Momnesia

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I was totally appalled by this when I opened my gmail this morning. Canned e-mail messages are one thing, but canned e-mail responses? But a moment after I finished glancing through it, I realized what the date was: April Fool's Day. This is the first time in my life I've ever NOT been taken in - fully - by an April Fool.

But just for kicks, I clicked through the hyperlinks:

The easiest email could possibly be. As more and more everyday communication takes place over email, lots of people have complained about how hard it is to read and respond to every message. This is because they actually read and respond to all their messages.
Sample Autopilot responses Respond to business proposals Manage relationships Match your personal style

If that first response doesn't clue you in to the joke, then I am pleased to inform you that I have a relative in the Congo who needs help smuggling their millions out of the country. You can have a 10% cut if you help!

When she is an old woman
She shall wear banjos
With a sombrero that does not go and does not suit her...

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

If all the people who notified me that they were now following me on Twitter were <I>actually</i> following me on Twitter, I'd have more than a dozen people following me on Twitter.

Does anyone know what that's about?
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Since I spend so little time in the office, I have sadly neglected Momnesia (although I have not been cured, by any means). Also my new obsession with Facebook, and its handy Blackberry app, has meant even less time blogging. Listen up, Blogger/Google! A downloadable app = more usage!

Anyway, I took the time to figure out how to mobile blog, so now I'll have more access.

See? It's like a little gift to you, blogosphere. You're welcome!
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

I let Emmie leave her room during a time-out, in order to go potty.

She entered a normal four-year-old girl. She exited completely naked, with a lip-stick drawn smiley face on her tummy ("It's Mr. Tummy!" she said), confidently rubbing Scott's deodorant under her arms.

She gave her pits each a sniff.
"You wan' smell dem?" she asked, holding up her arms for my convenience.

No.

Classified Sales Exec: "I'm second in my Fantasy Basketball bracket."
Designer: "You picked Duke to lose?"
Classified Sales Exec: "Yep. First round. I'm fourth in my fantasy fishing league."
Designer: "Did you say fantasy fishing? Bass fishing?"
Exec: "Yep."
Designer: "How ya doin' on your fantasy classified sales?"
Exec: "Shut up."
Designer: "I have a fantasy alt-weekly..."

"Patty cake patty cake. Bake my hand..."

Um...?

To Jim Christian: "My mommy say chill out... My mommy say chill out all da time."

There are 7 pure-bred female Samoyeds who need a "forever home" because their owner/breeder, Cathy Pendleton, is losing her battle with breast cancer. She can no longer care for her dogs and has been moved to Hospice after being in the hospital for a week.

The dogs are in the Atlanta , GA , area, but they will allow them to be adopted out of state. All the owner/breeder wants is for all of these girls to get good homes. Currently, they are not wanting to place any of the dogs in foster care because they are trying to move the dogs only once. My understanding is that the older animals have been spayed. Because she is a breeder, the younger dogs are not spayed; however the new family would need to have the dog spayed if she is less than seven years. (The dogs range in age from 1.5 years to more senior dogs.)

One look at their picture (below) shows how extraordinarily beautiful these dogs are. (I count 8 in the picture, but perhaps one has been placed already.) All are healthy and well cared for, up to date on shots, heartworm, flea treatment, etc. The new "forever" home will need to have a fenced yard with sufficient space for an active dog. The folks who are placing the Samoyeds for the owner may do a home visit either before, after, or both to ensure that the dog and their new family are a good fit.

If you think you might be interested after reading Velvet's email (below), her contact info is v.a.simmons@att.net.

In answer to my headline, "Nothing."

But there can be some things VERY wrong with advocacy journalists.

An advocate gives an image, a voice, and an outlet to a cause or an individual. But being an advocacy journalist is not the same as being an activist. There are lines that should never be crossed.

If your publication only spouts catchphrases, cliches, and cheerleading, you are failing at your job. For a little while, a Disney-fied version of an issue, place, or organization might be seen as fresh and uplifting.

But that's treating people like idiots. And people don't like being treated like idiots. Unless you're an advocacy journalist in favor of rainbows and flowers, your issue will encompass complex issues and road blocks. When you offer only sycophancy, your readers will find you boring, repetitious, and irrelevant to public discourse.

All journalists use the same skills, and acknowledging your biases up front allows people to lend a critical eye to your work. They'll do it anyway, so you might as well own up to it. Failing to do so will undermine the credibility of your work, and that doubt will, by proxy, extend to your issue.

Fairness and thoroughness, verified facts, and quotes from multiple sources are the hallmarks of any kind of journalism. And finally, statistics should always come from neutral sources - those unaffiliated with your own organization or cause.

In addition, advocacy journalists are honor-bound to give coverage to events and stories that don't cast their issue in the rosiest of light. Positivity is an excellent interpersonal attribute. But in journalism, it's an excellent attribute for spin doctors and - dare I say it? - liars.

For example, if a developer nearly completes a beautiful project, only to have the financing fall through, many people could write off the developer as unprofessional or inadequate. Mainstream media might point to the crumbling surrounding sites, looking at the area as a whole and making generalizations. But an advocacy journalist, working for the revitalization of an area, could examine the development project's financier and fairly reveal problems beyond the developer's control - thus saving the reputation of an area and one of the people working for its redevelopment.

In the long run, the advocacy journal will be praised for getting the scoop, sure, but also for revealing a fair and balanced approach to its own issue - thus building even more credibility for itself, and its cause.

To ignore the road blocks and struggles faced by any cause is to be ill-prepared for the future. It is also ill-prepares your readers for when reality smacks them in the face. Nothing is perfect, and all the positive press releases in the world cannot change it. But ignoring the imperfections is to close your eyes against reality - and against the real story! And as observers and reporters of the world around us, the world cannot tolerate journalists who wear blinders.

For reference, here is a link to the code of ethics from the Society of Professional Journalists.

My sister gave me a Jesus action figure one year for my birthday. Don't start about it, people. I put it away, carefully keeping it in the box.


Fast-forward to Hurricane Emerson.

Emmie somehow found it and gasped in delight: "Mama! You buyed me a present?!"

Me: "Um, no, sweetie. That's Mommy's doll."

Emmie, brow furrowed, looking at the action figure with confusion: "But... mama, dis your queen?"

Me (snorting): "No, it's not a queen, sweetie. It's a man with long hair."

I took the doll and chucked it on top of the bookshelf in the hallway, intending to deal with it later, and went to work. Of course, Emmie greeted me at the door with doll in hand. Scott had given in to her cajoling. Thanks, sweetie!

Emmie dragged that thing all over the place.

"Queen Jesus say to gib me some ice cream," she told me after dinner.

"Yeah? Well, do you think the queen would like to go in the trash can?"

And at bath time, as we played together, Emmie began making up a story.

"I'll be da witch, and you be da queen," she said, handing over the toy. "EEEE-heee-heee! I'm da witch! An' I'm goin' turn you into a frog!"

"Ohhhh," I cooed, positiong Jesus' arms to reach out to her. "Sounds like somebody needs a hug."

"NOOO! I'm da witch! I'm a bad lady!"

"Let me hold you. Tell me how you feel," I snickered, overwhelmed by the absurdity of the situation. I wanted to play along - after all, it was just a piece of plastic - but something wouldn't allow me to turn Jesus into Rambo.


"I'm going to bam you!" Emmie said, brandishing her imaginary magic wand.

"Be careful, or I'm going to sentence you to eternal damnation," Jesus warned gently.

"NO!" Emmie cackled.

"Why not?"

"Because I already lib der!"

Jeez. Game over.

Y'all have heard me talk about Scott and his amazing sleep habits before... and here. Dooce.com posted a video that I am stealing and regurgitating, because if my husband were a dog, this would be him. You can see why it's so difficult for me to get a decent night's sleep, can't you?

My Husband, The Dog

AUGUSTA, GA. - After a morning working with the First Saturday Crew and a quick bath, Scott walked into the living room wearing the outfit that makes me want to sue the Dickies company for alienation of affection: a khaki one-suit that is at least a size - if not two - too big for him.

"Really?" I ask, looking pointedly at the jumpsuit.
"What?"

"Honey, that's appropriate for working at the canal. Not for shopping downtown," I say, trying to inject humor into a situation that makes me - shallowly - want to scream.
"But it's comfortable," he replies.

I sigh. There's no point in talking to him about it. He adores the thing.

"DADDYDADDYDADDYDADDY!" Emmie shrieks repeatedly, her new (and very effective) method for getting our attention.
"What, honey?"
"Why doze pants and shirt all togedder?" she asks, head cocked to the side.
I can't help but laugh - hard!

If looks could kill... but at least I'd die RIGHT.

AUGUSTA, GA. - My eyeglass prescription is not some secret code to which I should not be privy, and I am not required to order my glasses from the store attached to your office. I understand that it's part of your bottom line, but if there is a $300 difference between ordering from you and ordering online, you can bet your sweet eye chart that I'm going somewhere else. Welcome to the free market economy. If you don't like it, find a way to end diplomatic relations with China.

Oh, and your support staff is AWFUL!

See you next year.

AUGUSTA, GA. - My husband and I enjoyed free tickets to the Augusta Symphony on Friday night, and then spent actual Valentine's Day cleaning out our many closets and boxes and random pieces of furniture in our apartment. Later that afternoon, I passed our piano beside where my husband was cleaning out this piece of crap particle board armoire that held way too many freakin' books. A fluffy, flowery Valentine's Day card perched atop the keyboard.

"Oh, thanks, sweetie!" The card was very sweet, very poignant. "But I didn't get you anything!"
"That's okay," he grinned. "That's the same card I gave you last year."

AUGUSTA, GA. - Thanks to President Obama, my husband and I are now closer to paying off his staggering medical bills. With the $13 a week increase, we will have them paid off in 5,769 weeks! Thanks, Mr. Agent of Change! This is way better than the 5,870 weeks that we previously anticipated!

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!" Emmie is chanting my name, trying to get my attention. Every time I turn my eyes to something besides her, she starts up again. It is Attention Deficit Day at the Hudson household, and my job is to make sure she has an Attention Surplus before she goes to bed. But I'm checking my e-mail for client responses, because they often work odd hours and its my job to help them.

"Mama! Mama!" she continues.
"Yes, darling?" I ask, gritting my teeth a little. I managed to open one e-mail and read the subject line. My mother used to joke that she had changed her name, but that would just intrigue us into guessing her new name for hours. "Rumpelstiltskin" was a favorite, but I always guessed "Chewbacca." One day, I reasoned, it would be the right one. But it never was.

"Mama, can I play peeyooter when you done?" Emmie asks, pointing at the screen with a spoon dripping frozen peach puree on the floor. Nice.

"We'll see," I say, because saying "no" to her garners the same reaction as setting one of her dolls on fire.

"Mama! Mama! Mama!" she continues.
"Yes, sweetie?" I ask, a little exasperated. Got through the first paragraph.

"Can I play peeyooter when you done?" she asks again, ending the request with a charming - and deliberate - little grin. I chuckle. She flashes the grin again: "Can I play peeyooter?"

"Maybe, sweetie-pie. But it's getting late," I answer, and turn back to my e-mail screen.

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!" she calls, loudly, from two feet behind me.
"YES, darling, what IS it?" I whip my head around to look at her again. I haven't even through one e-mail in ten minutes.

"I wanna play peeyooter!" she says, with a little whine tinging the request.
"Doodle, please don't whine. And if Mommy can't get through her e-mails, you'll never get to use the peeyooter," I reason. "So you have to be patient."

"oooOOOHHHooo, I know what's the problem is," she says.

"Really? Is it you?" I ask, giggling to myself.
"No! No, is I gotta finish my peaches, and DEN I can play peeyooter," she says, smiling brightly, palms up, as if to say, "You see? I figured it out on my own."

I guffaw into the keyboard.

"Honey, just let mommy finish her e-mail and then it's all yours," I concede, and turn back to the screen.

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!" she calls, waving her hand in the air like an over-eager classroom achiever.
"Yes. What. Is. It. Now?" I grit.
"I gotta check MY e-mail TOO!" she grins.

I give up.

Media Watchdog Alan D. Mutter's analysis of the daily newspaper industry:

Six of the 11 publishers covered in today’s edition of the Default-O-Matic either are at the brink of default or already have gone over it.

The publishers most likely to be unable to satisfy the terms of their debt are MediaNews Group and Morris Publishing, according to the latest ratings from Moody’s Investors Services, a company hired by borrowers to gauge their likely ability to repay their debt. Click here for more...

AUGUSTA, GA. - By Mark Fitzgerald for Editor & Publisher, Published: Feb. 3

Morris Publishing Group, already looking at a bankruptcy option, said its lenders are giving it more time to avoid defaulting on its loan agreement after it missed a $9.7 million interest payment that was due last Sunday.

Under the agreement, Morris, publisher of The Florida Times-Union in Jacksonville and The Augusta (Ga.) Chronicle, has until March 3 to avoid defaulting on the $278 million of senior subordinated notes due 2013.

However, the group of lenders, including JPMorgan Chase & Co., reduced the amount of money Morris can tap from its revolving credit facility to $70 million from $100 million. In a filing with the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC), Morris said accessing any amount above $60 million requires the consent of a majority of lenders.

The new agreement also increases the interest rate on borrowing by a half a percentage point.

Standard & Poor's Ratings Services reacted to the filing by downgrading Morris' credit rating on Morris to D, its lowest rating and one indicating default, from CCC. S&P said skipping the interest payment puts it in default.

Morris has said it hired Lazard Freres & Co. as financial advisors to "restructure" the company. Lazard is advisor to Tribune Co., which last month filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. Morris also announced the hiring of a law firm with a strong bankruptcy practice.

More details of the amended credit agreement are at E&P's business-oriented blog Fitz & Jen blog.

AUGUSTA, GA. - A.C. called me today and told me how she is livid because she's 73 months pregnant and can't hardly get anywhere without a winch and a Sherpa. But worst of all? People keep touching her belly! Strangers! Complete strangers stop her in the store and feel her up! Can you believe it?!

That outrage was sarcasm. EVERY pregnant woman is accosted in public places by complete strangers. Only very few of them are complete pervs. The rest are crazy ladies with baby envy. Sometimes it feels like they're asking you questions that seem innocuous so that they can profile you, stalk you, and follow you home to cut the baby out of your still-living body, then eat your liver right in front of you. But that so rarely happens. Don't worry.

Anyhoodle, I told A.C. that we should just make her a t-shirt that says:
But then I had a brilliant idea: "Why don't you just hire M.C. Hammer? I hear he's looking for work."

Seriously, think about what an awesome publicity stunt this would be for someone who could afford it: M.C. Hammer acts as assistant/bodyguard, and whenever anyone approaches a waddling babymaker, he throws himself in front of the pregnant lady: "Can't touch this..." dum, dada, dum, dadum, dadum! And then he can Hammer-Dance little circles around her, like a force field.

When M.C. Hammer was but a wee blog newbie, I stumbled across his blogspot site while covering the funeral of James Brown. Hammer was in town to pay his respects. He actually e-mailed me back when I contacted him through his site. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Hammer, if you're out there, protecting the pregnant, please.... don't hurt 'em.

Hammer on the Arsenio Hall Show. Don't care what you say about him, he reminds me of James Brown, the way he works a performance.


His inspiration reaches far and white:

At a client's office, a woman walks by and slaps me on the ass.
Unfazed, I give her a bemused grin.
She pales.

"Ohmygod, I thought you were someone else!" she gasps. I laugh out loud.
"That's okay. You can call me later, if you want."

AUGUSTA, GA - I've spent the last two weeks fighting a virus that won't go away. It sits in my chest and makes me wheeze. It seems to be letting up a little today, but the experience reminds me of the first time I was sick after I had Emerson.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I woke up this morning with a familiar tickle in the back of my throat. I’m prone to strep throat, and it always starts the same way.

“Uh-oh,” I turn to my husband. “I thing I’b gettig sig.”

Scott chuckles at my congestion. “You think?”

I am miserable at work. Typing hurts my fingers. Breathing hurts my head. I feel my temperature start to rise. When I get home for lunch, I take my temperature with an ear thermometer: 102˚.

I am bored lying on the couch. I use the ear thermometer to check my belly button. Scott pokes his head in.

“What does it say?”

“If you believe my ear, it’s 102. If you believe my belly button, it’s a cool 98.6.”

“Go with the ear.”

I lie on the couch for a while, watching my 10-month-old, listening to my body, then call: “Honey, I have a question.”

He peers in. I tell him I’m roasting with fever, but my feet and hands are cold.

“So my question is: what if the virus is magnetized?”

Silence.

“I mean, what if it’s drawing the iron-rich blood from my extremities to my head?”

“Wait – aren’t you anemic?”

“Look, if I spontaneously combust, will you be able to get the baby away in time?”

He stomps out of the room. “You’re not going to combust.”

“It’s been known to happen!”

My daughter crawls up to the couch and pulls herself up to stand. She pokes me in the nose with her finger.

“Boop!” I say, and she laughs. It’s her new game. She pokes me again. “Boop!”

Scott comes in again, this time with a sandwich for me.

“How do you feel?”

“Oh, great.”

“No, come on.”

“Okay. You know how sometimes the dog will poop in the backyard in a spot where no one ever notices it, and it lays in the sun and dries out and turns white?”

Scott is turning green. I feed the baby some of my sandwich crust and she bounces with excitement.

“Well, you know how the lawn guy will ride over it as he cuts the grass and it gets chopped up by the lawnmower? Well, I feel like the chopped-up poop.”

He leaves the room again. I’m not sure he’s coming back.

20% OFF EVERYTHING IN THE STORE (including beer and wine) on Thursday, February 5, 2009.

S.S.: "Does anyone watch 'Lost?'"
Me: "Me!"
S.S.: "Did you understand last night's episode?"
Me: "Yeah, it was awesome."
S.S.: "I didn't get it."
Me: "Did you watch the one before it?"
S.S.: "Yes!"
Me: "The enhanced one?"
S.S.: "Enhanced?"
Me: "With the little pop-up explanations to catch you up?"
S.S.: "No, but I watched last week..."
Me: "Yeah, but it's been, like, an entire gestational period since the last new episode, so -"
S.S. (interrupting): "Whatever. I regret even bringing this up."

As a former co-worker slow-waddles out of the office...

B.O.: "Have a pleasant birthing experience!"
(general laughter)
S.S.: "May your epidural take you to a happy place!"
(more laughter)
A.C.: "Yeah, I don't do those."
(laughter is silenced)

H.O.: "Is this ad a pick-up or something new?"
B.O.: "Get off my ass!"
H.O.: "Shut up!"
Me: "I love you guys."

"How did I know that was you calling me?" I asked my friend, A.C.

"I would have called you immediately, but I was having my hoo-ha examined," she answered.

"Nice. Good morning, Stacey. Let's talk about my hoo-ha," I laughed. "So how is it this morning?"

"About 75% effaced, and a fingertip dilated," she moaned.

"What, that's like... 3 centimeters?"

"No! It's not even 1 centimeter!"

"Yuhuh!" I turn to my co-worker, A.C.2, and hold up my finger. "Isn't that more than a centimeter?"

"I don't know how much a centimeter is," she answered.

"What - didn't you go to elementary school?"

"Do you know how long it's been since I went to elementary school? We didn't have the metric system back then," A.C.2 scoffs.

A.C. guffaws on the phone: "Did she just say they didn't have the metric system?"

"Yeah, back when they were carving the system out in rocks, A.C.2 was graduating Georgia Southern with the other cave people," I laughed.

AUGUSTA, GA. - WGAC News/Talk 580 and NBC Augusta have been following a story about military personnel - and businesses wanting to market to military bases - having allegedly been scammed by a local "publishing company" called MilPubs Inc.

See the info here; And here.

eVince Unlimited blogged about it here, and their sales rep replied to the post. Let me dissect her response:

"Hi Kenny. Of course the business is running like there isn’t anything wrong…..because there isn’t anything wrong."

Except that there's nothing to show for these people's money. No publication, nothing.

"Being a business owner yourself, you should know from dealing with the public that you can’t please all of your customers at all times."

Um, isn't that the goal?

"Fort Gordon is the only area, we were told, that our customers have a complaint."

Because that's the only area in which you are running this business. The other areas are handled by other franchisees.

"We apologize that those clients feel like they were done wrong and we have made every attempt to amend with those clients. Some chose to amend, and some chose not to."

What does that even mean? Amend? Amend how?

"We chose not to speak to reporters because we will let our work speak for itself."

What work? You couldn't show reporter Ashley Campbell a SINGLE EXAMPLE of that work.

"We also chose not to release the names of our contacts on Fort Gordon to protect the relationship that we have with them on current and future projects."

As far as we can tell, your relationship would only with the U.S. Post Office - IF YOU HAD EVER PRINTED AND MAILED ANYTHING. So what contacts are protecting?

"My point Mr. Adams? Those who run scams hide from their victims. We have not ran, are not running, and will not run because we have nothing to run from."

We have also never used grammar check. Way to go, you professional publishers, you.

"We have been in the same building for over a year..."

Whoopidee do. It's a friggin' car wash with a single computer older than Methuselah.

"...and maintain an open door policy to all of our clients. You came to our office to bring me your ad design and we welcome our other clients as well. Your readers can check your ad and others out at http://www.usmilitarydiscounts.com, under the discount link."

Because they are printed so small, many of those ads cannot be used. For example, the names of the mortgage brokers in the GA Bank & Trust ad are so small that if you wanted to work with a particular broker, you couldn't ask for them by name. And if you click through the Charter Communications ad, it takes you to a promotional page where it asks for a promotional code. Can you find the code? Go ahead, look! It's right next to Waldo.

"Mil Pub Inc. is not registered in the states of GA or NV, but CONUS Advertising/Mil Pub Inc. is."

First of all: Please note that the name breaks into "Con Us." Second: Geez, lady, did you think I couldn't check that? There WERE businesses under the name of CONUS registered in the state... but none of them were ever located in Augusta, and they have all been either automatically dissolved (they didn't renew their incorporation), or they have been withdrawn. Here, search for yourself:

"I thank you for your blog and trying to warn your readers of potential buyer bewares and allowing me to speak our side of the issue. If I remember correctly, there are 3 sides to every story; your side, their side, and the absolute truth……Let us please wait for the ABSOLUTE truth Mr. Adams. I look forward to speaking to you real soon. Have a blessed beautiful day."

Okay, aside from the grammatical issues, I'd like to ask: What, exactly, are the supposed to be waiting for? And why should they have to wait any longer? Why should it take attention from major media in the area to get them to print anything?

"And just another correction Mr. Adams; we never tell our clients that we are CONTRACTED with any base to produce a pulication."

Nor do we say that we have CONTRACT with Microsoft to provide a simple spell check with our office software.

"We don’t say that we have a D.O.D (Department of Defense) contract with the government to provide our publication. We are a civilian company that produces a publication just as other civilian companies who do the same."

And as any other civilian company, you need permission to distribute to the soldiers stationed on Fort Gordon. If you don't have it, you are still lying to your customers, whether you claim to have a contract or not.

B.O.: "Stop being a Facebook whore! Intervention! Intervention!"

AUGUSTA, GA. - When a headline makes you cringe, it’s either so heinous that it inspires international tribunals, or it hits so close to home that that it borders on Universal Truth. Before readers convene the tribunal, consider my defense of my belief that lying to children is a good thing: the ongoing “mystery” of an elderly magical elf who creeps into even the most well secured homes across the world – hello, the White House? – to deliver trinkets wrapped in quasi-religious overtones. In other words, consider this a pact among adults that I call “The Santa Claus.” What?! Hey, Tim Allen stole it from me!

First, the lying that adults do to children is mostly harmless. Playful and light-heated protective lying doesn’t scar children, or else teenagers would be running like mad from cabbage patches and storks. No, the lies of omission and substitution that we tell our children are like Saran Wrap over their brains. It keeps them new and safe from corruptive outside influences.

Our little innocents are not the proposed “tabula rasa” waiting to be filled with humanity’s infinite wisdom, and anyone who has raised a child from infancy knows this. Each child has his or her own personality from birth. And all children know how to lie. When my nephew was four, he told me that his teacher put snakes in his stomach. My own daughter tells me that "my daddee says I can eat all da cannee right now" just about every day. They are both adorably full of crap. And so am I.

That's because lying is fun! When I was younger, I flipped through an art book of my mother’s and paused on “Christina’s World,” by painter Andrew Wyeth. My father strolled by: “Do you know why she’s sitting in the field?” he pointed to the prairie girl in the foreground. “She’s been run over by a tractor and is waiting for someone from the house to come and help her.” My 7-year-old self was horrified. My adult self clings to that exchange as one of my favorite “dad stories.” Note to readers: Don’t play cards with that man.

Lying is fantasy, and fantasy is the stuff of legend. Far be it from me to tell my child that she cannot pull a sword from a stone, or that Elvis is dead. I refuse to be some good-natured rationalist who drains all of the magic from her childhood. Yes, Emerson, there is a Santa Claus. And Mommy has his telephone number and e-mail address. So you’d better watch out.

Anyway, life is already difficult. We owe it to our offspring to give them a joyous childhood. If that means that we feed them crap about how a fat guy in a red suit breaks-and-enters your home every winter, then fine. It they believe that an egg-laying rabbit does the same in Spring, great. I mean, it’s really all about Jesus, right? As the Lord transformed, so doth the bunny? Or something?

The truth is that we already lie to our children. A study of 3,000 parents found every day each mum or dad will tell at least one fib to get their offspring to comply with their wishes. So we’re only lying to ourselves if we don’t acknowledge and embrace it. The stance I take simply asks you to use that skill to your strategic advantage. That’s why they’re so well behaved in December.

To speak the unabridged, unmitigated truth in all things to our children is to deny the storytelling history of humanity. Metaphor and myth have a right to exist without open analysis. Because believing in magic, or legend, or fairy tales is to inspire a child to be more than he or she ever dreamed was humanly possible. And that elevates us all.

Emmie won't turn four, really, until Wednesday, but we had her party yesterday, and let her think it was her birthday. Because it's not like she understands time, anyway.

All day, she would randomly shriek at friends and strangers alike"ISS MY BIRFDAY! I FOUR YEARS OLD!" sometimes adding, "DAS MEAN I'M A BIG GIRL! AN' I'M A PRINCESS!" And everyone would nod and laugh.

She was excited about the party, not the presents. She and her little friends rampaged through Chuck E. Cheese for two hours, and then she stayed behind with my sister for another three hours while I went home and tried to sleep my sinus infection away (didn't work).

I expected her to sleep through the night, because of all the activity. But at 5 a.m., she came trudging to my bedside, sniffling and crying.

"Mama? Mama!"
"Yes, sweetie?"
"I'm sad..."
"Why, honey?"
"'Cause I turn back to free!"
"I don't understand..."
"I turn back to free years old!"

Oh, would that we all could wake up a year younger...

Create your own at http://obamiconme.pastemagazine.com.

After the six months of continuous problems at T-Mobile, they finally just sent me a new telephone. I unwrap it at work with great excitement.

B.O.: "Why do you have a new Blackberry?"
Me: "Because I am awesome."
B.O.: "... You don't even know how to use it, do you?"
Me.: "Uh... no."

And then I had to have S.S. put in the memory card and the battery.

AUGUSTA, GA. - "Mama, I'm goeend gib you a special treat."
"OOooh, what is it?"
"I not goeend tell you. Iss goeend be a secret."
"But when do I find out?"
"Iss goeend be a toy rainbow!"

I don't think she knows what a secret is.

Scott lost his keys today...

"I think Emmie had them last," he said.
"Blame it on the three-year-old," I teased.

Emmie had been messing around on the piano yesterday. But they weren't under the keyboard cover, or under any of the furniture, or in her toyboxes, or in her shoe holder, or in the kitchen, or the laundry, or in the bed covers, or under the beds... We looked everywhere. But after about a hour of this foolishness, I called the preschool. Surely the majority of the parents there are infinitely more responsible than we are. They have extra sets of keys, and tracking devices, and... schedules and calendars and stuff like that. We only have the "Honey have you seen my keys" method of tracking, and the "Do we have plans this weekend?" "I dunno... do we?" method of scheduling.

"Hi, mama! I play wit my friends," Emerson chirped.
"That sounds like fun! Now, mommy has something important to ask you. Are you listening very carefully?" I asked. "You 'nember when you playing with daddy's keys?"
"Uh-huh!"
"Do you 'nember where you put them?"
"Hmm.. I put dem somewhere..." she mused.
"I need you to think very hard, sweetie."
"Yeth, I put them in da piano!"

I relayed this information to Scott, and we looked carefully, opening everything that moved on the 100-year-old contraption. Nothing.

"Honey, are you sure you put them in the piano?"
"Yeth, I put them in da piano, and den I hide dem."

No Crap.

"But where did you hide them, sweetie?"
"In da piano."
"Where else could they be, darling?"
"I put dem somewhere..."
"After you played with them at the piano, where else did you play with them?"
"I not!"
"Sweetie, there's nothing wrong. We just need to find them."
"I put dem somewhere..."
"Yes, but where? You were playing at the piano, and then where did you go?"
"I go to da laundry, and den to da toilet."

Yet after tearing the house apart - and debating whether or not to call a plumber - we find no keys. Scott calls work for the spare set. I go on, finish my day, and pick up Emmie from Nona's house. Though it has been 10 hours since our discussion and I have not mentioned the keys to her again, when we get home she goes straight to the piano...

...and pulls out the damn keys.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Scott and I frequently discuss the ethics and/or "relative admissibility" of writing for newspapers and radio - and even television. The guy on Fox News on the Thursday night that plane crashed into the Hudson River had us dying with laughter. If a cliche existed that he could throw into the conversation, he used it. "Baited breath," "near-death experience," "emotionally charged," "grim task," "the right stuff," "hero's welcome..." On top of all of that, he inserted himself into the story, saying that he, personally, was brought to tears by the experience of watching the rescue.

I couldn't find out who the reporter was. I tried. I think he was a reporter for the local NYC Fox affiliate, because he was so charged to be in front of the camera that he was either just off the plane from competing in a season of "Survivor," or he was nearly scalped by the fuselage as the plane came down over the Hudson River.

It's very nearly a cliche now for a journalist to quote Mark Twain, who said, "Journalism is literature in a hurry." But his point - besides that journalism is both a watered-down version to timeless prose, and that it should be respected because there are few opportunities to edit - was also that people look to journalism for the elements of fine literature. Obviously, the inclusion of a monomyth isn't possible, due to the restrictions of the genre. But well-defined characters, a clear storyline and an accurate account of any event - measured with concision - ensures that the news is both palatable to an largely uneducated populace, and it also provides them with the kind of writing that makes them want to return to the medium for what is essentially a really enjoyable yarn.

Fox News... yeah. There ARE reasons, other than politics, that people refuse to tune in to your coverage.*

*The local affiliate, thankfully, is ably run by the newsroom at the NBC affiliate. Otherwise, it might hurt me the way the national station does.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Put away your hankies, people, I'm not leaving The Metro Spirit or Augusta Parent. But an opportunity arose locally that was too good to refrain from exploring its possibilities. I was excited by the idea, but unsure what to actually expect once the interviews started. I got three interviews in and... you ever have one of those moments in time when all is revealed to you? I had one.

When the HR director waxed poetic about how "in touch" these people were with the 21st century, I was excited. I thought, "Here's an opportunity to contribute to a great organization, and to learn from some real experts in interactive and e-marketing."

Then a man asked me "How can we utilize Facebook to our benefit?" So I pitched the idea of a branded, interactive sports game on the site. He shook his head with a slight frown and said, "I understand that you can create pages around certain topics." I replied that that topical pages are available, and there are several that currently talk about the organization he represented. And he said, "Right, and people can choose to become fans of the site we put up. It could inspire people to get involved."

Someone just thought: "Yes! That is a great idea!" That is the wrong response. The correct response is: "No. They're just going to click "Become a fan" and never think about it again."

I just responded, "It would appeal to a younger demographic and if utilized regularly, it could generate some interest." But, I wanted to add, it's not like you're a retail organization or someone with regular public events. What good would will it really do you? The CEO of Morgan Stanley isn't going to "friend" you on Facebook!

What do you think? Was I missing an opportunity there? Who has ideas about marketing through Facebook? I'd love to hear them!

Scott, pausing while channel flipping: "I don't know what they're selling, but I want it."

I look up. It's two elderly women in suits, standing on a parquet floor with microphones, waiting awkwardly for something to happen. I don't even have to think about what they intend.

"They're selling Jesus, honey. I think that's obvious."

3 p.m. - I'm at a birthday party for one of Emmie's classmates. I don't know any of the other parents. But the idea of a gymnastics party at the Family Y is about the cutest thing ever! The preschoolers are learning to do flips, use the springboard, walk on the balance beam, jump down the trampoline, and keep a giant inflatable octopus in the air. Okay, I'm not sure how that last one relates to gymnastics, but they're having fun.

3:30 p.m. - I think someone might get killed soon. They've all lost their minds. There's a fight for dominance on the trampoline, several children doing flips right on top of each other, and one little boy keeps knocking down the foam block house so the kids on the springboard have nowhere to spring!

3:40 p.m. - Emerson is bouncing down a trampoline & her pants are falling down.

4 p.m. - They have spotted the cake, but it's not time to eat yet! Who will survive the stampede?!

4:03 - Oooo, saved by the foosball table... for now. Watching kids in packs is like watching a flock of birds fly. They all turn as one, seem to think as one.

4:08 p.m. - I laughed at the abundance of identical gift bags. Everyone bought the bright pink bags @ Target.

4:20 p.m. - Em has kicked me out of the party room. "Das enuff, mama. Yoo go ober der." Dang. I want some cake.

4:35 p.m. - Ah, the presents. 3 yr olds love 2 give them... But they insist on getting them back!

5 p.m - Like clockwork, it is over. Gabby got quite the haul! I'm impressed with the generosity of the parents who came, and the manners of the preschoolers who attended. They were excited, but mostly controlled, and said please and thank you. Most of them waited until everyone had been served cake to dig into their own, and they all openly appreciated the treat bags and balloons at the end. All in all, a great party. Thanks, Gabby's mom!

K.J. was getting her 4-year-old ready to go to school.

K.J.: "Come on, Hannah! Hurry hurry! We gotta get ready for work and you gotta go to school. We gotta get dressed and get breakfast. Because if we don't get breakfast..."

Hannah: "We're screwed!"

AUGUSTA, GA. - Just contacted the corporate offices for the Augusta store (#23) and they tell me that it was closed this week. No more airbrushed awesomeness. Too bad.

more animals

Pot 'syndicate' to have joint trial

ELIZABETHTOWN – A judge chose Tuesday to consolidate cases against six people charged with engaging in organized crime for what investigators say was a network of cultivation, interstate trade and sales of marijuana.

To be blunt, it's work like this that weeds good editors from bad. You can't roll them all into one group. Besides, it's a chronic problem that writers get all the glory. No need to be a buzzkill about it: Sometimes editors need a fair shake.

Thanks to Jim Christian for the link.

The Metro Spirit website has been taken down in an assault by Chinese terrorists! I'm just kidding. We don't know what happened, but someone hacked our site. I think that's annoyingly awesome.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Local radio reporter Scott Hudson (my husband) has had a second story picked up by CBS News in the last couple of months. First, it was his coverage of Sarah Palin's promotion of her support of Saxby Chambliss at the James Brown Arena. This time, it's more serious: Hudson has uncovered what looks to be fraud at several U.S. military bases, including at Ft. Gordon in Augusta, Ga.

Hudson was alerted to the issue when Magic Wonder Day Care claimed to have been taken for $600. Other Augusta businesses came forward. In time, Hudson procured documentation that seems to show that one organization - selling to businesses wanting to attract enlisted members of the armed forces - is providing no more service than a Facebook page could provide.

Tune in to WGAC News/Talk 580 and CBS News to learn more.

Chick-fil-A Inc. is poised to go to battle over breakfast by offering free chicken biscuits with any purchase Jan. 1.

A.C.: "That's horrible about the dogs with Parvo."
K.J.: "I know. Merry Christmas, right?"
Me: "Here's your dog carcass. Happy Holidays!"

We're reviewing the clients of a marketing firm in town.

K.J.: "Shameless Dave and the Miracle Whips?"
Me: "Must be a band..."
K.J.: "Hm."
Me: "Or an escort service!"
K.J.: "Huh?"

AUGUSTA, GA. - My husband opened the front door yesterday and pulled The Augusta Chronicle out of the front bushes. He was jonesing for his crossword puzzle, which - I swear - is the only reason we subscribe. Thirteen dollars a month for crossword puzzles. Don't get me started.

Anyway, he yanked it from its plastic sleeve and held it aloft with a look of astonishment: "Look at this!"

I turned from my continuing failure to beat Amber Carlson's high score in Facebook Word Twist and looked: "Yeah, honey, the paper comes every day."

"No! Look at the size of it!"

In his hand was a size of paper one would expect to see from a Wednesday edition, not the circulation-heavy Sunday paper.

"What on earth?" I exclaimed. Where were the circulars? Where were the long-form stories about pressing issues or year-end wrap-ups? Heck, where were the advertisements?

"That's the smallest Sunday edition I've ever seen," he said, looking down at the sad stack of sections in his lap.

"Yeah... doesn't look good," I said. I wonder about the fate of the Chronicle's employees, many of whom have been laid off in the last six months. Good, talented, hard-working people. With millions of dollars in loans hanging over the company's head during an economic downturn, what is the next step for the oldest continually printed newspaper in the South?

The Statesboro Herald paper just canceled their Monday edition, and even told workers not to come in on Monday to save the company money. Is this the next step for the Chronicle?

The Tampa Tribune is combining forces with the broadcast folks at Tampa's Newschannel 8 and the digital workers at tbo.com to share newsgathering skills and products. Morris Communications already has its own internal content-sharing mechanism, and - let's be honest - the majority of the copy available in any daily paper: wire stories. But will The Augusta Chronicle turn to other area newsgathering organizations to share information and copy?

The Detroit papers - The Detroit Free Press and the Detroit News - have reduced home delivery to just 3 days a week. The Augusta Chronicle has already cancelled home deliveries in the outermost areas of their circulation pattern. Is this the next step they'll take?

The venerable Christian Science Monitor will - in the new year - be the first nationally ciruclated paper to replace its daily print edition with website access. They will also offer subscribers weekly print and daily e-mail editions. Granted, The Augusta Chronicle isn't distributed nationally. But might they localize this strategy?

There is a reason that weeklies have out-paced the dailies in terms of growth. The Association of Alternative News Weeklies says that the strategy of an alt-weekly is "local, local, local, sexy, local," which means we keep to our market, don't worry about filling pages with wire stories that can be faster and more easily read online, toss in a bit of controvery, humor, and sexiness when it fits the story, and - oh, yeah, we do it with local employees and resources. We don't, for example, outsource our design department to Asia, or our call center to Latin America. By streamlining our mission and targeting our market with laser-like precision, we keep our overhead low and speak directly to the people who want to hear from us, rather than muddying up the lines of communication with a bunch of stuff nobody asked for. A column on wine? Really? 'Cause I think you've tried that a couple of times before and it never works out.

But daily papers serve a different purpose than weekly papers, and their survival is essential to a healthy democrasy. And more is available to papers than the unchanging print-and-distribute methods available to newspapers - and I'm talking beyond what their woefully underdeveloped web sites can deliver.

For example, consider the digital paper developed by Fujitsu.

It is the world's first film substrate-based bendable color electronic paper with an image memory function. I don't know what substrate-based means, but the rest of the words make perfect sense: the new electronic paper features vivid color images that are unaffected even when the screen is bent, and features an image memory function that enables continuous display of the same image without the need for electricity. The thin and flexible electronic paper uses very low power to change screen images, thereby making it ideal for displaying information or advertisements in public areas as a type of new electronic media that can be handled as easily as paper.

Imagine a business model where such a "digital paper" is cheap enough that a newspaper could give one to new subscribers and wean them off the paper product. Or, if you didn't want to subscribe, you buy a screen and get the daily paper when you buy it, one at a time. Now imagine how much overhead that would save newspapers when their printing costs are all but obliterated. Imagine the drop in paper prices as demand around the world falls for the first time in generations. Imagine the decline in harvest forestry, as one of the industries that utilizes pulp paper almost completely ceases to purchase it.

Take these screen shots from the movie "Minority Report," in which a commuter reads USA Today on a train.



The breakthrough that made this paper possible is actually three years old. That means that the production kinks have most likely been worked out, and Fujitsu is waiting for the rest of the world to catch up, in order to make this enterprise possible and profitable. Why not daily newspapers?

Or consider Amazon's bulkier but still portable Kindle device, currently sold-out on their site. Three years ago, they set out to design and build an entirely new class of device—a convenient, portable reading device with the ability to wirelessly download books, blogs, magazines, and newspapers. The result is Amazon Kindle, a plain, black and white wireless portable reading device.


Again, that's a new business model that people - and the planet, for all you greenies out there - could really get excited about again.

And it will soon be no longer a luxury, but a necessity for the dailies. Let's look at how people ages 45 and under interact with the media. When the actor Paul Newman died, many people found out via Twitter, e-mails or IMs. They then might have gone and checked out the lengthy entry about Newman (did you know Newman was 19th on Richard Nixon's enemies list?) on Wikipedia, which had likely already been updated. Then they'd visit YouTube and watch some of his old movie scenes (did you know he screen tested with James Dean for "East of Eden?"), or search the blogosphere for recollections from writers who had met or who felt a connection to the old-guard actor.

At no point do people feel the need to engage with a daily newspaper!

That is why alt-weeklies are thriving, and dailies are dying - almost literally! The daily readership is older, less affluent, and less technologically savvy. They are, as they say, "aging out" of newspaper readership. But humor, long-form journalism and a strong local focus never die. Hooray for the alt-weekly niche!

Still, everyone in the industry - daily or weekly, alt-weekly or magazine - has a lot of forward-thinking to do. And we can't be ruled by the bean-counters in suits, who expect the industry to right itself after the recession ends. Consumer media use has changed permanently. I expect we'll be seeing smaller and smaller editions of The Augusta Chronicle as its readership ages and shrinks. I expect we'll be seeing more direct competition between dailies as they contract, and weeklies as they expand.

Hopefully, media companies will move ahead with technological advances more current than simply choosing a web press based on price. I hope so. Because despite the decline of the American public's trust in journalism (thanks, Geraldo), it's still a needed to serve as a check and balance for our system of government. And I think we can all agree that as far as what body we can trust, the media ranks a lot higher than Congress.

Has anyone else looked around their home after Christmas and wondered: Where the hell are we going to put all of this stuff?

Why do we have so much STUFF?! It's not like we're on the verge of a hoarding intervention, but seriously: I bought a fireplace screen at a yard sale - AND WE HAVE NO FIREPLACE!

By the way: anyone want to buy a couch and chair? We seem to have multiplied seating furniture.

Me: "So what about your grandparents?"
Scott: "Lunch tomorrow. They already got the ham, so I told them we'd bring the sides."

Me: "Cool. Whatcha want?"
Scott: "Just grab a box of Stovetop Stuffing and a couple of cans of green beans."
Me: "Oh, wow, honey. The effort you're putting into this is so impressive."
Scott: "Hey, I was going to chop onions and celery for the stuffing."
Me: "Ooooooo. Onions and celery. I stand corrected."
Scott: "And chicken broth."
Me: "Mmm."

Scott: "You know, I'm very busy here. You forget that I have some important breaking news to report."
Me: "I'm sorry. I forgot how very important you are, big radio-man. What's the breaking news?"
Scott: "I am... (dramatic pause) tracking Santa."
Me: "Tracking Santa."
Scott: "Yes."
Me: "Really."
Scott: "With NORAD."
Me: "Like in 'War Games?'"
Scott: "What?"
Me: "Nothing."

Scott: "Guess where he is right now."
Me: "Uh... China?"
Scott: "No. Ssabbaassssuhhh (slurring words), Afghanistan."
Me: "You don't know where that is, do you?"
Scott: "It's in Afghanistan."
Me: "Touche. Well, I'll let you get back to your GPS system."
Scott: "Thank you. Remember to listen to WGAC News/Talk 580 for more updates."

Thursday, December 18

Subtitle: Or, how I survived a minivan with three kids and 1,000 rotations of the “Shrek” soundtrack

AUGUSTA, GA - It wasn’t the dumbest thing I’ve ever done – that would be a list too long to publish – but it could have been. We took three children – ages 11, 4, and 3 – to Orlando for a week. Our goal: do as much as possible without killing ourselves or other people.

A.W.: "I'm glad I changed clothes. I wouldn't want to be wearing the same colors as [name redacted]."
Me: "Why? I love the Worthington Collection!"

AUGUSTA, GA. - B.O., who likes to find new and ever more inventive ways to annoy us with his iPod, turned on Christmas music a few minutes ago for our in-office party.

K.J.: "Ugh... I hate Josh Grobin."
H.O.: "How can you even say that?"
K.J.: "I can say it over and over and over and over again."

Me: "Yeah, K.J. asked me, 'Did it make you love him more?' And I said, 'No, but it made me stop worrying about the little stuff, like the fact that he leaves his boxers in the floor every damn day."
S.S.: "I would totally play that up. I'd be like, 'You pick it up. I'm dying!'"
Me: "I wish he would! That would be so funny!"
S.S.: "Lick it up! I'm DYING!"

Emerson: "When you put sumping in your butt crack, das mean you gon' be sick... What? Why you laffing? I not say nuffing!"

K.J.: "So I had a weird experience the other day..."

Me: "Did you get into a car with Bryan, too?"

K.J.: "No! So this guy comes in and asks some questions I told him that he had to talk to Tom Grant. So he comes back a couple days later and says, 'I really liked your nose. Can we get together and talk about advertising?'"
H.O.: "What?"

K.J.: "Right. 'Your nose is cute, I wanna buy an ad.' So I was like 'Well, what kind of business are you in? What are you thinking about advertising?' He said, 'I own and finance company, and I don't know.'"
H.O.: "Whooaa..."

B.O.: "So probably not a good prospect."
K.J.: "Whatever. I'm having lunch with him on Friday. If I don't come back..."

H.O.: "What was his name?"
K.J.: "Mike."
H.O.: "What's his last name?"
K.J.: (shrugs)
H.O.: "You didn't get his last name? Mike what?"
Me: "The Ripper."

AUGUSTA, GA. - The Boll Weevil is a great place to eat, and our food was awesome. Emmie ordered a piece of red velvet cake that was nearly a foot tall. Seriously, it will snack her for at least a week. Next time you're there, go for the pork chops. Yum! Although A.C. didn't like them, but I'm pretty sure she left her taste buds at home.

AUGUSTA, GA. - "No, Emerson, we don't high-five the Virgin Mary."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"That's not Mary Had a Little Lamb, sweetie. That's Joseph, Mary, and Baby Jesus."
"Das a lamb?" "Yes."
"Das a Mary?" "Um... yes..."
"Mary hab a liddel lamb!" (excited squeal)
"Um... okay... well... alright, I can't argue with that."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"No, Emerson, we don't high-five Joseph of Nazareth."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Das a tree!!"
"Yep."
"Das a tree, mama!"
"Sure is, doodle."
"Why dey sleep under da tree?"
"Um, see, there was no room at the inn, and so they slept in the stable."
"Da stable?"
"Yes."
"Da stable is a tree?"
"Well, no, the stable is a barn. That's why the sheep is there."
"Barns not hab a tree! "
"Well, no, not technically. But maybe some have... palm trees... um..."
"Das not a barn. Das a tree! Wuss a stable?"
"A stable is where they keep the animals. It's like a barn."
"ooooOOOOhhhh. Is like a barn. Das a Mary hab a liddel lamb!"
(sigh...)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"No, Doodle, we do not high-five the baby Jesus, okay? Just... let's go."
"I don' wanna go!"
"Honey, come on. Daddy's cooking dinner."
"I not hungee."
"For Christ's sake, honey, will you please stop slapping the son of God?"
"I like him! I gib him fibe!"
(groan...)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Later, at home...
I complained to Scott. "I just knew people were going to start chucking Bible tracts at my head. I could not get her to stop high-fiving the baby Jesus!"
"Well," he said. "He's Buddy Christ, now. I'm sure he didn't mind."

AUGUSTA, GA. - One Sunday morning, the pastor noticed little Spencer standing in the foyer of the church staring up at a large plaque. It was covered with names and small American flags mounted on either side of it.

The six-year old had been staring at the plaque for some time, so the pastor walked up, stood beside the little boy. He said quietly, "Good morning, Spence."

"Good morning, Pastor," Spencer replied, still focused on the plaque. "Pastor, what is this?"

The pastor said, "Well, son, it's a memorial to all the young men and women who died in the service."

Soberly, they stood together, staring at the large plaque. Finally, little Spencer's voice, barely audible and trembling with fear, asked: "Which service, the 8:30 or the 10:30?"

FYI: Never play cards with my dad.