HAMSTER ALERT:
Over a pumpkin seed snack, the hamster and I had a chat about his name. While he likes Alvin, he told me that his name is really Chester. Considering that he really looks more mouse than hamster, I had to agree and as a result have renamed him Alvin Chesterton, Chester for short.

For a long time I have been trying to come with a character to use for a children's story, and this hamster might be the literary fodder I've been waiting for. He's really adorable, really does look like a mouse, and when that name came to me I could actually see the story in my head.

The little girl down the street, Brittney, asked me about a year ago to write her a story and I've yet to do it. Now that I have an increasing brood of young nephews (can we have a niece, por favor?) I think I need to get my rear in gear and work on a a short children's story.

Now ... the story line. Is Alvin Chesterton a mouse detective? Will the story involve other animals, like a cat and dog? How about a Lady who writes all day - and the mouse goes in at night and edits her stories? (Hey, that would be cool, wouldn't it? They did it with "Ben and Me", the story about the mouse responsible for Ben Franklin's inventions and writings.) How about a story about mice living in the walls?

Mice have been done already (Stuart Little, The Mouse and the Motorcycle, The Great Mouse Detective ... ) , so I need a fresh story.

I'll keep you posted.

SNOW-FLAKES
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-fold of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confessions
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field."

I find it wildly amusing that out of all the posts on this blog, the thing that people comment on most is that I share with the world that I spend all day alone in my pajamas. I write about much more than that - how about my interview with Dave Johnson from PAX TV? How about the memorial I read at my grandmother's funeral? How about my memories of the Yankees and Bucky Dent? How about my list of successful people who never went to college? Eh? It's not all about me being lazy. Honest.

I suppose I should be embarassed (enough people have commented on my entries about pajamas), but the truth is that this blog is simply my personal journal, a writing exercise that keeps my fingers typing - and therefore working - on days when I'd rather be reading or watching old movies.

And work I must, since I've committed to a car payment, and that money comes from my writing. Writing which, to be fair, is less personal unloading than this blog.

Remember, reading the blog is as intrinsically voyeuristic as writing the blog is exhibitionistic.

I know some of you read just to see what's going on my life. Some of you are amused that I am equally sorrowed by the loss of both my '93 Corolla and the late Simon Hamster. Some of you are encouraged by my thoughts on current events. And some of you are thankful to find substantiation that I'm inherently a little off kilter.

Whatever the reason, I hope that you realize that this blog is just a journal, a let's-warm-up-the-fingers-and-unload-my-brain writing outlet. To read my real writings, visit my website at www.joannebrokaw.com. There you'll find links to recent articles, archives of past editorials and other stuff.

The hamster cage is alive again with the rustling of the newest addition to our family, Alvin the Hamster.

This is one fat hamster. If Simon was chubby, Alvin is monstrous.

I had the clerk at the pet shop pick him out for me. I wanted the nicest hamster in the tank, male or female. Alvin let the guy pet him and pick him up, and even let me hold him. Then he jumped from my hands, making a miraculous landing in cardboard take-out container the clerk was holding. I kind of felt obligated to take him home after that.

He's all gray, really fluffy, and fat. I've checked on him hourly to make sure he's breathing, because at first he was so soundly asleep that I couldn't wake him up for anything. But he's been up, checking out his new digs, mostly just sniffing. He has yet to make his bed or stash his food or really make himself at home.

Penny and Natasha were pretty psyched to see a new resident in the cage. Penny watched intently while I was just chatting with Alvin with the cage open; she was poised to give him a warm welcome in the event he dared to stray from his new abode. Natasha just sniffed and was jealous that I was talking to someone else.

David rolled his eyes at the name Alvin. OK, so I'm a fan of Alvin and the Chipmunks. What can I say? I wanted to name the last hamster Alvin but David and Cassie laughed at me - so I named him Simon instead (although David and Cassie thought he was named after Simon Cowell on American Idol. Not true. My next hamster will be Theodore ... although ... this hamster really looks more like Theodore ... hmmm, would I give the hamster a complex if I changed his name 3 hours into the game? ... )

Bringing the hamster home was a spur of the moment decision. Cassie is home for Thanksgiving break, and she's pretty sick - the campus doc diagnosed her with the flu and bronchitis (again!) and she's running a lovely fever of 103, coughing, sniffling, blowing her nose, sleeping and just generally having a miserable time of it. I figured that I'd be in with her for the next few days, and maybe the hamster would provide some minor amusement for us both.

Although so far, both of them have been curled up sound asleep all day. Not too amusing.

I found the article that I referred to in yesterday's blog. Check this out.

Each year the Social Security Administration releases the most popular baby names for that year. In addition, they occassionally release the weirdest.

In 2000, the SSA released numbers on an unusual trend. Call it the ultimate product endorsment.

Out of the 4 million babies born that year, there were:

55 boys named Chevy
6 boys named Timberland
7 boys named DelMonte
25 girls named Infinity
5 girls named Celica
164 girls named Nautica
298 girls named Armani
21 girls names L'Oreal
6 boys and 23 girls named Skyy (spelled like the brand of vodka)
7 boys named Courvoisier
and two boys named ESPN (pronouced Espen)

Apparently, when these parents were trying to come up with names that would give their children something to aspire to, they thought hiking boots, autos, alcohol and hair dye worthy character-building names.

Kind of puts a whole different perspective on Proverbs 22:1, which says:

"A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches, loving favor rather than silver and gold."

It also makes you wonder what kind of self-esteem training these kids are going to need come kindergarten. But that's a topic for another day.

As I was writing my name on a centerpiece I put together for a church dinner, I realized something profound.

"Brokaw" is not my name.

I mean, it's my name now, but it's not the name I was born with. "Brokaw" is not my history, my familial lineage, my heritage. It's the name of the family I married into.

I admit that it's not the first time I've thought about this. In fact, when I got married, more than anything else, changing my name was the hardest thing for me to adjust to. Not because I didn't like my husband's name or his family, but I was giving up my identity to take on his.

My maiden name embodies my history - people who knew me in high school know me by that name. When I say my maiden name, people know my father and mother, my sister, my past, where I went to college.

When I say "Brokaw" people ask me about the Brokaw family.

I know, this is a really trivial thing, but think about it.

I read an article a few weeks ago about people who are naming their kids after commerical products, like L'Oreal, and Courvassier (Honest. There were even weirder ones listed but in an effort to save the article I lost it).

How important is your name? Your name embodies you, speaks volumes about who you are, where you came from. What kind of message do you send to your kid when you name him or her after hair dye or cognac?

The Bible says that a good name is worth more than riches. Mention any name in the public arena, and immediately your mind conjures up an image of the person - not just their physical appearance, but their reputation as well. Even someone with a bad past who has cleaned up their act can't completely shake the negativity associated with their name.

But there is good news. The Bible says that when we get to heaven, God will give us a new name, and that everyone will know us, and we'll greet each other as if we've known each other forever.

Even if we never met in life, we'll have eternity to get aquainted - and that will only be the beginning.

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I stepped outside just a moment ago to let the dog out, and was immediately struck by the smell of the night. Cold crisp air, the faint scent of a fireplace burning somewhere nearby, the crunch of leaves and the smell of dirt.

It reminds me of camping at Kingdom Bound, late at night, when everyone has made their last trip to the bathrooms, and the campfire has just been doused, and all around us other campers are settling in for the night. I'm the last person standing, waiting for everyone to make it to their tents so I can pull the plug on the Christmas lights and plunge the campsite into darkness.

It's quiet, and the noise of the day is a memory, the echoes of laughter around the campfire ring softly in the air, the distant chords of the last song sung faintly ring, the last mountain pie has been toasted, the last marshmallow squished onto a graham cracker and chocolate bar.

The lights go out, and the giggling starts, the flashlights making shadows on the tent walls, the quiet whispering in the new darkness - and then all is quiet.

That's what I thought of tonight as I stepped outside.

Today I took a trip back in time to the early 80s, when I was a student at St. John Fisher College.

Wow. Talk about time warp.

I was there a couple of weeks ago to speak to a class, and about a month before that with LPF for a show. But today I had lunch with my former communications professor, affectionately known as Mary Media, and my old friend & fellow alum Matt. We ate, chatted, and then went on a tour.

When Matt & I were at Fisher, the place was pretty much bottom of the barrel accomodations for a communications student. The radio station broadcast only on campus via some electrical thing that I never understood. We used old, manual typewriters and 3-part carbon paper to write our news stories. The newspaper was actually shut down for one semester. I remember sitting with Matt while he edited our project for film class (he did the work, I did the encouraging) on those manual film splicers, him cursing half the time because the tape didn't hold or something else went wrong. Nice place to train for the communications field.

Well, Matt and I think they've been saving up tuition money for the past 20 years and decided to make the upgrades now. The campus is swank, the newspaper just won an award, there are new dorms - and the communications facilities? Top notch. When he saw the new "editing suites" he just about feel over. There's even a real TV studio with an anchor desk and everything.

I think the radio station was a highlight of the tour because we were involved in that together. In 1985, our senior year (or Matt's senior year, actually. I was playing mommy by then and missed all the radio fun, ha ha - not) the school moved the station from the bowels of the science building to the first floor of Basil. Matt worked with the other station manager, Dave, to run the wires and actually move the station's contents up 2 flights and into another building. I think the kids working there today got a charge out of chatting with him about reception, wires, soundproofing, and other station quirks.

The coolest part was when we joked about how everything was on CD now, and how "back in the day" we played vinyl records. Don, the head guy, told us the vinyls were in bins in the storeroom - so Matt and I rummaged through them until we found some from our days at the station. They're beat up, but they still had the stickers with the code (A-58 for The Alrm, green sticker for heavy rotation). On the back of the album covers, we had inked messages to each other and they were still there, 18 years later. Too funny!

As if that wasn't proof enough that some things never change, the guys at WFSH told us they still can't find anyone to be on air. I jumped in and said, "Matt and I will do a show", to which the old poop said no way, even though the guys said it would be fun (they have other alums do shows). But I'm going to talk Matt into it, just for old times sake. We used to have fun on air together- I think it would be fun, just for kicks.

Matt gets really stressed when I bug him about stuff like this, so I think I'll call him every day until he does something fun with me at the station, even if we just bring pizza to the station and hang out for an hour. This will be payback for all those times he'd try and drive me crazy, like almost touching my arm but not actually touching me, and then saying, "Look, I'm invading your space!"

Anyway, that's my trip down memory lane. I guess if the Bills had trained there 20 years ago and Tom Golisano had thrown some major bucks around to renovate the campus, we would have gotten some top notch communications training and Matt and I'd be working for ABC News or some other media conglomorate. Instead, he sells insurance and I write CD reviews from my little office.

But then we wouldn't be able to take the whole day off to stroll around campus and I would have to get dressed in something other than pajamas to work. So it's all good.

A Little Late Night Randomness

I posted a little "vent" today on my music blog. Feel free to check it out

Ashley, you were right - I can't keep up with two blogs

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I joked to Cassie that because I spend all day with my pets, when Simon the hamster died, I lost 1/3 of my circle of friends! Thank goodness Karen is here from England! We're going to have a pajama party on Saturday and go to Canada for an overnight shopping spree on Tuesday after we pick Cassie and Jessica up from school. Don't you just love Canada? It's so close, so fun, so clean - and a really inexpensive vacation for us! Because Karen is traveling using British money (is that the Euro? Good grief, I am the biggest airhead. I can read Dickens but don't have clue about current events) which is worth twice as much as American dollars, she's going to make out like a bandit at Square One or Eaton Center.

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Oxymoron: when one person tells you that you look like you're 20 years old and 2 minutes later another one calls you "ma'am".

Just for the record, next May I'll celebrate the 10th anniversary of my 30th birthday. Feel free to start planning a surprise party now, since my DH will be too busy preparing for his bear hunting expedition to New Brunswick.

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I am working on a neat article - another one about modesty. (Maybe this will end up being "my" topic and I'll write a book and go on a speaking tour. Or maybe not.) This time it's for the guys, and it's a trip to see how both guys and girls react when you ask them what role guys play in girls being modest. It's a deer-in-traffic response. What? Guys have some responsibility?

I'm beginning to understand that young girls have no clue what it means to be modest - they think not wearing short-shorts and tank tops means they're being modest, while they're practically chasing down guys in the hall to ask for a date.

Come on, girls. Get it together. If you start expecting guys to act like princes and treat you like God's royal daughters, I promise you they will - eventually. They need to be reprogrammed first, so it might take awhile. But hold out only for the best, and while you're waiting, make sure you're being the girl you need to be so the guy God sends can recognize you in the crowd.

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I love my job. Where else can you go to concerts, listen to the latest music before it hits the store shelves, see movie's before they're released, strike up friendships with "rock stars" ( or "Unrock Stars" in some cases ... ), and hang out with your daughter? AND sometimes even get paid for it! ha! And to think I spent all those years marketing checking accounts with the goal of someday being a manager. Good grief! To be trapped behind a desk, tethered to the corporate ball and chain, imprisoned in a cubicle prison, wearing stockings and high heels ... death! I'll take a job where I can work in my pajamas anyday! (clarification: I do need to get dressed to go to the concerts. A small sacrifice, I assure you.)

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It's either all or nothing in my brain sometimes. Either I'm so wired that I talk too much or nonstop, act completely spontaneously, and stay up till all hours - or I'm so brain dead that I can't form a complete sentence or make even the simplest decision, like what channel to watch on TV.

I'm not like this all the time - but when the clocks get turned back, and the daylight hour dwindle to less than 9 hours of sunlight a day I go into massive hibernation mode with brief bouts of activity ... ok, wait a minute. That's simply ungodly. Fifteen hours of DARKNESS, 9 hours of DUSK, and 0 hours of sunlight. Human beings simply cannot survive under these conditions. No wonder I'm having so much trouble. When the sun comes out and I get a few minutes to recharge the solar battery, I spend it right away. Hence days of darkness and inactivity, followed by hours of activity and creativity.

I need to get some sun lamps or something.

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"I really miss my mom," he said to me after the concert.

He's a young man in his early twenties, part of a successful rock group playing to sold out houses and riding a wave of success that most bands only dream about - but he admitted that he was tired and ready to go home. He told me that he loves what he does, but that he was ready for some quiet time, and couldn't wait to see his mom.

I don't know how musicians do it. The monotony day after day after day, traveling in a crowded minivan hauling a trailer filled with equipment, or even in a more comfy tour bus, playing the same songs over and over and over, barely making enough money to survive - it must be overwhelming.

It's funny to watch people put musicians on a pedestal, as if somehow a guy on stage is cooler, smarter, more spiritual, or just nicer than the guy next door. But the truth is that rock stars are just people. They're just like the quiet guy sitting next to you in math class who spends every night writing songs in his dorm room, or the co-worker sitting in the next cubicle in some corporate office prison who breaks out the guitar on the weekend to unwind. Most rock stars aren't rich, and don't have maids or gardeners. They have mortgages and car payments and kids to feed. On their off days, they mow the lawn or change the oil or fix leaky faucets.

They're normal - sometimes geeky - guys that girls wouldn't give a second glance to under normal circumstances. But put them on stage with a guitar and shine a spotlight on them, and they become gods.

And, like every other working guy with a family to support, they get tired, overworked, stressed, and sometimes bored. Sure, they love their jobs. But even rock stars get burned out after a while.

So if you've ever been entertained, encouraged or uplifted by a musician, take a minute today to pray for him (or her). Pray for safety on the road (they travel at ungodly hours and in miserable weather), for the families left at home (wives, husbands, kids, and yes, even moms), for finances (did you know that musicians make almost nothing on the sale of their CDs in stores or on concert ticket sales?) and for their spiritual renewal and refreshment.

Like the bumper sticker says, "Hug a musician today".

My hamster just died.

I know, for most of you, that's not a big deal.

But I'm pretty attached to my pets. Being alone in the house all day, I need someone to talk to, so the hamster, cat and dog are my best companions.

The thing about the hamster dying is that it happened while I was holding him in my hands.

I was getting ready to run some errands, and stopped by the hamster cage to chat with Simon while I was putting on my sneakers. Usually, he's sound asleep during the day, so I check to make sure he's breathing (I used to do that to Cassie all the time, too ... ok, I have issues ...) and I saw that he was in the corner of the cage under the water bottle - not the most comfortable place to take a nap, and not his usual spot.

I had a bad feeling about this, so first I called his name, then reached in to give him a pat. He didn't move - but I did see him take a breath. So I scooped him up in my hands, and that's when I realized how cold he was -but he was still breathing. Barely.

So I did what any rational pet owner would do when they think their $5 hamster is in trouble - I called the vet.

Dr. Braaten rocks my world, because he's one of the kindest vets I've ever met (right up there with the Dr. who helped/killed my stupid parakeet who was dying ... which is another long and amusing story ... ). He got on the phone and said that the hamster, at about 2, was old, and that he was probably dying, and he'd be happy to euthanize him if I wanted but that Simon would probably die on his own shortly. When I apologized for calling about a $5 hamster (hey, it was still alive, I needed to at least see if there was anything I should do), Dr. Braaten told me not to worry because he has rats and would be really upset if something happened to them.

In any event, I sat down with Simon in my hands, trying to warm him up and talking to him. I told him he was a good hamster, and that he'd made me laugh, and that I was glad that Cassie was home yesterday and that he'd put on such a good show for us. I told him that even though he was just a furry little rodent to most people that he was my little friend and I was glad to know him.

Weird to you, I know. What can I say?

Slowly, Simon began to stop breathing. For about an hour, I stroked his fur and talked to him about how in heaven, he could run around outside the cage, and that there were big wheels to run around in, and fields of celery with no strings, and that God would pet him every day, because that's what God does - He pets his creation.

And then Simon stretched out - a loooong stretch - and then something really disturbing happened. His eyes began to get huge - bigger and bigger and bigger and his stretch got really contorted.

And I freaked - and quickly plopped him on the table and let out a little scream and started really crying.

It was weird to hold death - even hamster death - in my hands.

Just as quickly I scooped him up but he was gone.

Ok, I don't even know why I'm telling you this story. Maybe it's because the experience of watching a little beloved pet die in my hands was completely out of my comfort zone. Or maybe I'm just mentally ill.

But my hamster died today, and I'm really sad about it.

Dare I say this out loud? It's SNOWING!!! Big, huge, very cold snowflakes! Blustery, harsh, strong winds!

I'm so thankful for a "job" that let's me stay INSIDE all day, in my track pants and sweatshirt - yeesh, I wouldn't want to be out in this, unless I was on my way to the airport to catch a flight to the Cayman Islands!

It's 1:09 am, and I've spent the last several hours playing amateur detective, looking for information about my paternal grandmother.

Growing up, I was very close to my grandparents, especially my grandma in Rochester, where I spent most of my weekends growing up.

But when my grandmother died last December, I realized that although I had spent a great deal of time with her growing up - and knew almost nothing about her.

My dad had shown me a picture of her in her 20s maybe, walking down the street. She was beautiful - not the woman I remember making me pizza and teaching me how to play double solitaire.

I had no idea what she was like growing up - or where she grew up, for that matter. Did she ever have a job? What were her talents? What did she like to do? How did she meet my grandfather, and were they ever really happy, or did he always sleep in the recliner while she did crossword puzzles in the living room? I knew she could sew (I always had the best Barbie clothes), and she made great spaghetti sauce, and she played a mean hand of double solitaire, and she liked to take me places. But who she was, or what she liked ... no clue.

In any event, my aunt told me her cousin had been doing a little research and had her pass it on to me. It's not much, but I started exploring.

As expected, I didn't learn much - in fact, I didn't really know what I was looking for - but I learned one thing that I had suspected: my great grandparents (my father's mother's parents) came here from Italy.

I've always wanted to go to Italy, always thought everything Italian was cool (except Italian guys - at least the wannabes in our high school. Yo, you like my Camaro?) Now I know why - my Italian blood is calling me to Sicily. Both of my great grandmothers & one great grandfather are from there.

And to Ireland, where my maternal grandfather is from. (But I have to admit that I don't have much interest in pursing my German roots yet. I guess the Italians and Irish just seemed to have more fun than the Germans, ha ha.)

Anyway, that's what I'm doing up at 1:21 in the morning. Surfing the net and thinking about why my great grandparents came here from Italy. Were they looking for a better life? What was life like in 1908 in Sutera, Sicily? Did they have family here? Why did the settle in Westfield, PA? How did my grandmother meet my grandfather and end up in Rochester?

In any event, since I'm in a nostaligic mood, I'm going to share the essay I wrote about my grandmother. I read this at her funeral, and ended with these words from Chris Rices' "Nonny, Nonny":

All grown up and living fine
Biographies all intertwined, with billions
And soon He turns the final page
We'll look the Author in the face, then the book really begins
'Cause something tells me all these years of memories
Are only the first sentence of eternity

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December 28, 2002

A life can never be summed up in a single moment. Instead it’s a tapestry woven with sounds and smells and events, intermingled with the memories of others who have touched our lives.

When I think of my grandmother, my mind conjures up images of roses climbing the trellis by the front door; munching fresh, tart stalks of rhubarb dipped in sugar; of her housedresses and aprons; doing crossword puzzles and playing Que Sera Sera on the organ; sleepovers with Chef Boyardee pizza and Mt. Dew served on little green trays with birds decals and That Girl on TV. Memories of her that are so intimately mingled with those of my aunt and uncle and grandfather that I have trouble finding her without them.

But those memories are simply the finishing touches on a picture of my grandmother, a portrait whose canvas is formed by a single, overwhelming memory: her spaghetti sauce.

There have been many who have tried to duplicate my grandmother’s famous sauce, and once, she passed the recipe to me one sunny afternoon many years ago. I had arrived, notebook in hand, ready to record the process so I could duplicate her sauce in my own kitchen. It was only a matter of minutes before I realized that there was no recipe to record, so I just tried to keep up with her and then went home to wing it the best that I could.

A few years ago, my sister asked me for the recipe, and I decided to write down what I had learned that day in Grandma’s kitchen. Over the years, I’d experimented with the “recipe”, and had come pretty close - but it was only after years of reflection that I finally understood the secret to my grandmother’s sauce.

It is in the details.

What I’m about to share with you is a secret family recipe - and the greatest memory I have of my grandmother. Attempt it at your own risk.

Before you begin, pour yourself a small glass of Mogan David or Maneschewitz wine. Be sure to share sips with your daughter or granddaughter for tradition’s sake (I am sure that this is the reason that I never acquired a taste for any wine costing more than $3 a bottle). Be sure to talk about lots of personal things, like boys, clothes, family history and other gossip, especially members of the family that aren’t present at the time.

The meat is important to the sauce. Unfortunately, the ability to make good meatballs wasn’t passed thru the family genes. However, here is my Grandmothers very specific recipe for meatballs. Take:
some ground beef
an egg
some breadcrumbs
some parsley
salt and pepper
Mix it all together, roll it into balls, brown them along with the sausage and beef in olive oil & garlic, and put it all into the sauce. Make sure you get lots of the oily stuff

The sauce base is a couple of large cans of tomato sauce and a small can of tomato paste. Or 2 large cans of puree and one of sauce. Or whatever combination works best for you. Add about ½ can of water.

Add a pinch of garlic powder.

Add some parsley, about what fits in the palm of your hand is about right.

Add some oregano flakes. Whatever fits in the palm of a 9 to 12 year old girl’s hand is good.

(When in doubt about any of the ingredients, toss in a pinch of the como se lama and stir.)

Add salt and pepper, and let the whole thing simmer for a REALLY long time. All day is best. Put it in the fridge and heat it up again the next day. Stir it a lot. Sauce splatters will make a serious mess of the stovetop. If that doesn’t happen, you’re not doing it right.

To sample the sauce at any time, pour a small amount over a piece of bread and have a small child taste. An uncle or dad will also work. Be sure to have some stinky feet cheese on hand. You can grate the cheese yourself from a big wedge you buy from the grocer. The person grating cheese is the only one who gets to eat the last little chunk that can’t be grated. Sorry, that’s the rule.

You can serve the sauce over spaghetti, rigatoni, homemade macaroni or lasagna, or all of the above. Be sure to separate the meat from the sauce before serving, and serve them in separate bowls.

Here are some other rules that are essential if you want the sauce to taste just right:

If children under the age of 5 years old are eating, they must have a bib with pockets to catch the rigatoni that falls from their forks. Be sure to put a towel under their chair. This is mandatory.

Garlic bread and salad must be served with dinner.

Black olives are also mandatory, and enough must be served for all children present to have one olive for each finger.

You must put a bowl of grated cheese at each end of the table, along with a bowl of meat and bowl of sauce. Only use the bowls at your end of the table. If you run out, go in the kitchen and refill the bowls.

The above mentioned wines and Mountain Dew are the only acceptable beverages served with dinner. Mt. Dew should ideally be drunk from glasses with clowns on them.

Borden chocolate ice cream (the kind with the cow on the carton) served in a cone is the only acceptable dessert for children.

Leftover sauce should be sent home with guests in empty prune juice jars.

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And those are the secrets to my grandmother’s sauce. Even if you follow all of the above rules, I can’t promise that you’ll have perfect sauce - the recipe isn’t static - it changes as small hands grow and measurements adjust, as family members leave and new ones join us, as time passes and clown glasses break and cheese can be bought from Wegmans already grated.

And you may remember this recipe differently - different amounts of oregano, or perhaps I’ve left out an ingredient or a step.

But this is my memory of my grandmother. Glenn Campbell is playing on the stereo in the living room. Grandma’s in her housedress and apron, the oven is on to heat the garlic bread, sauce is splattering on the stove, she’s directing the salad preparation and cheese grating, listening to jokes and music and chatter and debates, and commanding her one small corner of the world - her sauce.

It is one of the few memories I have of her where everyone else is faded into the background and she stands alone.

Lessons from my downhere article

Check out my article at Breakaway Magazine online, on one of my favorite acts, downhere.

I wrote this article more than a year ago, after traveling to see the band play in PA. That trip - on the spur of the moment, and all by myself - was a bit of a lifechanging event for me. (You can read about that experience here.)

For years, I've suffered from anxiety issues, but for a brief time in '99 or '00, I suffered from really severe panic attacks. Couldn't go anywhere, was afraid to drive. I got over them quickly, but until last year, I hadn't really done anything ... well, daring. I'd gone to Toronto with Cassie once, but I'd been there many times before so I was comfortable. I'd driven to see my dad, but again, been there. I could do something different if someone was in the car with me - particularly someone who knew how to drive - but to get in the car, all alone, and drive somewhere I'd never been before, to meet up with people I barely knew - no way.

But for some reason, I did it, and had blast. Not only that, it gave me the confidence to do some other pretty daring stuff, including hopping on a plane by myself to fly to Nashville for GMA week, and spending a week in Mexico on a missions trip.

Anyway, after the concert, I wrote this article about the show and the band, and I fell in love with it. When I showed it to Jeremy, he asked me to hang onto it until their new CD came out in June. I filed it away, and forgot about it.

Then in Nashville, I met a publicist who ended up doing publicity for the new CD. Long story short, I gave him the article to read, and he actually went out searching for a publication to run the story. My goal at that point was to get the band press, since the article had been sitting around for months. Breakaway accepted the article and paid me for it.

There are several lessons here -

Break out of your comfort zone. If I hadn't taken that last minute trip, I wouldn't have spent time with this band, wrote the article, or developed a sort of friendship with them that continues now.

Give away what means something to you for the benefit of others. I LOVED this article, but was fully and completely willing to give it away if it meant that the band would get some publicity. God rewarded that with a nice check from the magazine.

God rewards a cheerful giver. As a result of that article, Breakaway has asked to see another on a different subject. They may not take it, but it's allowed me to develop a relationship with this editor, who is a peach, and given me the chance to continue writing.

In any event, that's my lesson today. Check out the article and let me know what you think!

Question: if the town's leaf vacuum can come down the street and suck up all the leaves piled on the side of the road, why can't they simply vacuum my yard and save me the trouble of raking?
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How do you know when there's a monster in your midst?

What does a monster look like? Maybe he wears the mask of colleague or business associate. Surely he wears the mask of son, brother, or friend.

What does a monster act like? Is he friendly? Sincere? Jovial?

How much time do you need to spend in his midst before you recognize him for what he really is? Hours? Days? A week? Can you tell from one meeting?

What do you feel when the mask is ripped away, and you realize that you've been in the presence of a monster? Dined with him? Invited him into your home? Traveled with him? Introduced him to friends and family?

How could you have missed the signs? And if you missed those signs, what else are you missing?

Am I a monster? Are you?

That's the hard part to get a handle on. To learn that someone you've known, been aquainted with, and worked with has the potential to commit a heinous crime against innocent children. To reconcile the kind of person who could commit that crime with the person you thought you knew. It's like two diametrically opposed humans in the same body.

To see family and friends and colleagues tainted by the revelations, betrayed, hurt, grief-stricken, embarrassed and extrememly angry.

How do you know you have a monster in your midst?

The truth is, you don't.

For everyone who's been asking where the posts have been the past week, I'm sorry. I've been sick, and frankly wasn't feeling creative enough to do any more writing than I had to, which was mainly limited to an article about Dave Johnson, producer and show creator (along with his brother Gary) for two shows on PAX - "Doc" and "Sue Thomas, F.B.Eye".

I thought it might be interesting to note here some thoughts Dave Johnson had about family friendly programming.

Forget holding out hope that the major networks are going to bring back anything that doesn't have a storyline revolving around half-clad women, violence, and vulgarity. Johnson says "most all of the creative executives are young, elitists. They are east coast, west coast ivy league type, and they're probably [an] average age of 27." He says that they are constantly looking for shows that will push the envelope, and increase their social standing with the other members of the "club" - and family friendly shows don't do that. (What hot shot elitist wants to show up at lunch to announce he's found a show that his niece or parents will love?)

The GOOD news is that, despite what the networks and the media would have you believe, there is a definite audience for family friendly programming. Networks like PAX, Lifetime, Nickelodeon, The History Channel, and Discovery are actually increasing their audiences while the major networks continue to spiral downward.

For example, Johnson's "Sue Thomas" debuted on PAX with ratings more than twice those of Bravo's "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" - and yet no one has touted "Sue Thomas" as the next monster hit. Considering that "Sue Thomas" marks the first time in the history of television that a profoundly deaf woman stars in her own television show, it's puzzling why the media hasn't rushed to tout this show as groundbreaking.

And it isn't for lack of beauty or talent. Deanne Bray, who portrays Sue Thomas (a profoundly deaf woman who was in fact a real life FBI agent), is young and gorgeous. She has a smile that lights up the TV screen, and a beauty that radiates to everyone she's near. As Johnson says, "Deanne Bray is a strong, independent, compassionate, intelligent woman, and she doesn't have to take her clothes off to have somebody find her attractive."

And don't be misled by the fact that she's deaf - while the characters often supplement their lines with sign language, Deanne Bray has a wonderful speaking voice despite her hearing loss.

"Doc" is another great family friendly show that's been overlooked by the mainstream press. It's the highest rated show in PAX, and stars Billy Ray Cyrus (of "Achy Breaky Heart" fame). It has the charm of Andy Griffith and the sophistication of the big city - and stays clean, wholesome, and well-written & well-acted.

So what are viewers to do about companies like Victoria's Secret (which airs ads that are basically 'underwear parades') and shows like "Alias" - where the star runs around half dressed and blows stuff up?

Johnson says write to the advertisers. Forget the network execs, he says, because they're going to air what they want to. But he insists that letters to advertisers are definitely read and taken seriously. If you're disappointed with advertisers who sponsor shows that you think are harmful to the culture or families, write and let them know. Conversely, when an advertiser is doing a good job - supporting family friendly television, write and thank them for being responsible.

One great resource is the Parent's Council on Television . Here you'll find updates on family friendly programs, the Top 10 Best & Worst Shows - you can even file a complaint with the FCC about a show through the website.

I'd love to know what you think about television shows. What shows do you watch that you think are clean, wholesome shows? What shows do you turn off? Do you think that TV actually represents our culture as it really is? (Are we really like the Simpsons?) If you could, pick one show that best exemplifies the way you wish our culture was. (Would you move to Mayberry if you could?)

What do you think is the greatest television show ever?

Drop me a line at heavensrejoice@yahoo.com and let me know what you think!