the same thing this doctor did if the money was the same, and to say otherwise would be lying. He deserves to do some time, but I hope it’s not too much. Jackson was just as guilty as the doctor.
Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain is in some hot water now. The fourth woman has come forward to accuse him of sexual assault, and I’m sure his numbers will take a nose dive now. I’m not sure who I believe in this story.
On one hand, it’s hard for me to believe that all four women can be making this up out of clean air. I always pay attention to how many people have to be lying in order for someone to be telling the truth. In this case it’s already four to one, and I bet it gets worse before it gets better.
On the other hand, three of the women won’t show their faces, and the fourth one hired Gloria Allred as her attorney. That’s one strike against her in my book. Also, why wait until the man is running for President? Fifteen years is a long time to sit on something that supposedly bothered you so much. It makes me think that she was biding her time until the price for silence was at an all-time high.
And finally, the Penn State scandal is sickening and disturbing. Former defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky is accused of molesting at least eight kids- on campus- and higher ups at the college are accused of either covering up for him or not doing enough to make it stop. I’ve read the 23 page grand jury report, and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.
I think everyone from the president of the university down to the water boy need to apologize and be replaced. In a situation like this, it’s not enough to just report something to your boss and leave it alone. Any time a kid is being sexually abused, you first call should be to the cops. Then you worry about what your bosses think.
Here’s hoping next week’s news headlines are a little more cheerful. But then that wouldn’t sell as well, would it?

It’s got to be French’s

The running argument in my house these days centers around my twelve year old daughter and her desire to go trick-or-treating. It is well known to most readers that I have a “no trick-or-treating” policy for those over ten years old. If you are older than ten, and you come begging around my house, you get turned away. Or you may get something healthy to eat. Last year I handed out Halloween pencils to the older kids, this year I’m thinking about ketchup and mustard packs. I’m going to put two or three of them in those cute little Halloween bags and staple it shut. That way nobody knows until they get back to their house and open the bags. Hahahahahahaha.
“But Dad, all my friends are going trick-or-treating,” she whines to me. “Their parents don’t think they are too old.”
This is the worst argument in the world to bring me. First of all, there is nothing worse than a follower. I thought I did a good job of pounding that in my children’s minds, but I guess not. And to tell you the truth, I’d rather my daughters be leaders even more than my son. There is all kind of trouble that a young lady can get in to if she doesn’t have a backbone.
Secondly, I need her to stay home that night and hand out the candy bags. Halloween will be on a Monday night, which means that Monday Night Football will be on. I’m not a big fan of kids anyway, much less a bunch of them coming to my house. If I have to miss football because I’m passing out candy- free candy at that- I’ll really be in a sour mood.
Also, if a twelve year old pretty girl is handing out candy, nobody will think she was the one passing out the mustard and ketchup packs. If a grumpy old man is handing out the candy, I’ll be the first suspect on the list when you open that little bag and see French’s mustard instead of Reece’s Pieces.
Another reason I don’t want her trick-or-treating is the economy. Look, everyone knows that dads have to eat the leftover candy, along with any of the good stuff that they can sneak away with. And everyone also knows how the economy goes, Halloween candy goes. There will be way less chocolate this year, and even more dollar store junk. The last couple of years I’ve had to eat millions of those small Tootsie Rolls and banana Laffy Taffies. I’ve got two kids that will bring me dollar store junk already, I don’t need three kids bringing it back.
And who knows? Maybe once this column comes out, she might even bring home a pencil or some ketchup packs of her own. Lord knows I will have enough of them already.

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It’s way overdue



We buried my mother this past Saturday.

I usually try to keep it pretty light in this column. My readers seem to like it more when I’m writing something funny about my kids, or admitting how much weight I’ve gained over the years, or making fun of fifteen year old kids for Trick-or-Treating.

But we buried my mother this past Saturday, and I’m going to use this column to vent. A few of you aren’t going to like what I have to say, but that doesn’t bother me. And fair warning to you- this column gets pretty graphic.

My mother was diagnosed a couple of years ago with Dementia. It was complicated by scar tissue build-up, which she received from brain surgery she had as a teenager. Dementia is exactly what it sounds like- eventually the patient ends up being demented. There is no “maybe” or “what ifs” or anything like that. All roads lead to losing their ability to walk, talk, eat, and eventually even think clearly.

Not long after she was diagnosed, my sister and I made the decision for her to enter the nursing home here in our town. My sister had been pretty much taking care of our mother by herself until then, but it just proved to be too much. She was constantly falling, her moods were all over the place, and her condition was ruining two lives, not just one.

And while we as a family were incredibly satisfied with the care she received in the nursing home, the truth of the matter is long before she lost her mind, she was unhappy. Her spirit and quality of life left her long before her wits did. Everything we loved about this woman died well over a year ago. For the past 365 days she existed as a mumbling, wheelchair bound, emotional one hundred pound ball of pity.

In the end, it got really ugly. In her diminished state of mind, she kept ripping her feeding tube out of her stomach. The doctor told us that we had two choices- we could choose to leave the feeding tube in as long as she was restrained twenty four hours a day, or we could remove the tube and let nature take its course. In other words we could tie our mother down like a mad pit bull in the back yard for who knows how long, or we could starve our mother to death. We chose the second option, and luckily it only took four days instead of the projected two weeks that it could have taken.

Other than my sister, nobody on Earth knew my mother as well as I did. And I am one hundred percent positive that if it would have been legal, my mother would have chosen to end her life long before it got that bad. She would have chosen euthanasia, or assisted suicide, or whatever you want to call it. Whatever name you attach to it, it beats the Hell out of someone changing your diapers for the last year of your life.

The fact that Oregon is the only state in America where assisted suicide is legal (Oregon Death With Dignity Act, 1997) is appalling to me. It’s ridiculous, disgusting, and back-woodsy of the so-called smartest nation on Earth. We’ve come so far in women’s rights, civil rights, gay rights, children labor laws, etc. But for some reason, we still refuse to allow terminally ill patients to choose when and how they die. Everyone in America deserves dignity except the dying, unless you happen to live in Oregon.

And why? Can anybody reading this column write in and give me one good reason why it’s still illegal to end your own misery? To keep yourself from being a burden on your loved ones? To die with a little pride left? I did a fair amount of internet surfing on this subject, and I’ve yet to find a credible argument against euthanasia.

I know it can’t be tax dollars. I promise you that Medicaid and Medicare spent more money keeping my mom alive the past year than the government earned from taxes that she paid.

It could be regulated fairly easily. In Oregon, at least two doctors have to sign off on the decision to assist the patient, as well as a psychologist. You don’t have to worry about the young wife killing the old rich husband off.

If your answer is religion, you can keep it. After watching a grandmother battle Alzheimer’s, a childhood friend with Lou Gehrig’s Disease, and now a mother with Dementia, religion isn’t the answer I’m looking for or listening to anymore.

If there is a God, he’s got some explaining to do.

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Landa Mowery



Let me begin by saying that the children, grandchildren and other family members of Landa Mowery want to express our gratitude to everyone helping us celebrate her life this morning. We know the temperature is rising by the minute, and we promise not to keep you out here very long.

Also, we would like to thank Sherrie Conn for making the Hearne Community Center available to us for lunch after the services. To those who donated something to the dinner, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Please drop by and eat with us when we are done here.

And now, let’s talk about Mom.

Landa was born in Portsmouth, Ohio on December 29, 1948. She was 62 years old at the time of her passing, which was Wednesday September 28, 2011. She had been a resident of the Hearne Health Center for approximately a year and a half, and the family is so grateful for the wonderful care she received from the loving and caring staff during her stay. Thankfully, she was surrounded by family when her time came.

We are so happy that Mom’s older sister, Toni, could be here with us today. Toni is battling cancer for the second time, and we pray for a speedy recovery for her. She certainly has the family’s love behind her.

Mom’s younger sister, Kim, is also here with her family. Mom thought the world of both her sisters, and as her children we take comfort in knowing that the feeling was mutual. They were a tight bunch, for sure.

Mom had six children- Glen, Teresa, Rob, Jay, Shannon and Raymond. Jay couldn’t be here with us today, but thankfully the rest of us made it- as did our father, Glen Wilson, all the way from South Carolina. We thank him so much for being here in our time of need.

Sixty two years old sounds young, doesn’t it? In our minds, we picture ourselves much older when we die- mid ‘70s at least, maybe even beyond that. But don’t fool yourselves. Mom lived enough life for all of us. In fact, you could almost say she lived several different lives.

There’s an old saying that goes something like this- Don’t look back on yesterday, or you’ll get depressed. Don’t worry too much about tomorrow, or you’ll get too anxious. Live for today, and you’ll always be in the moment. And I agree with that saying 99% of the time.

But I have to believe that when Mom looked back on her past, she had to do so with pride. I say pride because she overcame so many challenges and obstacles, demons and ghosts, struggles and hardships.

I was nine years old when Mom went through a divorce and once again became a single mother. With her chin held high, she worked her fingers to the bone night and day to put food on the table and clothes on our backs. I can remember more than once when she held down two jobs to make ends meet.

I don’t mean to make it sound like she was all work and no play. Mom knew a good time when she saw it, in fact a good many of you here now probably remember some of those times. She loved to share a beer or two, had a quick smile that she showed often, and would dance the soles right off of her shoes.

A few years ago she had a very serious car wreck. As these things sometimes do, it changed her life drastically and forced her to re-evaluate her priorities. Family became even more important to her, she dedicated herself to working even harder than before… and she found religion.

Oh, she was serious with her religion, too. If you ever stopped by to check on her when you were in a hurry, you’d find out just how serious she was about it. She’d talk your ears off about Jesus, and unless you had a good excuse for getting away, you were just going to hear it.

A quick story about that: A few years back my boss took me for a ride in his small airplane. Now, I had never been on a plane before, and I was scared to death. This thing was small, not much more than a soda can with wings. But once we got in the air I really enjoyed it, and the first call I made back on the ground was to Mom.

“Mom,” I yelled. “It was so smooth and peaceful up there, I couldn’t believe it.”

She let out a long sigh, and sounded like she was dreaming when she said “Son, just think how it will be in Heaven.”

I chuckled to myself when she said it- I just wasn’t used to her newfound religious views yet. But today I know she’s on the smoothest, most peaceful ride that she’s ever been on.

And that’s what we’d like for everyone to remember about our mother- she was several different women in her lifetime, and we are here to celebrate all of them.

Some of us here knew the wild and crazy Landa, some of us knew the conservative, devoted Christian Landa. But we all remember the loving mother, grandmother, sister and friend that worked tirelessly and stayed fiercely independent and hard-headed till the end.

And if you don’t believe that last part, just ask the nurses who tended to her these last few days. At least one of them is glad that Mom didn’t have her dentures in anymore.

Again, thank you all for being here. It warms our hearts to know so many people thought that much of our mother.

What to wear?



Hey, we’re all family here, right? Well then I have a question for you. How in the Hell do all you guys have cool clothes to wear all the time?

I’m not talking about the women reading this. I understand how you have clothes, because you go shopping every now and then. But how do your men always show up with cool stuff to wear? Do you buy it for him? How do you know what he likes to wear? And how do you keep up with his size? I don’t even know my own size half the time.

For the past year or so I’ve been noticing other men’s clothes. (And yes, I’m well aware that isn’t the manliest thing I’ve ever said. But remember, we are family.) Whether my wife and I are at a restaurant, or I’m at one of my kids’ games, or just hanging out playing poker or something, lately I always notice what other guys are wearing. And it’s always better than what I’m wearing.

I’m not sure when this happened, because just a few years ago I was about even with everyone else. But I guess I got busy with kids, work, family and stuff like that. I just never think about shopping for clothes until I have to. And even if I did think about it, there’s always something else that needs to be paid for.

I was looking at some pictures the other day, and came across a couple of photos that were about three years old. It suddenly hit me that the shirt I was wearing in the picture was the same shirt that I was wearing now, three years later. And- here’s the bad part- it’s considered one of my nicest shirts.

Once I thought about it long enough, I got up and went to my closet. What a sad, sad sight.

I’ve got a funeral or wedding jacket (whichever one I’m attending at the time), a plain white button up shirt that goes with it, and my “going out” shirt- a long sleeve button up with stripes.

I’ve got three short sleeve button ups that I’ve had for years (one of which I’m wearing in the photo), one polo shirt that is way too tight on me, and a couple of old sweaters and hoodies. Half of those are Longhorn sweatshirts that I couldn’t wear last winter because they couldn’t win a game.

Speaking of the Longhorns, I have a 2005 National Championship t-shirt in my closet. And I still wear it. A lot. The other ones either have Franklin Cowboys or Mumford Mustangs on the front.

Pants? I’ve got two pair of jeans that I can work in, and one pair of nice jeans that are still nice and new only because I haven’t been able to button them for the past two years. Hence I don’t wear them.

And thank God I haven’t been to a wedding or funeral in a while, because the tan slacks that go with the nice jacket and shirt are at least fifteen pounds away from fitting. And I don’t own a nice belt, either- my belt has homemade holes punched out.

Don’t even get me started on the footwear. I have a pair of flip flops, an old pair of Nikes, and some steel toed work boots in the bottom of my closet.

So my question is, how do guys today end up with nice clothes to wear? Do they go buy a few items at a time? Or just go load up two or three times a year? And how do they keep from feeling guilty about spending the money?

My wife said to me, “Just take a hundred bucks out of your poker account and go shopping. Look for sales.” I told her you probably couldn’t buy a nice pack of underwear for a hundred bucks nowadays.

And speaking of underwear- I’m glad I’m married. If I were dating, I wouldn’t want anyone to see mine.



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Was it worth it?



I was cruising the internet, and came across this story from Florida. Two guys got into a fist fight in public, and one of them got hurt pretty bad before the fight could be broken up. The other one went to jail of course, and the whole incident is going to cost both of them plenty of dough- one with hospital bills and the other with court fees.

Here’s a quote from one of the guys, “I’m not even sure how it escalated so far. One minute we were fine, the next minute we were swinging on each other like madmen.”

Do me a favor. Play along and try to guess what they were fighting about… No, it wasn’t politics. And no, it wasn’t money related, drug related, or in-law related. The two guys- grown men, mind you- were fighting over a referee’s call in a Pee Wee football game.

“It’s silly,” said one witness. “These are eight and nine year old boys. There isn’t even playoffs on this level.”

I’ll bet you something. I’ll bet you both of these guys are really pretty decent guys. I’ll bet you that ten minutes before the altercation, both men were just as normal as you and I. Both of them probably have families, jobs, and friends in the community. Each of them has probably lectured their children on how to act in public, and to treat others with respect. Even when their opinions differ from your own.

I’ll bet you that neither guy ever dreamed that they would be involved in a fight, much less in public and over something as silly as eight year olds playing ball.

And I’ll bet you something else, too. I’ll bet you that ten minutes after the altercation, both guys felt terrible over what happened. They were probably worried, scared, embarrassed, and remorseful.

While we are betting, I’ll bet you that not one kid on either team would have given the referee’s call a second thought after ten minutes. Their minds are more worried about who’s house they can spend the night at, who can spend the night at their house, where Dad is taking them to eat after the game, and how they can talk him into seeing the Lion King in 3D.

At some point, everyone reading this has been at a football, basketball, baseball, softball or volleyball game and has left shaking their heads. There’s always someone in the crowd yelling at a ref, a coach, an umpire, another parent, or even a kid. Sometimes they even yell at their own kid from the sidelines, maybe expecting more than the little fellow is capable of.

“Yeah, but even though they are only eight years old, it’s still important to teach them that second place is just the first place loser,” I can hear you say. “Everyone wants to win, even eight year olds. Besides, what happened in Florida is extreme, it would never happen here.”

I’ll bet you one more thing. Both of those guys probably used to say the exact same thing.

Letter to My Wife



Thirteen years ago, I married my best friend. I know that’s an old, silly, cliché thing to say, but it’s true. There are very few people in this world that I need to talk to on a regular basis. As a matter of fact, you’re the only one I can think of.

Some days, I’m at work before you even wake up for the day. But even then, my day doesn’t start until I at least get a text from you saying good morning.

I’ll never forget the day I proposed to you. We’d been broken up for a while, and things were going downhill for me pretty fast. One Friday morning I woke up late for work with a hangover, and on the way to work my truck broke down. I said to myself, “You know, my life just seemed to go better when I was with her.” An hour later, I wrote a little note asking you to marry me.

And thirteen years later, it still seems like it was the right thing to do. I’m sure we both know where and what I would be right now if it weren’t for you. So I wanted to say thank you.

Thank you for those three gorgeous, healthy children that I act like I can’t stand to be around sometimes. Other than being a little too spoiled for my taste, they are perfect. Thank you for giving me a family, and a reason to be a responsible adult.

Thank you for running the household when I was off working out of town, or spending way too many hours at one job or another instead of at home helping you change diapers, clean house, cook supper or do homework.

Thank you for understanding when I’ve slept on the couch every Monday night for the past twelve years in order to write the sports section, or being patient with me when I put our lives into this silly column every week. Even as our vehicles were being egged and firecrackers were being set off on our front porch, you’ve never asked me to stop writing what I felt.

And God knows it hasn’t been easy. I’m not the sweetest or friendliest person to be around, especially when times get tough. I gripe when family visits. I complain when friends visit. I get mad when the phone rings. I’m sure at times it feels like you’re living with a cranky old man who is never satisfied with anything.

But over the past thirteen years you’ve made me realize that tough times surrounded by family and friends beats the Hell out of tough times all by yourself. And I know that without you and the things you bring to the table, some of the tough times over the years would have won.

I guess what I’m trying to say with all this yapping I’m doing is this- thank you for making the past thirteen years my best thirteen years.

Now, I’m well aware that nobody hates romance or public displays of affection more than you do, so I know I’m going to be in trouble when this hits the newspaper.

Like I tell our kids, some things are worth getting in trouble for. Happy Anniversary.