A new year of dogs, children and angels

Centuries ago we Baptist decided to forget about angels. The Catholics already had the angel market locked up to enhance their dark cathedrals with bead rattling, smoky incense and Latin liturgies.

So instead we Baptists claimed the Holy Spirit who dwelt in believers and told us what we were to do which is pretty convenient for people loaded with theological self-confidence. You study some scripture, work up a load of guilt, sit in a well lit smoke free sanctuary and just open your mouth from a pulpit and out comes Truth, condemnation and doctrine--- such as separation from the world--- which worked great for introverted people like me with raging acne and no social skills. I came to believe rejection was a sign of my righteousness. It got me through prom night.

The idea that I was right and everyone else was wrong peaked during my teenage years and helped nudge me through college. But there comes a time when a man lies in bed at night thinking about the colon and his aortic valve and being right isn’t so important. You find you’re developing interest in winged spiritual creatures capable of hovering over you on a bleak night in the Emergency Room which gives a whole new dimension to medical insurance. In recent years I’ve attended some Catholic services hoping to increase my coverage---maybe even get a second opinion.

Aging is tedious business. The passing of another year hits me as I write this from my desk upstairs in a house where people without sleep problems went to bed hours ago. My boxer sits beside me as she has for almost every column I’ve written weekly for three years. I read her each story aloud and then I say “How’s that one?” and she always wags her stump of a tail. Boxers are just one long muscle so when one part starts moving the entire body is engaged, like an excited slinky toy. Pretty soon all 80 pounds of it is trying to get into your lap. We’ve both faded a bit this year, her face is whiter and I’m cutting my side burns higher in an attempt to outrun the whitening process that is creeping up my hair line.

But you can’t outrun grandchildren. Ours go full-tilt from the moment they stampede through the front door until they are brought down by exhaustion or ropes. Their personalities are blossoming and they are bolder about approaching the old beast that writes at the computer.

Laura, the oldest grandchild, walks up to me and with a twinkle in her seven year old eyes says “Knock Knock.” I stop typing and say “Who’s there?” “Boo.” “Boo who?”and she says “Why are you crying!?” And she laughs and laughs. So I say, “Knock-knock.” She says, “Who’s there? “ “Fortification.” “Fortification who?” and I say “Fortification we’re going to the beach”. She giggles and runs downstairs.

Recently I was sitting in the Artisan Café on Davie Avenue when I was approached by a gentleman and his wife. They told me they read my column every week and clip out the “good ones.” I walked into a gas station last week and the attendant looked at me, pointed and said “Hey, you’re the guy that writes those stories about everyday stuff.” I smiled.

So for the coming year, dear reader, I’ll try to write some “good ones” about everyday “stuff”. But tomorrow I’m going to buy some Grecian hair formula and find a really good book of Knock Knock jokes. There is a little angel I want to be ready for next time she comes.