HAPPY DADDY'S DAY

My kids never called me "Daddy" much. I was just "Dad." Not Pops, Pa, Father, Old Learned One. But I am a "G-Daddy" to three great grandkids. Now, I don't mean three great grandkids--that would be like the elephant that eats shoots and leaves; I mean I have 3 tremendous grandchildren. Of course, I'm also blessed with two great kids of my own.

My entry today is about my own father. I had an experience in March that really brought Dad to my mind. In Jerusalem we went to the Garden Tomb. A time of reverence, a time of reflection. To sit in the peacefulness of the place.

To take communion there with our pastor. To hear other groups of people singing in other parts of the Garden. To feel the pain of knowing how much Jesus suffered for our sins. To hear a friend on the bus say,"He is NOT there." To know He Is Risen. As our guide said, this might have been the burial place or it might be at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. History isn't important. His Story is.

Whenever I hear the two hymns, "How Great Thou Art" and "The Old Rugged Cross," I think of my dad's funeral in 1976. It's rare that I hear them anymore and almost never in such a short period of time. I heard them in the garden. As we left and on our way to the bus, I noticed a smashed pack of L&M cigarettes in the street. That was my Dad's brand. Since his death almost thirty years ago, I probably haven't seen ten packs crushed or uncrushed. They're rare, I think. But I know it made me think of him. It was almost as if he were saying, "It's all right. Mom and I are in Heaven; we're glad you're here in the Garden."

I'm glad, too, Dad. And I'm glad you were my Dad. Happy Father's Day.

RANDOM GUM THOUGHTS

In today's political column, Washington writer Thomas Sowell gives random thoughts about topics from immigration to income tax forms. When I came across this ad for Dentyne gum (who knew it was Adams Dentyne gum?) I thought maybe I could fill a blog entry with gum thoughts.

I don't chew much gum anymore. It's a pet peeve of my hearing-sensitive wife. It was a small sacrifice to make, but if I still played baseball, I'd have to have bubblegum. No sunflower seeds for me--I'm not that athletic to peel them without use of hands.

In a Dateline tv interview last night, Britaney Spears chewed gum. Maybe the guy just showed up on her doorstep, but I think she probably knew she was going to be on tv. Ditch the gum, please. Sidebar: people got all huffed about letting her child sit in her lap and steer or play steer for awhile while she drove her car. I was more disgusted when I saw footage (pun) of her walking into a roadside public bathroom barefooted.

My oldest niece was so used to Dentyne that she was 7 or 8 before she saw any big sticks of gum. What a loyal Dentyne chewer.

There was once a tree on the campus of Mt. V. T. H. S. where people stuck their used gum It was between A and B Buildings and boasted about 40 discards in an variety of colors. Sure beats the old baseball fields at Strothmann Park where you couldn't go to a game without bringing some back on the bottom of your shoes.

A constant coffee drinking friend of mine used to chew gum as much and when he drank coffee. His coffee breath was not a real pleasant aroma.

"ABC." That was the answer to the question, "Do you have any gum?" Of course, it stood for "already been chewed," and it came with a pointed gesture to the mouth. I've seen people take it from the person and proceed to chew it. Not for me.

Now if I just knew where Dad Gum It came from.

I'VE MISPLACED MY GATOR

In 1958 I tasted the beauty of Florida for the first time. We went to Daytona Beach and Saint Augustine and stopped at roadside motels along the way. Of course, they had to have a pool, I begged.

I remember the sunburn my Mom got, the ocean and its high and low tides, the Spanish moss hanging from the trees, the biggest hamburger I'd ever seen, and the stuffed alligators we brought home.

At that time, you could purchase stuffed gators in a variety of sizes.They were the real deal with actual alligator skin, head, teeth, tail, etc; only with the guts removed. Mine was maybe a two-footer, but I think we bought a few more; some bigger, some smaller. It was cool just to look at. His little teeth were exposed. To achieve that effect they had piched the mouth and tucked the lips. Somewhere he lost a foot and once in awhile some sawdust would fall out of him. But now I've misplaced him. He might be a Midwestern gator or a desert gator, who knows?

My buddy, Russ went to Florida about six years later than I. He brought back a real alligator, also about two feet long, but skinnier than my stuffed one. He kept it in a big tub in his basement and fed him raw hamburger. He brought it back for his girlfriend/ now wife, but her parents wouldn't let her keep him. So Russ did. He tied a string on it one day and took it to a pond just off Brownsville Road by Bethel School.

As Russ was preoccupied with fishing, his gator wanted freedom, broke the string and disappeared. He was misplaced, too. Russ searched long and hard over a period of a week or so. No luck.

So if he should appear near the school or by King Barbecoa, just get out of his way. You can't call him by name, since Russ never gave him one. All he wants is some raw hamburger.

THE WORLD (Not My) CUP

Maybe because my kids and grandkids play(ed) it. Maybe because I once coached it for a short time. Maybe because our pastor played Division I soccer. Maybe because I know what a great conditioning sport it is. And maybe because the whole world loves it.

For whatever reasons, I feel bad about not liking soccer. I just see all these athletes playing it, and I think what a great defensive back in football. What a great leg for kicking field goals and extra points. What a hustler who could be a great base stealer. What stamina--he/she could run the mile. What explosiveness; there's a halfback.

And when I watch, I invariably hear giddy soccer moms screaming for their kids who get the ball all the way down field just to cough it up. I watch disinterested fans who check their watches silently praying for the time to pass quickly so they can watch or participate in another athletic contest.

I remember a high school coach and referee stopping on the tee box before hitting his first drive of the day to announce, "Soccer is ruining this country." Out of place, yes. I've had crazier swing thoughts on the golf course.

Of course, I try to keep these feelings to myself. I only share them with my most ardent readers, so while I won't be hypocritical enough to talk about the Spain shutout, or the tie today in World Cup action, I won't bad mouth the game I loathe either. By the way, just between you and me--I don't like hockey either.

CAB DRIVERS

We've traveled quite a bit. In the US and abroad, though at last count we had been in more foreign countries than US states. And we've come across two cab drivers that top all the others.

In the city where Princess Di met her death, we found ourselves racing to the airport at 6 AM at 120 mph. It was worse to read his speedometer in kilometers and see 180. I thought,"I should tell him to slow down."

I thought again,"I don't know French/he doesn't know (much) English."

We raced by the monument of Princess Di. I thought,"Fitting."

"Well, there's no one else on the streets at this time on Sunday morning." And I was right. But the next time, I will say, "Monseuir, please slow down." I'll use gestures, too.

In New York we hailed a taxi, asked the driver if he knew the hotel, he lied and said he did, and off we went. He was real spooky. He nearly killed at least three pedestrians, one literally diving out of the way or he would have been smashed. Then he'd yell at them.

He yelled at me, too, when I didn't know the address of the hotel. I knew it was near Times Square and 42nd St. But remember, he was the one who told me he knew the hotel. I told him to let us out near there and we would find it. But he wouldn't hear of it. Fortunately, this story ended well when providentally we found the Ramada Renaissance.

Those are my two memorable cab rides. Actually there was one more in New Orleans once when I way overpaid the fare. But I'm too embarrassed to tell that one.

DOLLINS SHOE STORE X-RAYed ME

Everyone who lived in Mt. Vernon in the 1950's knew Dollins Shoe Store just off the square in downtown Mt. Vernon. At that time, downtown was thriving with The Mammoth, Walkers', two theatres, two or three drugstores with restaurants, three jewelry stores, the Susan Shop, Musgroves, the Sub, Murphy's, Woolworths', Ben Franklin, a couple of bars, a package liquor store, a sporting goods store, a hobby shop, three department stores, a pool hall, and only one bank.

It was a cool downtown that included lawyers' offices, dentists, a foot doctor and general pract, and, of course, a county court house displaying a cannon on the southeast side. But Dollins was the coolest, challenged only by the elevators in the John B. Rogers' Building and King City Federal and Loan. The latter didn't even have an elevator operator so you could ride up three flights all morning before someone ran you off.

Most of the time, shopping wasn't all that looked forward to by young guys in the town. Maybe to buy a bike at Western Auto, just off the square proper or a new baseball mitt, but those happened so infrequently that they don't count. But every boy had to have new shoes. And Dollins carried Buster Brown. Buster wasn't all that great, nor was his dog, Spike, but the shoes were ok. You got a golden egg, plastic and easily broken after a day or two, but you got to see your feet in the x-ray machine. Now that was fun.

You stuck your feet, sans shoes but socks were allowed, into the machine and there they were. You could wiggle your toes. You could stand still and get an exact size reading. You could shove your feet in that slot all day if you wanted to. And we did. Well, maybe not all day, but a bunch of times.

No one realized the harm in radiation that our little feet were getting. I never heard anyone voice any concern over the amount of rads we were getting. We just thought it cool to look at our feet like that. It was like looking at your own skeleton.

Dollins went out of business before anyone knew the danger. Before any lawsuits could be drawn up. And the funny thing is, no other business has ever been successful at all from that location. It pretty much remains an eyesore to the downtown area today. And when you drive by late at night and look closely at the floor, you can detect a low green light shining there in the night.

I made the last part up.

I DOT A TOLD

You can ask anyone. When I'm sick, I'm the biggest baby. And I got a cold. A Summer kind.

About a year ago, our preacher turned me on to Vitamin C daily losenges. They're made by Walgreens. They're Orange Crush. They are the best. They taste good. And they work. Till now.

It's been so long since I had a cold. Maybe some of the old remedies in the picture will help. I cough, I can't sleep at nights, I can't even concentrate on putting because when I look down, my nose runs. Then I get totally stopped up and start to cough when my throat burns. The result: a sinus headache.

"It's just allergies," my friends say, but it doesn't help to be able to identify the problem. I'm miserable. Friends prescribe, offer advice, try to help. But it lingers.

Feel sorry for me now? Me, too. It's 102 today. Maybe I'll go lay by the pool and let the sweat soak it out of me. Oh, no, it's windy. How will I work up a sweat? I told you I'm a baby.