In the southwest corner of our linoleum floored family room, rested a brown Naugahyde fabric Lazy Boy recliner. Overhead light was provided from a 70’s style swag lamp casting a “just bright enough to read” warmth. It was a comfortable throne for my Dad ( Bud Thomas) to do his crossword puzzles. Under that lamp, he would consistently read three full newspapers a day. Family court was presided over by him on current events or the latest ball games involving any of his three sons. Answers to questions were often uttered from behind that newspaper. The words, “No, that’s not necessary” were more commonly spoken than the alternative of: “Sure son, go ahead and take the car. And by the way, here’s a five-spot to spend. Have fun!”

While watching a youth recreation league baseball game (14 and under age group) a couple nights ago, my wife and I made several observations. The evening weather was perfect and we were comfortably seated along the third base line in my truck. In between gobbles of tater tots and spoonfuls of a fried ice cream shake (my new favorite flavor), I regaled her with stories of my baseball career that was played in this very same park, on this very same field. I commented how everything pretty much looked the same. The exception being how neatly the actual diamond is now manicured. Kudos to our city rec baseball director, Joel Webb.

It is a truism that one must travel or live elsewhere to learn about your home. Like many small-town farm boys, I could not wait to get away from home, whether it be to college or church mission service. I can still remember glancing up into the rearview mirror at the sight of my forlorn mother standing in the driveway, watching me squeal the tires escaping to start my college life in Provo, Utah. I had packed a suitcase with clothes lovingly stitched by her with my name on the labels. My saxophone, my stereo and my basketball were jammed into the back seat of my new Camaro and I beat a fast path out of town. This was after “borrowing” a tank full of gas from the farm tank out back!

Ben Franklin tells a story of his youth when he came upon a few extra pence in his pockets. Eager to spend it, he rushed to a local shop where a variety of goods, including toys, were on display. His eyes and ears were drawn to a whistle that, to him, made a delightful sound when brought to his lips. He gladly handed over all the coinage he carried and galloped off towards home, whistling with each stride. Throughout the house he roamed, showing off his newfound joy and toy. Explanation of his purchase to his family, including brothers, sisters and cousins brought the sad realization to Ben that he had grossly overpaid for the whistle due to his impulsive enthusiasm.

I am an overthinker, a worrier, a wringer of hands. If I shift from the energetic ADD adult whose mouth and brain often lack a filter, to a quiet, moderately grouchy, pondering soul, you know something is troubling me. In that condition, I best be left undisturbed. If the music from my headphones is especially loud, you know I am searching for some sort of homeostasis for my brain. I have several mantras that run on a loop in my mind when I recognize this inner trait emerging. “Control the controllable” is my most recent phrase. Others include: “Not my monkey, not my circus” and “Nobody’s gonna die!”.

Donald Trump is now four months into his second term. It’s been quite a ride. Trump has surprised even jaded political cynics like me when it comes to doing what he said that he would do if elected. Whether or not that’s a bad or good thing happens to depend, I reckon, on one’s perspective. But I’ll give him this: he’s doing what many people wanted when they voted for him. Kudos, at least, for that.

The imagination of a child can be immeasurable in terms of creativity and energy level. According to my mom, mine was active to the point of exhaustion… in her, not me. It is a good thing that I was raised as an only child, so to speak. This was due to an age gap of 7 years between each of us three boys. Mom had to have been overwhelmed at times with me and my unlabeled ADD and hyperactivity. It took grade school roll call for me to learn that my real first name was actually Todd, not “you little bugger, stop that!”

I did something last weekend that made me channel thoughts of my mom. This was really not a shock because I think about her every day. But this was something different. It was something I used to hate doing and still do not relish because it makes my back hurt. It was a frequent item on my after-school or summer Saturday chore list. A groan of tedium would escape my lips whenever I lumbered into the house from school and saw that chore list with the three dreaded words: “Sweep the gutter.” Lovingly placed next to the list would be a bribe of either her famous lemon squares or graham crackers with peanut butter slathered between them. If you have never tasted her lemon squares, you haven’t lived. Being the most obedient and pleasant of the three Thomas boys, I was always a pushover for anything Mom asked me to do. Carrying an adolescent attitude on my face, I trudged outside to pick up the broom and get to work.