There are stages to being a son or daughter, and I’ve experienced most of them, from the joy of early times when it is perfectly acceptable for you to go in your pants and having someone else clean it up, to enduring the surliness of the teen years, to expressing your independence by asking your folks for a few thousand dollars so you can get your own apartment.

But recently I entered a latter stage of being someone’s child: Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit.

I had not idea I’d entered this stage until a recent visit to the ancestral home in California. Mom, Dad and I were enjoying a beer on the patio when I mentioned how much I liked the landscape hanging in the family room. In the pastel sketch, a small sailboat was moored at the end of the small dock, on top of which was perched a weathered wooden shack. Behind that, trees crowded along the shore leaving only a sliver for the beach. Each line was meticulous and perfectly drawn, and it was the kind of sketch that made drawing look easy (knowing in the back of your mind that it certainly isn’t).

“That was done by your great great grandmother, it’s been in the family for years,” Mom said. “She didn’t take up painting until very late in life, so she didn’t do many. That was always one of our favorites.”

As I took another sip, wondering why such talents had not been passed down to me. Mom added, “Your brother is getting it when we go. He put his name on it years ago.”

Mom thought (wrongly) that Gary had actually written his name on the back of the painting, which, when it comes to inheritance, clearly made the painting his. That would stand up in any probate court. (Judge: “I see from submitted documents your brother did not just make casual references to his interest in the sketch, but actually put his name to the back of the canvas. Thus according to ordinances and rules pertaining to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit, the sketch is his. Now let us continue to the silverware and the applicability of Post-Its.”)

Of course, I had a couple of problems with this. First, I had no idea the starter’s gun had fired and we were allowed to start marking territory. Yes, Mom and Dad are straddling their 80s, but they’re in relatively good health (remarkable given their nicotine habit) and have shown no signs of going anytime soon. Gary clearly got an unacceptable head start. It would be one thing if perhaps Mom or Dad were in the hospital being treated for a serious condition (and when you are in your 80s, just about everything is a serious condition). There would be an argument there starting to pick off your parents’ shit. And if they were hooked to life support or in a hospice, then it’s almost required to children to start picking shit off.

Secondly, I live in Arizona and Gary lives 15 minutes from the ancestral home. He has abused his home field advantage. I would be OK with that if Mom and Dad were in ill health and he had to stop by often to take care of them, either turning them or cleaning up after unsightly accidents. Then by all means, you certainly get the top picks when it comes to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit. But that is not happening. In fact, Mom and Dad are still taking Gary out to dinner once or twice a week (while like a sucker, I’m still paying for every meal in Arizona).

So this is why I had a problem with the situation. It wasn’t about Gary getting the sketch. It was about not receiving advance notice that we had now entered the Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit stage.

“So as far as you’re concerned, that painting is already spoken for, right?” I asked.

“Well, you never said anything,” Dad said.

“Of course not,” I said. “I had no idea it was time to start marking territory. Now I’m going to have to start looking at things a little differently. Like inventory.”

This was no longer the ancestral home. It was now an estate sale, and I was in the front of the line with a price gun I could use to mark everything “Free.” It was time for Picking Off My Parents’ Shit.

“What about the painting in the living room? Is that still on the block?”

“Which one?” Mom said. “There’s the one I did and the one by your Aunt Barb.”

While there are few rules to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit, the golden one is “Do not piss off the original owners while they remain in sound enough mind to know who just pissed them off.”

But here’s the problem. Mom took a few lessons in her 30s and 40s and painted a lot of fruit. There’s fruit hanging all over the house. Apples, oranges, bananas – she stuck to basic fruit (grapes were a bit out of reach).

Aunt Barb, on the other hand, co-owns a gallery back east, one she bought with earnings as an artist. Her cheapest creations go for $5,000, and my guess is that her three kids likely picked off her shit years ago (“Mom, this one is too special to be sold, it should remain in the family, here, let me just put my name on the back of it to remind us not to put it in the gallery”).

So at this point I could state the obvious, or lie and protect further interests as I pick off my parents’ shit.

“Are you kidding? Aunt Barb’s.”

Yeah, I totally violated the Gold Rule. Ah, she’ll forget. These are people who, and I swear this is true, not only watch their favorite shows, but tape them to watch later, and then tape the reruns. I was banking on their frail grasp of short-term memory.

“Honey, has Gary said anything about Aunt Barb’s painting?” Mom said.

“Which one?”

Note to self: Look for other Aunt Barb painting with Sharpie in hand.

“The one in the living room.”

“Not that I know of. No, wait, yes, I think he has. The one in the living room, is that the original? What about the one in our bedroom?”

“The one in the living room is original. The one in our bedroom is a photo of one of her paintings.”

Note to self: Forget the Sharpei, but sell Gary on idea that second Aunt Barb painting is original and worth a high pick.

“OK, so I’d like the one in the living … “ I stopped. I was being a bit hasty here. “So Gary put his name on a painting and it’s his, right? OK, so you know what? Mom, do you have marker handy?”

“Why?”

“I’m putting my name on the wall there, just right of the patio door. The house” pause for dramatic effect “is mine. Based on established rules of getting your shit.”

Mom and Dad laughed, but I knew what I was going to do. “Don’t worry, next time I see Gary I’ll say, ‘Hey, just found out you had first pick and chose that painting. With the second pick in the Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit draft, I took the house. You’re up.”

Of course, my 13-year-old son happened to hear our discussion. He grabbed the Toyota. Which made me think, where was I when it was time for Picking Off My Grandparents’ Shit?

This is hardly the best of times thanks to gas, the war and the economy. But for the worst of times, the male groin area has that hands down.

First, Chris Snyder suffered an injury that few outside the medical community probably knew was possible. The catcher for the Arizona Diamondbacks fractured a testicle. Yes, he fractured a testicle (those with a Y chromosome know why I had to repeat that, as the sheer horror makes it so unbelievable). Snyder takes all the usual precautions when suiting up for duty behind the plate, but I am sure that if he thought for one second that there was just a minuscule chance he would break a nut, he'd be in right field before you could say, "Don't forget your cup."

Apparently a fractured testicle involves tearing of the soft tissue. I imagined an overripe grapefruit that is slammed against the wall and split, pulp oozing from the gash. Then I stopped imagining that for obvious reasons. I am pretty sure if given a choice, 99.9 percent of men would choose Novocain-free dental surgery over even the slightest possibility of fracturing a testicle. The other .1 percent are eunuchs.

I thought that was the worst thing that could happen until I came across this story out of Romania -- a court there ordered a surgeon to pay $795,000 to a man whose penis he accidentally severed during surgery on the man's testicles (note to Snyder: do not outsource your medical care to Romania to save a few bucks).

At first you might not think this is a bad thing. A penis worth a nice home in Scottsdale, or a lovely walkup in Manhattan? Not bad. Or you could sell it on eBay and not have to worry about your plummeting 401k. And everytime you went to the bathroom, you'd have this comfortable feeling that your financial future was in your hands.

But wait, there's more. Doctors took a tendon from the arm of the man with no penis and attached it down there, Why? For aesthetic reasons. And perhaps aiming as well.

There are worse things than going through life with an aesthetic penis. I just can't come up with any right now.

Overheard in line at the Indiana Jones ride in Disneyland, as uttered by a 6-year-old girl in a very dire voice: "Don't look into the eye of the idol or it will make you curse."

Father’s Day, 2008. Not a bad time for reflection.

My father, now in his 80s, was extraordinarily ordinary as I grew up. Neither the perfect dad who assured his son a life of one wonderful adventure after another, nor so dysfunctional as to inspire and be at the center of a bestselling memoir.

He was, and still is, simply, a good father. And for that I am grateful.

We did the usual things a family did in the 60s and 70s. Twice a year we went to Disneyland, sandwiched around an annual vacation to Santa Barbara. My brother and I would look forward to a week in the quiet bungalow on the edge of the Miramar Hotel property, considering ourselves very lucky to stay in our own little part rather than in the rooms that surrounded the pool or faced the beach. Little did we know, nor did our parents ever let on, that this bungalow room was half the price of the other accommodations, and if not for the bungalow we would never be able to stay at the resort.

While I remember the pool and the beach and the railroad tracks (upon which each morning I placed a penny, hoping to return the next day to find it flattened, my hope undeterred by each unsuccessful search), what I recall with the most detail are the quiet walks my father and I shared to start each day in Santa Barbara. Warming a carafe of water with a heating coil, he would make himself instant coffee while I enjoyed hot chocolate. With plastic cups in hand, we slipped out of the room while my mom and brother slept, often accompanied by our dog Misty. We walked past the pool, the tennis courts, the railroad tracks (pausing briefly to look for a flattened penny I would never find, taking another penny from my dad and placing it on the tracks), and to the beach. I slipped off my shoes and enjoyed the cool sand, throwing a tennis ball into the surf for Misty. We would turn around at the same house – not one door to the left or right, but the same beach home each time, a familiarity I found oddly comforting. By the time we returned to the room, my mom would have taken a shower, leaving it free for me to wash away traces of sand.

I don’t remember exactly what he talked about, time eroding so many details of growing up. But I still feel today the specialness of it, just as the other moments that now make up my childhood. So many feature my dad.

I remember donning my Bob Aspromonte baseball glove and playing catch in our cul-de-sac. I remember going out for long passes, my dad calling the signals. At “Hike!” I sprinted down the street, looking over my shoulder for the leather football with its stray thread that whipped through the air as the ball spiraled toward me. More often than not it would hit me in stride, another touchdown recorded on Osage Place. A return to the huddle. Same play, on “Hike.”

Sometimes he would drive us to the to junior high where we would play one-on-one, the only rule being that while on defense, he had to remain inside the key, a handicap that more than made up for the difference in our heights (and many victories for Team Son).

Of we would settle in front of the TV and enjoy head-to-head battles on that amazing new system, the video game. We guided our monochromatic pixels around the screen with a fervor rarely before seen in the living room. Before that our competitive natures were defined by paper football, which we would flick along the linoleum floor, making sure to clear furniture before the epic battle was to begin.

But our most raucous behavior was saved for Nerf-based games. Surely the makers of the modest foam balls never envisioned their products as the basis of household pride, where lengthy games of basketball (hoop nailed to the garage wall), baseball (a paint stirrer was the bat) or tennis (with ping pong paddles and a net made of newspapers folded over a taut string tied to a nail on one side and car door handle on the other) routinely occurred on weekends.

These are the moments I remember most clearly. This is the father I remember, one who was there, one who was happy to spend time with his son in between work and chores and the other things in life that clutter the time.

Like most sons, I really only appreciated my father when I had a boy of my own. That’s when it crystallized, when I realized everything I had quietly and slowly learned from him over the years. And how much of my parenthood I owed to him – particularly as I think about the (rare) stories he told of his own childhood.

His father was cold and distant, rarely involving himself in his son’s life unless it was to punish (and he had passed long before I was born). This is the one story that stands out – my father borrowed his dad’s car, and was told to keep it under 35 mph. When my dad returned, his father carefully inspected the vehicle, soon angry that the car had gone over 35 mph.

“Those bug splats,” the man said, “could only have been made by a car going faster than 35 mph.”

These are the lessons of fatherhood learned by my dad. So when my older brother was born, all my dad knew about raising a son was strict discipline not to be marred by coddling, where respect was more treasured than love.

But these are not the lessons my father passed on to us. He had the strength to turn it around, powered by an innate desire to make up for his own childhood, to pass onto his sons the lessons that only strong love could provide.

And my father certainly isn’t alone. Millions of fathers each day to the same thing for their children. A friend of mine often shares the treasured memories of her own father, who sadly passed away several years ago. Though gone he clearly lives through her, kept alive by the stories he’s inspired, tales that will no doubt live through her own children.

That’s because the love of fathers – the good fathers, the ones many of us are lucky to have – echo through the generations. I am lucky that my dad is still alive, and I see him yearly when my son and I travel to see his grandparents. But since he has yet to figure out immortality, I know this will one day be a world without him.

And yet it won’t be, because his love is still with me. And it’s also with my son, who will pass it on to his own children.

So it wasn’t too long ago that California legalized marriage among gays, leading many people (you know who you are) to proclaim the end of civilization as we know it (and if anybody had a right to feel that way, it was Iraqis the moment Bush allegedly was elected president in 2000).

I still don’t get the opposition. How exactly does this affect someone to the point that they are willing to sign petition, hold protests and donate money to stop this thing at all costs? Now if they were to force gays to arm themselves and randomly shoot people who may or may not pose a threat, then I’d be a bit miffed. Then again, they’d be members of the US military in the mideast protecting our freedom, so it would be OK, right?

(Uh oh, that last throwaway line could be considered anti-patriotic, so to put minds at ease, I know thousands of our troops have died to defend your ability to affix those “Support Our Troops” magnets you place on your car to send the message to the magnet-free that their Anti-American policies won’t be tolerated in a free society.)

Anyway, gay marriage. What I see mostly from the opposition that how allowing homosexuals to marry will violate the “sanctity of marriage.”

Holy crap, are you kidding me? Divorce has been violating the sanctity of marriage for centuries. If you really want to defend the sanctity of marriage, abolish marriage because that’s the only way that particular institution will ever become virtuous.

I don’t say this merely because I am among the millions who are divorced. But those who think marriage is somehow inviolate to the forces of society are deluding themselves.

But if you are serious about keeping the sanctity of marriage, then you should turn your attention away from homosexuals and to the thousands of redneck hillbillies who each day wed in double-wide churches. In the presence of their various children, these people join in matrimony without a thought given to the number of ways they will burden the welfare system in years to come. Yes, they are a boon to the trailer industry, and their herds are regularly culled by tornadoes, but they will continue to inflict upon America generation after generation of beer-swilling NASCAR fans waiting to be laid off at the plant. Only when we ban this sort of marriage will be effectively cure West Virginia.

On the way home from school, I usually ask my 13-year-old son how his day went. And sometimes he even answers in a constructive and informative way. Like the other day.

“In Spanish, we danced,” he said. Good, because he is probably a lot better at dancing than he is at conjugating.

“Oh, right, you told me about that,” I said. “The samba?”

“No, the salsa.”

“Ah, right.”

“And you know who we danced with?”

“Your friends?”

“No. Girls. And it was a lot of fun.”

“Wow, tough day. Had to dance, huh? Was this for a grade?”

“Yeah, I think so. And I did pretty well. Didn’t forget any of the steps, and there were a lot of them.”

“Man, school sure has changed. In the old days, we were graded on stuff like tests and homework. Now all you have to do is dance.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Bryson said. “I wish I went to school back when you did. It was so easy. Now we have way more stuff to learn because so much more has happened. And with technology and stuff, things are way harder.”

I thought about this. In Social Studies, Bryson has been studying the Civil War and reconstruction. I wondered how much more history has been uncovered by the latest technology. And surely the atomic structure of water has changed as science has benefited from the wonders of technology.

So I called him on it.

“You really think so?” I said.

“Yeah, definitely. You had it so much easier. Stuff was way simpler. Now there is all this stuff we have to learn.”

“OK, let me tell you my side and see if you still agree. When I went to school, there were no computers. That meant if I needed some information on a report, I couldn’t go into my bedroom, turn on a machine and enter a few words.

“I had to go to a library. Not a media center filled with even more computers that are there so you never really have to look at a book. Which, honestly, I still don’t get.

“But at the library, that was just the start. I would have to use a card catalog to look up a subject, and on those cards would be the names of books, and each one would have a number. I would have to write those numbers down and go find them in the shelves, and after 10 minutes of looking I would find that the book wasn’t there, it had been checked out, because everybody else in my class doing a report wanted that book. And if the book was there, I would take it back to a desk and start searching through it, page by page, looking for information I needed. If I found it, I would either have to copy it by hand or wait in a long line at the copier, where at guy at the front of the line was trying to find change for a buck because he ran out of nickels, and that’s only if it was on those rare occasions where the copier was actually working.

“Now as there were no computers, we had to type our reports. When you made a mistake, you had to stop, get some White Out, paint out the error, and type over it. Odds were you’d make the very same mistake again. I used enough White Out in college to paint a house.

“And then there was math. Which, by the way, hasn’t changed all that much unless technology has made 2 + 2 = 3.539 or something. It’s not that we couldn’t use calculators. It’s that they weren’t even invented yet.”

(That was true until my freshman year in high school when the head resident of our dorm bought a four-function handheld calculator with futuristic LED lights. It was amazing. We’d plug in all sorts of problems, mostly multiplication and division because that was a higher functioning math. We even had an engineering student test it. “OK, 469 times 732, what is it?” “Hang on, let’s see … yeah, and carry … I’ve got 343,308.” “Dude, yeah, the calculator had it right and in way less time, this is amazing!”)

“And even when he had calculators, they didn’t do much beyond add and subtract. You may get into math that involves logarithms and cosines, and we had to figure out all that with charts and graphs and slide rules.

“And you know how you can tell a computer to do just about anything? My college only had one computer, and you had to write instructions on these cardboard punch cards, sometimes as many as 200 or so, and then turn them in for the computer guys to feed into the machine. And you’d come back the next day hoping your program worked, only usually it didn’t and you’d have to find out which cards didn’t work and start all over. And these were programs that just counted. Counted!

“Oh, and Spanish is still pretty much Spanish, despite all your fancy technology. Only now there are Web sites to tell you what words mean, and some that will translate pages (though not very well). Still think it’s a lot tougher now?”

“Huh, what? So some kids had to dance with girls in another class because there are more boys than girls in Spanish. I danced with Samantha, Justine, Audrey and one more I forget her name.”

“So you had a good time?”

“Yeah, I said it was fun. Weren’t you listening?”

As the government-appointed expert on incredibly stupid uses of technology (because such rants tend to make a federal case of dumb stuff like this), I have convicted Coors of violating Ordinance 08-WTFWYT in relation to its latest two “advances” in beer-delivery systems.

For those who thought the aluminum can really didn’t need enhancements when it came to containing mass-produced (meaning cheap) malt-based beverages, Coors’ recent innovations have proven you correct. The only one who didn’t understand the near-perfection of the aluminum can, from its lightweight feel to the fact even “geeklings” (weakling geeks) can crush an empty one on their foreheads, Coors has “improved” the can by A) including an indicator telling you it was cold; and 2) venting it so the beer was more accessible.

Perhaps there are some people who truly appreciate the way the mountain on the Coors Light cans turn blue when the beer is appropriately cold. To those people we say: “Man, evolution has been too kind recently.”

And now Coors has unveiled vents on the side of the mouth-hole that allegedly improve the flow of its light beer. Meaning you can drink more, faster.

Until Coors actually works on improving what’s in the can rather than the can itself, a mechanism that allows you to drink more Coors Lights faster is pretty much like inventing a pill that will make dogs crap larger piles more often.

And that’s all I will say on that.

It’s happened to everyone at some point – you are sleeping at home, minding your own business just as your state of consciousness implies, and some stranger breaks in intent on doing you harm. Or to ask you to stop snoring.

Either way, you’re not asking questions and instead reaching for your shotgun. Then it hits you. You keep your shotgun in the closet, up on a shelf, completely unmindful of the constant threat of people breaking in intent on doing you harm. And you think, “We can put a man on the moon, even send him up there with a weapon, yet there is no device capable of allowing me to sleep comfortably knowing that my shotgun is within easy reach.”

Be vexed no more, my NRA friend. The good people at Home Back-up Protection, LLC of Newark, Delaware are well aware of your plight, and they’ve done something about it.

No longer will you have to worry about not having your shotgun near you, and thus constantly vulnerable to strangers breaking in intent on doing you harm. For when you flip off the lights, your mind will be eased gently into sleep with the knowledge you’ve got potent firepower racked bedside thanks to the Back-Up Shotgun Racking System.

This is the kind of simple yet ingenious design that will have you thinking, “Why didn’t I think of a device that allows me to sleep as comfortably with a shotgun by my side?”

The adjustable rack (available at www.the-backup.com) is connected to two flat brackets that slip gently between mattress and bedspring (and if you sleep on a futon, you are a hippie and undeserving of a bedside shotgun rack). The two C-shaped curves at the end of these brackets gently cradle your shotgun with no need of pesky latch or lock. The Back-Up is a holster for your bed, turning your sleeping area into a lethal firing range. Mr. Break-In Guy, meet Mr. 30-Aught-6 with a spray pattern guaranteed to make it difficult to get you out of the carpet after police leave.

No longer will you have to toss and turn with the 9mm that just wasn’t designed to fit comfortably under a pillow. Now you can put that pistol in the nightstand where it belongs, letting your spouse go for your backup piece if, for some reason, your first few shots go wild in the dark.

The makers of the Back-Up do suggest you not use the device when there are children in the home, leaving you completely vulnerable to the break-in guys just waiting for that night you choose not to sleep with your shotgun. Or you can just tell the kids not to touch daddy’s boomstick. Yeah, that sounds good.

To order your very own Back-Up Shotgun Racking System, and thus return to the kind of sleep you had before kicking the booze and painkillers, visit www.the-backup.com. Just one night of paranoid-free peace will have you believing the rest of the world is in for a pretty Goddamn big shock if it thinks it can just walk into your bedroom in the middle of the night and soundlessly take that shotgun from its rack and make you one with the bedding. Because that just won’t happen.

It’s been almost a week now and still so many people are trying to come to grips with what happened. And it’s not easy. Life will never be the same.

Brett Favre retired. Oh, seeing that in black and white is more painful than I thought. And things are just so bleak, I mean, the NFL without Brett Favre, one of the hundreds of quarterbacks who ever played, it’s incomprehensible and … please, just give me a minute. I have to collect myself here.

OK, thank you. I don’t mean to be so emotional, but I am replaying in my mind Brett’s three-hanky press conference in which he and a nation had to come to grips with a Brett-less NFL. Is it really possible? Is it? When the league starts up again in September, will we really be able to plunk down that $175 for a ticket (not including $15 facility fee and $11.50 handling charge) and wonder if we can really bring ourselves to watch a sport in which there is no Brett Favre? And is football really a sport anymore? Without Brett, it’s just a game. A simple meaningless game that will have us asking every Sunday, and Monday nights, and some Thursdays, whether it’s all worth it.

As I watched Brett struggle to find the words to express his depth of emotion (and truly, there are no words, except for maybe, “As you’ve known for days, I’m retiring”), I too was overcome with emotion. All I could think about was how hard this was on Brett, how unfair life truly was to take a man from what he loved. Oh, time, you are a cruel mistress.

Here he was, a man in his prime, just 38 or whatever, faced with years and years of leisure in front of him. While the rest of us struggle to make enough money to retire, keeping busy as fry cooks and Wal-Mart greeters well into our 70s, Brett has to find a way to fill the time in a way that will take into account the millions of dollars he’s made as a quarterback.

Imagine as Brett rises on an NFL Sunday morning, realizing that halfway across the world from his Tuscan villa, large men are beating themselves senseless without him. And has he slowly picks at his breakfast on the veranda, wondering if he should spend a few days in Greece or perhaps tour the Italian Alps for a while, you just know his thoughts will stray to Green Bay and he will think, “I’ll have to check the Net later to get some scores.” And I wonder how Brett will deal with that moment when football once again tugs at him, and I pray that maybe by that time there will be an ESPN Italiano allowing Brett to see those play the game that was stolen from him, not counting the times he has a bunch of friends over to the farm for a game of touch.

Brett, I just wanted you to know that even though you won’t ever play in the NFL again, save for when you are paid $50,000 to participate in an old-timers game, every American – no, every citizen on the globe – admires you for your bravery to retire comfortably at 38. I can’t think of another man or woman who would willingly make the same decision, unless they too were forced to subsist on personal appearances, speaking engagements and lucrative autograph sessions.

I will never forget you, Brett Favre. You are an inspiration to us all.

Was at the gym this morning and saw a sad sad sight. There was a man there lifting incredibly heavy weights who looked to be healthy but was wearing a tank top that came to just above his six-pack abs. And it was obvious his nylon shorts had not been the right size for years, showing far too much of his thick muscled thighs.

It's so sad to see people who can no longer afford clothes that fit. Let me know if you can assist this gentleman. With just a few dollars, we can hlep him buy clothes that will adequately cover his steroid-enhanced physique. And maybe someday we will live in a world where everyone who spends 10 hours in a gym will be able to afford extra large T-shirts and shorts so they won't have to spend so much time staring at themselves in the mirror, wondering how their lives would be if dressed like everyone else.

Thank you in advance.

If there is one thing we know about Oprah Winfrey, the guru of our times, it is that she believes in one simple philosophy: “I shamelessly self-promote, therefore I am.”

While relatively 6.5 billion people live their lives in relative quiet, giving to their fellow man in ways that do not require a media empire, Oprah prefers network coverage every time she does something nice.

The latest example – the TV show Oprah’s Big Give. She has chosen 10 people to make dreams come true for those who have faced extremely hard times, turning stuff like foreclosures and the deaths of loved ones into the feel-good show of the year.

Sure, Oprah could merely toss a million bucks at families lucky enough to have suffered untold hardships, but that would not be Oprah enough. Instead, in Oprah’s Big Give, the person who gives the best and hardest wins.

Yup, Oprah has turned charity into a competition. Kinda makes you wish you were recently diagnosed with cancer while not qualifying for insurance at any of the three jobs you work because you had to take time off while clearing legal troubles created by your ex-husband who hasn’t paid child support in 12 years.

In Big Give, competitive givers must fulfill dreams to Oprah standards. Which likely means in addition to the No. 1 Oprah standard: “When giving, make sure it is broadcast and later available for downloading on iTunes.”

And if you don’t give hard enough and long enough to satisfy Oprah, consider yourself gone. The last giver standing wins one million bucks as well as the chance to fawn all over Oprah for being so damn generous.

As if Oprah would be putting any of her cash into this endeavor. If nothing else, Oprah will take home more far more than a million bucks from this show thanks to so many suckers who would gladly tattoo “In Oprah we trust” on the body part of her choosing.

Her altruism is directly proportional to the amount of media coverage it would generate. And since she has her own talk show, magazine and production company, she couldn’t fart without it appearing in the “Ways Oprah enriched us today” column at oprah.com.

Bill Gates can give a billion dollars to world health and maybe be the subject of a press conference or two. Millions of Americans give weekly to United Way and other charities, some in excess of 10 percent of their salaries, and are happy knowing they are doing some good.

It was a bit surprising when Oprah started a school for African women, mentioning it once or twice on her talk show, as well as in her magazine. Pretty muted by Oprah standards. But that’s because she was saving it for a Major Television Event: Oprah goes to Africa for a global group hug. She shows off these young, poor African women because, with a little Oprah magic, they sure clean up nicely.

(And of course when it is discovered one of the teachers is abusing students, Oprah disappears until she can conduct another carefully orchestrated press conference where, surrounded by happy smiling young African women, she explains she was shocked and saddened when she was told about it, and to whom should she make out the check?)

No doubt Oprah’s Big Give will reel in big ratings, a testament to the number of people who need to get off their ass and get a job instead of watching so much daytime TV.

I always thought the worst thing Oprah could have done for America was to give us Dr. Phil. But it looks like her Big Give will top it.

Can’t help but think of this timeless philosophical puzzle – if Oprah gives to a rainforest, does it make a sound? Hell yes, and probably a book series as well.

Not long after 4 a.m., as I whirled away on the elliptical machine at my local gym, three men on the machines behind me were engaged in conversation. Two, a 60-something Hispanic and 52-year-old African American junior-high school teacher who often came at that time, were talking politics with a 50-something Anglo who, I’d never seen before. Wearing a gray sweatsuit with a towel tucked around his neck, he hunched over the machine and cycled slowly.

It started innocently, the white guy butting in on a conversation between the other two gentleman about how the teacher was thinking about taking dancing lessons. The man said how great it was to do something new, to put different things in your life. That when one thing gets boring, you can go on to something else.

“Last night, for example, I was at Encanto Park with a bunch of buddies practicing kenpo. That’s a martial art. For two hours we’re beating the hell out of each other. Sure, I have a few bruises, but I’ll live. And I delivered a few bruises as well. Enough to be remembered, you know?”

No, I don’t know. But what happened next, yeah, that’s what I’ll remember him for.

“Barack Obama scares me.”

Yup, just like that. The teacher, being a teacher, asked him why.

This is the monologue, as I remember it. And I remember it pretty well.

“Well, a lot of reasons. First, the Muslim thing. He says he isn’t a Muslim. OK. But then he dresses like a Muslim. What’s that about? Muslims aren’t like us. Sure, some of them are OK, but al-Qaida? Muslim. Terrorists? Muslim. There’s something seriously wrong with people who only want to spread violence.

“But past that, I just don’t know what he stands for. Let’s take the economy. Nobody wants to talk about it, but we’re headed to a depression, just like the 30s. It’s not if, only when. People are blind if they can’t see it. This country is going to be in sorry shape and no one is doing anything about it.

“Then gun control. That’s a huge thing. Terrorists are coming here, if they’re not here already. And unless everyone carries a gun, we can’t defend ourselves. They’re gonna come over here and just take us over if we’re not careful. Al-Qaida knows that, knows we’re soft. Unless we do something about that right away, and I don’t mean a year from now, I mean now, it’s going to be bad. And all those people who wanted gun control are going to see what it cost them.

“Here’s the thing – you know how that guy walked into that college class and started shooting? No one could defend themselves. No one. But if just one guy had a gun, game over. The shooter would have been toast. And all those people who died would be alive today. A happy ending. But no, we don’t want guns in schools. As long as we continue with that mentality, more innocent people are going to die.

“You know what we need to do, right? Everyone should have a gun. Take them to the mall, school, church, wherever. Because when that one guy who wants to kill people takes out his gun, forget it. He’s gone. But see, that’s the thing. He knows everyone has a gun, and you know what happens? He never even takes it out. Everyone is safe. Guns keep us safe. Now you’re getting my point, right? How can you argue with that? You just can’t.

“Remember what I said about the depression? It’s gonna be bad. Real bad. If people were smart, this is what they’d start doing now. First, get their money out of banks before it becomes worthless. Next, buy a bunch of water and food. A ton. More than they thought they would ever need. Then get rifles, pistols, maybe two or three per person. And lots of ammo. Like food, more than they’d think they’d ever need. Now they’re ready. When the depression hits, hunker down because there will be people who will come for them. Because they were ready and no one else is. That’s what I’m doing. I’m taking no chances.”

A series of beeps interrupted him and the two other gentleman climbed off their machines. As did he, following the older man into the weight-machine area.

About 10 minutes later I saw the teacher working out with free weights.

“Nice friend you made,” I said.

“That was disturbing,” he said. “People like that make me really nervous.”

“No kidding.”

I hit the shower, hoping to wash all that crap off.

Some of life’s better moments occur when something goes wrong (notice I said “some.” Meaning “pretty few,” because stuff CAN really suck when things go wrong, from a flat tire on the freeway to the admittance of Florida as a bonafide United State).

Something had just gone wrong a few minutes ago when I found myself walking more than a mile home with my son (a bike repair thing; his was in the shop and since I did not want to ride my bike home, leaving him alone, we walked together).

Not long after leaving the repair shop, the conversation drifted to politics. I forget how exactly. Normally in front of my almost-13-year-old son I refrain from saying, “I can understand how we can elect the dumbest US president in history; hey, even Millard Fillmore made it to the White House. But twice? Are you kidding me?”

Either way, the following conversation occurred, and because of it the world was made a better place because another Democrat was born, though I now he will sell his political soul should he ever fall in love with a Republican (“You’re right, honey, if this country is ever going to have a right-wing evangelical president bent on making the world safe for the narrow-minded, gun-holding, unforgiving non-Hispanic majority, a vote for Huckabee isn’t just essential, it’s also the only morally correct thing to do”).

It went something like this (quotes mostly accurate, relying on this aging mind as I must):

“Dad, this is George Bush’s last year, right? I don’t really like him all that much.”

“Why is that?”

“Because so many soldiers are dying. Why can’t we just get everybody out of there?”

“Well, as much as I would like to see that happen, I’m not so sure that would be the best thing. Not leaving all at once. But slowly. Even though I’m not so sure that would do any good either.”

“Why not? I don’t understand. Either we leave or we just take over, right? We leave, I mean, who cares, right?”

“But look at what we’d leave behind. A country in a lot of turmoil. There are people there who don’t get along, and they haven’t gotten along for hundreds of years. Right now we’re doing out best to get them to talk, to form a government in which they all have a voice. If we can do that, great. But even if we do that, I’m not sure peace will last.”

“Because they’ve been so long?”

“Exactly. OK, you’ve studied the Civil War, right? The North and South really hated one another. Imagine in the middle of that another country invaded. France, let’s say. And they came in and took all of our weapons and started setting the rules. Then they made us put together a government with half North, half South. When everything looked OK, France said, ‘See ya.’ What do you think would have happened?”

“We would have started fighting again.”

“Pretty much. And the North and South didn’t get along for just a few decades or so.* The Shia and Sunni, who are both Muslim but don’t agree on all the particulars, have been kinda miffed at one another for centuries.”

“So why did we even get involved?”

“Ah, there’s the question that has split the nation. Most of this goes back to 9-11. You know that the attackers were from al-Qaeda, right? OK, we went into Afghanistan because we had proof that al-Qaeda had been training there, and that its leader, right, Osama Bin Laden, was living there. Fine, right?”

“I guess. I mean, if they sent people to kill us, we should go get them.”

“Later on, George W Bush tells us that they have developed intelligence that Iraq … well, the leader of Iraq, who was a pretty …”

“Bad guy. Saddam Hassan. We talked about him in school.”

“Right. Saddam Hussein. Definitely a bad guy. Killed thousands of his won people. According to George W Bush, Saddam was a threat to the US. Not only was he connected to al-Qaeda, but he was developing really powerful bombs. Nuclear stuff, bombs with chemicals that can wipe out everyone within a few miles. Weapons of mass destruction. So George W Bush decided we needed to invade Iraq.”

“But we captured Saddam. Why didn’t we just get out then?”

“We did get Hussein, but in the meantime, guess what happened? Turns out Saddam wasn’t connected to al-Qaeda. And he wasn’t making weapons of mass destruction. See, when Saddam was doing all this bad stuff, the rest of the world cut him off. Didn’t send him food or money. Iraq became a very poor country. Thousands were starving. You think this is the kind of country we should be afraid of? No. But George W Bush was.”

“So we sent soldiers because of what Bush thought? Man, that is so stupid.” (Ah, the Democrat emerges like a butterfly from the cocoon.)

“A lot of people still believe that invading Iraq is a good thing, that Iraq was a threat to us. Others believe it had something to do with oil.”

(Conversation ensues about oil supply and political ramifications, which goes largely over his head.)

“But dad, I don’t get why the Iraqis keep blowing themselves up and killing everyone. We’re trying to bring peace and they won’t let us. That doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re right, but let’s put it another way. We’re the most powerful nation in the world and no one would dare invade us. But let’s just say that one day America is not so powerful, and other countries think we’re dangerous. So one day all these soldier show up from different countries, and none of them speak our language but it’s pretty obvious they’re telling us what to do. And they make sure to tell us it’s for our own good. They’ll even help us set up a new government where everyone will have a say. What do you think we’d do?”

“We’d fight back … yeah, I don’t think we’d just sit there. I kind of get it.”

“I wish things would be more peaceful in Iraq, and I do think there are some really bad people over there, people who would kill civilians to make a point. And I would never defend them. But I also think it’s important we at least try to understand it from another point of view.”

“How long are we going to keep being over there?”

“I wish I knew. I just hope we pull out long before you turn 18.”

“But we could be there another 10 years. Or even 50 years. A hundred years. And when we leave, they could all go back to fighting anyway. So what’s the point?”

“I have no idea. But hopefully whoever’s elected president will.”

*Having not studied the Civil War for a few decades or so, my apology to the stick-up-their-butt historians who insist my figures are wrong.

Ah, it's almost spring training once again. Is there any better time in the universe than the start of baseball? Let me answer that for you -- no.

A close runner-up, however, is the beginning of Sausage Racing Season. Last year, I was lucky enough to be the chugging Chorizo, going against such wiener luminaries at Italian, Polish and the Hot Dog at a Milwaukee Brewer spring training game.

Check out the video here (and if copying and pasting this link does not work for some reason, go to azcentral.com. Scroll to the bottom and click on "Videos" in the site map. Once at the videos screen, scroll down to Arizona Republic videos and click on More videos. Scroll to March 07, go down about three-quarters of the way and click on Sausage Races. Yes, you will probably be disappointed. So? It's only 90 seconds) :

www.azcentral.com/phpAPP/multimedia/flash.php?path
=rtmp://azcentral.com/news/azr/0310sausage_r','mediaplayer',
'toolbar=no,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,width=300,height=300'

As I get older, generalities lose their veracity and mean less and less. For example, when I was 20, I knew that everyone going the speed limit in the fast lane was a jerk. Now that I’m 50, I realize that only some of those people are jerks, the ones who insist the speed limit is absolutely the fastest you should go, thus they are “proving a point” (and being jerks) by remaining in the fast lane. Others are simply misguided or not paying attention. And I’ve also come to realize that relatively slower people in the fast lane are not there solely to tick me off.

Not everyone comes to this realization as their brains ferment (becoming more refined and of a higher quality) over the decades. There are millions who firmly believe such generalities as “Iraq is a threat to America” and “Illegal is illegal.” Yet if they were to pause and think of those statements on a case-by-case basis, they would realize the words are as hollow as a Wal-Mart promise to pay its clerks a living wage.

With that in mind, here are generalities that I still generally believe:

Aisle seats are way better, mostly at sporting events, with theaters and airplanes right behind.

Those 80 and older should not be driving. Those 70 and older should not be driving without an annual driving test. Anyone who thinks, “I love being behind the wheel of this RV” should not be driving at all.

Just because you can afford to buy something way bigger than you need does not mean you should.

If there truly was a God, chocolate would cure cancer.

George W. Bush may not be the dumbest U.S. president ever, but he is certainly in the top 3.

Once I get to know a Republican, I can actually get to like him or her. Given time.

We don’t own up to our problems like our parents did (yes, I’m talking to those people who took out risky home loans and then blamed the availability of those loans when financial troubles started).

Not everyone who buys a Hummer is trying to make up for having a tiny penis. Women, for example.

Leave Britney alone.

Spirituality can be fulfilling. Religion is merely polarizing.

It is not a crime to want you hair cut in silence.

Dogs rule, cats drool.

Those who believe abstinence is the solution to teen pregnancy either have forgotten their own teenage years or were such total geeks they never had a shot at getting any.

If the Super Bowl continues to hire talented yet irrelevant halftime acts, Earth Wind and Fire would be an excellent choice.

Double Stuf Oreos with peanut butter crème are the best mass-produced cookies in the US.

Molly Johnson’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies are the best homemade cookies in the US, if not the world.

Ugliest English word is definitely the “c” word – “censorship.”

A sharing of opinions and ideas can be enriching, especially when those opinions and ideas conflict. Spewing vile thoughts anonymously across the Internet is cowardly.

Arrested Development was one of the best shows on TV, and I blame you for not watching and having it canceled.

I am a decent man with a few dickish tendencies rather than a dick with a few decent tendencies.

If you are caught in this country illegally, let’s still treat you humanly, if not humanely.

Worst household chore: dusting.

Best household chore: yeah, right.

Those who ignore history are most likely high school students, and are certainly doomed to repeat it if they don’t get their act together.

Superman could beat any other superhero in a fair fight.

As you get older, you become more appreciative of others’ talents. Not counting those talents of romance writers.

Loyalty to your company stopped being an admirable trait about 15 years ago.

In more cases than not, he who smelt it is not the one who dealt it.

If you are against affirmative action and belong to a class that has never been subject to centuries of racial oppression, from slavery to systematic segregation to profiling, four words: Shut the hell up.

Two statements guarantee to make any reasonable person cringe: “Everything in my life has led up to this moment” (true whether you’ve just made love for the first time or decided on cherry over raspberry Toaster Pastries) and “He died doing what he loved to do” (apparently far worse than dying while doing what you don’t like to do).

Marriage is a flawed institution, and kudos to those who make it work.

Those who have asked “What part of ‘illegal’ don’t you understand?” should meet the girl from Mexico who came with her parents when she was two, received outstanding grades while working two jobs to help her family, saved enough for college and, after a routine check of records just prior to her graduation and the start of her job at a bioresearch company, was deported to a country she considered foreign. Yeah, that’s the part of “illegal” I don’t understand.

Feel free to leave comments. Who knows, I may have a part 2.

The youngster knows how to rock ... in the living room with a toy guitar. But hey, he's got style. And as far as I know, he did not know the camera was on him until the end.

Each day we are overwhelmed with bad news. It can be as grand and painful as the war, as small as a traffic accident that takes a life or two. And there’s the news that merely makes us shake our heads and wonder what this world’s coming to (imploding celebrities, mindless crimes, a loss of human decency).

That’s why I consider myself fortunate to be associated with one story that proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there is a goodness to life which makes everything worth it. It’s a story of pain and heartache, a story of joy and undeniable spirit. And it’s a story everyone should know because it speaks to the essence of what life is all about.

Most importantly, it’s a story still being written. And I hope I continue to be lucky enough to follow along.

It starts, for me, in 2000 (I play such a small part, and my presence is necessary only as narrator). When I indicated on the juror form that I would be available for a lengthy trial, I was not surprised when I was asked to report in a week for further interviews. But as a journalist for the Arizona Republic, I was shocked to be named to the 14-person jury. I figured no one would want a reporter. Especially for a case this big, involving the Avondale quads. At the time, I think local news shows even had a graphic that said Avondale quads, so ubiquitous was the case.

There were nights during that trial that all I wanted to do was come home and give my son an extra long hug. He was 3, just a year older than the quadruplets I had been hearing about all day, kids who has been brutalized. The only question was who did it.

We heard testimony, saw x-rays, examined reports. There had been broken ribs, arms and skulls. One child, a doctor said, had been shaken so hard that it was as if he had been in a head-on collision at 45 mph. The doctor surmised the child, who was just six months old at the time, had been picked up and slug down, his had slamming into a wall or table.

By the time we were allowed to talk about it, each juror had been affected by what we’d heard and seen.

Those responsible were convicted, and this story is not about them or the trial.

The real story starts in another courtroom, one festooned with balloons and smiles and laughter.

Because not long after the trial, the three foster families of the four children appeared in family court for the finalization of the adoption process. New names accompanied the new start: Brandon, Michael, Matthew and Hannah.

Michael and Matthew, identical twins, raced around the courtroom with their sister Hannah, showing few signs of injuries that had kept them in the hospital for months.

Brandon was in a wheelchair, his skull sloping unnaturally on one side because of an injury that, doctors had testified, should have killed him. As it was, they said Brandon would never hear or see, and likely no live past the age of two.

Brandon was now three, smiling when his brothers and sister appeared at his side with a bright red balloon. He could barely move his arms or legs, and he could tilt his head only slightly.

Yet he was the biggest miracle in the room.

Ken and Becky Rowin were Brandon’s proud parents, a couple who had devoted themselves to special-needs kids over the years, fostering or adopting children to whom most people would gladly donate money. But time? Well, it’s just that these kids are so much work.

So much work.

Sandy and Lyle were much the same way. The new parents of Michael and Matthew, Sandy and Lyle also had dedicated themselves to children that you, nor I, without some sort of blood relationship, would ever take on.

And Hannah would be the princess of Sherrie and Rick, who would dote on their young daughter. Sherrie had always wanted a daughter, having had sons who now were zooming toward adulthood.

Imagine having seen nothing but x-rays and heard nothing but dire tales of the abuses heaped upon four children, and then finally meeting those four children, now wearing their Sunday finest.

This is when you may start to believe in miracles. I did.

Flash forward about two years. More balloons, a colorful pile of gifts piled on a table next to a pink and blue birthday cake. Children of all ages running to and fro in barely controlled pandemonium. Several bowls of chips lining the kitchen counter, at the end of which is a large plate of cookies.

Brandon, Hannah, Matthew and Michael are 5. Personalities have emerged. Hannah in playful and outgoing. Matthew is sensitive and loves to draw. Michael prefers to act out the adventures of Spider-Man, his favorite superhero. Just check out all the presents wrapped in Spidey paper.

Off in the dining room is Becky and Brandon, who’s defied every prediction of medical science. In the past few months, he’s begun to recognize colors, patterns and sounds. He is reacting to the outside world, and the family’s favorite moments include Brandon’s laughter as be watches Dora the Explorer (another miracle is the video, which remains in great shape despite dozens and dozens of viewings).

But in her darker moments. Becky wishes it wasn’t like this. She wishes Brandon is a carbon copy of his brothers, that instead of this wheelchair, he would be on a bike, wind blowing against his face as legs pumped harder and harder.

Becky would give anything – anything – to make it so Brandon could step out of the prison that is his body and experience the normal joys that, right now, his siblings are enjoying. In fact, she would give anything – anything – to make it so Brandon could blow out one candle on his cake.

But those are just her darker moments. They come and they go. In between, she realizes she is lucky to have Brandon for one more day. And another. And another.

She still cries. So does Ken. And when I think of this story, so do I. But it isn’t just about the sadness and unfairness. It’s much more about hope, about Brandon being able to experience things doctors said he would never experience.

But let’s wait for more on that. Because the story continues.

Five years later. And just a few weeks ago. Another room decorated with balloons, this one inside a warehouse-sized fun factory filled with rides, video games and flashing lights. Several buffets are filled with kid-friendly foods.

Another birthday. The quadruplets are 10, and this is their annual gathering.

Years ago, the children would get together several times a year for dinners or outings. It always has been important for the parents to have the children keep in touch, to keep thas part of the family together.

But over the years, life has pulled them apart. Because there are soccer games, friends’ parties, and various other commitments that keep families busy.

Because they have attained normalcy. There are routines that include favorite dinners, special nights out, arguments, shopping trips, homework, games, hurt feelings, miscommunication, movies, and etc and etc and etc.

They were no longer the Avondale quads. They were Hannah and Matthew and Michael and Brandon. Those who knew their background would also call them remarkable.

Anyone else would just call them rambunctious kids.

Matthew and Michael are happy to run in and around the various game machines. Matthew is still the shy and sensitive one, who prefers time with a good book or sketchpad (and, Sandy says, Matthew was just chosen student of the month at his school and is in an advanced reading program). Michael the active one who can definitely be more than a handful. Hannah’s personality lies somewhere between her two brothers, and she is spending most of her time with friends she’s invited.

Brandon is much the same, and now uses a computer that leads him though colors and pictures where he can tell a story. He still loves Dora, and has displayed quite a sweet tooth.

And here are just a few things Brandon has seen, touched and heard that doctors swore, just about 9 years ago, he would never experience: a sandy beach, waves lapping against the shore, the scent of his mom’s favorite perfume, squeals of children on a thrill ride, a high five from Mickey Mouse, a balloon disappearing into the blue, the rich sweet taste of his own birthday cake.

And so much more.

Becky and Ken still have their dark moments. They did not talk about them, but I would like to think that in this story, those moments are much fewer.

This is what I will remember most from that day: I look at the LCD screen on the back of my camera to make sure each child is centered in the frame: Brandon in the front, surrounded by Michael, Matthew and Hannah. I wait a second, two, for all of them to smile, that perfect moment.

It hits me just as I snap the picture. I put the camera down and look again at this scene. This, I realize, is the perfect moment. And I am so very lucky to be here.

The story is still being written. Becky and Ken and Brandon will appreciate each and every day together. And the other three kids will grow, go to junior high, cop attitudes, go to high school, get into scrapes, meet a special someone, break up, meet another special someone, learn to drive, go to college, kiss their parents goodbye, meet another special someone, get married, come home for Christmas, be together on their birthday..

Life as it should be. And only those who know their whole story will realize how remarkable life can be.

“It’s 7 a.m., you said I could open a present,” Bryson said. And so I did. Christmas had started.

He opened his stocking and, with Hannah, Ryan and Paula soon joining us, the presents, and the time, flew by. Books, gift cards, clothes. Sometimes even a few thank-yous. Until there was not a gift left under the tree.

I’d asked Bryson this year is he would want a big, rather expensive present, and only get a few more things in addition; or would he rather get the customary number and forego something truly special. I knew what his answer would be the moment I asked.

“Did you get everything you wanted?” I asked, knowing the gift at the top of his list was not to be found.

“Pretty much,” he said. “Well, except for the Havoc Heli, but that’s OK.”

He spoke of a small indoor remote control helicopter he’d been wanting for months.

“So was my big present one of these?” he said, looking at the small pile of books and video games surrounding him.

“Well, I’m not sure, I hope your Christmas isn’t in ruins,” I said.

“What? No.”

“Because that would be a shame if your Christmas were in ruins. Or should I say if your Christmas were in the ruins.”

“What are you saying?”

“I said it wouldn’t be nice if your Christmas were in … the … ruins.”

Bryson stood and looked around, knowing a clue when he heard it. He just had no clue what the clue was supposed to mean.

“Should we play the hot-cold game?” I said. It was the clue of the last resort. “Because right now” – as he looked through the wreckage of wrapping paper on the floor – “you’re cold.”

Within a minute he was standing next to the bookcase near the Christmas tree, his hand darting out to The Ruins, from the top of which protruded a white envelope. He pulled the envelope from the book, opened it and began to read.

Hi Bryson, remember us, it’s the elves and we’re back.

2007 was such a great year and that’s a fact, Jack.

You’re getting so old, next year you’ll be teening,

Though your dad says you’re already primping and preening.

But enough of this small talk, you know the drill.

We give the clues and you follow them still.

Of course now that you are so much more older,

These clues will be so much more bolder.

You’ll look to your dad when you must confess

That you need help, but he will be clueless.

This time, Bryson, the hunt is on you,

And the fact is, if you don’t rather than do

Find the present that we have hidden so true

The lights outside won’t be the only thing blue.

Because this is the search to end all the searches.

And should you fail, your IQ it besmirches.

This is a present worth much diligence,

For it cost so many dollars and cents.

Thus for you we are surely not making it easy,

Our clues will be tough and our clues will be tease-y.

What do you say, is it time to get started?
Is your attitude one that is fun and good-hearted?

Because you need to go to the place where you find,

A stick you use to find joy all of the time.

“A stick?” Bryson said. “What kind of stick?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Ask the elves.”

Each year since Bryson was 3, the North Pole elves visited our home and sprinkled rhyming clues around the house, leading him to his big present. One year it was a bike, another time a scooter, once a giant-sized Lego set. Even when his belief in elves dropped to an all-time low when he was 9, he asked that they still visit. I imagine they’ll come to our house as long as he is here.

“Read the clue one more time,” I said.

“A stick you use to find joy all the time.”

“The answer is right there.”

An idea popped into Ryan’s mind and, because he is 10, an age where thinking things through doesn’t apply, he blurted, “Your bike!”

And Bryson, being 12 and not having a clue, bought it.

The two of them traipsed into the very-cold garage. Bryson looked at his bike. His scooter. He picked up and examined his Air Soft rifle.

“This is a stick that gives me joy,” he said. No argument from me.”

“It’s not in here,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Think of two words in that clue. Look at it again.”

“Stick?” Bryson said, back in the family room.

“Yes.”

“And, uh, find? Stick find? Find the stick?”

“No.”

“Joy? Stick joy.”

“Close. Turn them around.”

“Joy stick?”

“Bingo.”

Bryson headed to the Xbox 360 cabinet and, after a little more guidance, found the next clue hidden in the battery compartment of the controller. He unfurled the scrap of paper and read.

You found it, that’s great, did you need some assistance?

Now outside you must seek where warm air sometimes vents.

(Apparently elves knew a short clue was needed given lack of space inside the joystick. Clever, those elves. )

Bryson threw open the back door, stepped into the pair of tired old sneakers kept on the patio for such occasions, and was on the hunt.

“I know where this is,” he said, heading toward the AC unit on the side of the house. “Too easy.”

He looked around the mechanical box but found nothing. I explained to him the basic working of the AZ unit, that it blows air into the house. “You need to find something that vents to the outside. What blows air from inside?”

“I don’t know. Seriously, I have no idea.”

From a know-it-all to a know-nothing-at-all in a matter of seconds. Such was the nature of these yearly hunts.

Bryson would have no clue about the vent. He’d never done laundry in his life. As far as he was concerned, he put dirty clothes in the magic plastic bin and in a few days or so, those clothes would return to his bed, fresh and clean.

We resorted to the hot-cold game. A few minutes later he was pulling a clue taped carefully to caked-up lint on the lip of the dryer vent.

We’re a little surprised that you were so able,

To find a clue that wasn’t just out on a table.

To get the next one you just might need permission

From two roommates who are probably hopin’ and wishin’

While you’re at their favorite spot doing some fishin’

You’ll do the one thing that will make them quit their bitchin’.

He read it once. Twice. Again. And again. Pausing each time, for emphasis, before the word “bitchin.’”

Stationery: 5 cents. Printer ink: 12 cents. Having an elf-written poem giving you license to say “bitchin’”: priceless.

“Can we just get on with it,” I said.

Bryson went back into the house and, getting past “bitchin’” enough to think about the clue, puzzled over it.

“Two roommates? Roommates … do dogs count?”

“Of course.”

Bryson headed into the laundry room and carefully inspected the bag of dog food, looking inside and out. Right idea, wrong location. After finding nothing, he looked at Dusty’s food dish. Then water dish. Nothing.

“What about where Sandy eats?” I said.

“That’s where I was going next.” He picked up her metal bowl and removed the clue taped there.

You found it, that’s fine, but we’re so not done yet,

With Sandy (claws) eyeing you, that we will bet.

You know how your dad says you must do your chores,

(Hard work in the future will open all doors.)

Your next clue has nothing to do much with that.

It’s more of a pun and it may leave you flat.

Read closely these words to learn of your fate,

And you will be trained to pull your own freight.

“Do you know what a pun is?” I said.

“Not really.”

What the heck are they teaching these kids in school? “It’s a play on words. Read the last sentence again.”

He did. “Oh, oh. I so have this.”

Bryson walked to the electric-train layout in the family room and kneeled down. He peered at the cars, eventually opening the doors to the boxcar where he extracted a piece of paper. “That was way too easy.”

We wondered if you could have figured it out,

As here at the Pole we sure have our doubts.

Did you sit there and wonder or perhaps even pout?

Our puzzle skills are mad which we like to tout.

But now let’s continue upon our Christmas way,

To a gift that surely will make your best day.

(Though that day will not come for many more weeks

thus the gift of patience will make waiting less bleak).

A character you are, we know that it’s true.

And in your fine house is a character of you.

Find what we mean and look on the back.

You’ll find one more clue to put you on track.

“A character of me, like a photo?” Bryson said. “I think I know this one.”

He headed into the computer room and picked up the photo he himself with Pluto, Disney’s vocally challenged dog (in Disney’s world, everything can talk, from chipmunks to ducks. So what the hell is wrong with Pluto. Even his genetic brother Goofy, who clearly is not as intelligent, can talk. Was it an accident? A birth defect?)

Bryson looked to the back of the frame. Nothing.

“I think the clue was a character of you, not you with a character,” I said.

Bryson sat on the couch where the answer was just a few feet away. “Look around,” I said.

As soon as his eyes found the painting, in which he was drawn by a colleague of mine, they lit up. He took the drawing off the wall and removed the clue from the back.

You found the next clue, that is great but not all,

(first please put the picture back up on the wall).

We talked once before about you and your work,

(and while doing it you may think your dad is a jerk).

But a chore you do weekly will lead to a clue,

A chore that done weekly has you seeing blue.

For some reason, Bryson spent the longest time figuring this one out. Not because he has all that many chores. (“I pick up dog poop, but that doesn’t have blue. I vacuum. Mop. Clean my room.” “Is that stuff you do every week?” “No.” “I wish you did them weekly.”)

Back to hot-cold. As the hints led him outside, it finally occurred to him. He raced to the side of the house and threw open the lid of the very blue recycling barrel, the same barrel that every week he took to the curb, The clue was taped to the inside of the lid.

We knew that you’d do it, you would find your own way,

We hope you dressed warmly on such a cold day.

Your present by now we’re sure that you’ve earned,

It’s time that its spot is something you’ve learned.

When you were small, much smaller than now,

(seems so long ago, time flies by and how)

You’d hide from your dad and the dog and us all

You’d hide in a place where you’d duck and you’d crawl.

If you remember that spot, that one and the same.

Go there and end our fun Christmas game.

For the next few minutes, Bryson visited his favorite hiding spaces in a time he was small enough to fit in tiny spaces. Under his bed. Under my bed. The back of his closet. The back of my closet.

And, finally, behind the couch in the computer room, where a package wrapped in a silvery paper dotted with candy canes waited.

He ripped it open to find his Havoc Heli, in all of it’s $29.99 glory.

“Cool, thanks,” he said.

“You are very welcome. Merry Christmas,” I said.

“Yeah, merry Christmas.”

His disappointment was obvious. Was this the big present I had hinted about for months? The one I would not even hint about, though he often would ask if it was bigger than this or more expensive than that.

A stupid Havoc Heli? What’s the big freakin’ deal?

I changed plans slightly. I was going to let him discover it on his own, but a little alteration was necessary.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and play with the Havoc Heli?” I said.

Bryson noticed a certain tone in my voice, as well as the anticipation in my eyes.

“Open it?” he said.

“Sure. That’s up to you.”

The excitement returned. He pulled the Havoc Heli from the box, as well as an envelope. Inside was the elves’ final poem.

We hope that this toy does not disappoint,

We hope that you’re not just a bit out of joint.

Is this the big present your dad said he’d got,

The present he said had cost quite a lot?

Well, we’ll tell you this and know that it’s so

For the answer to that is a yes and a no.

Your prize really isn’t this small Havoc-heli

Though it’s nice and you’ll like it just find and just well-y

But your present does involve a whirling helicopter.

But one much bigger than this little chopper.

Far out in the desert and a few months away,

You and your dad will have the best of best days.

For on March 1, and this is the topper,

You’ll ride for an hour on a big helicopter.

You’ll fly over ghost towns and fly over mines,

And enjoy an adventure of a lifetime.

We hope that this meets all expectations

We expect that we’ll get your adulation.

Merry Christmas young Bryson, we hope that you’ve had,

A wonderful time with Santa (your dad).